I give him what I can—guard schedules, vehicle patterns, the names of men who come and go from business meetings. Small things. Nothing that could get anyone killed.
Or so I tell myself.
But it's never enough. It's never going to be enough.
And the deadline he gave me three weeks ago? It came and went. Now there's a new one. Always a new one. Always Ethan's safety hanging in the balance.
Just survive one more day. Just get through one more week.
That's what I tell myself every morning when I braid Mila's hair and pretend I'm not planning to betray her father.
Today is Thursday. Lev has a security meeting at the east perimeter—something about upgrading cameras, Mikhail mentioned it at breakfast. He'll be gone for at least two hours.
Two hours is enough.
I've been watching his study for three weeks. Memorizing his patterns. The door is locked, but I've seen Sofia use the keypad. Six digits. I couldn't see the exact sequence, but I saw enough. Her hand moved in a pattern—down, left, down, right, up, center.
I can figure this out.
I have to figure this out.
Because Patrick's latest demand isn't for guard schedules or car routes. He wants Lev's calendar. Wants to know where he'll be and when. Wants specifics.
And I know what that means. I'm not stupid.
He's planning something. An ambush. An attack. Something that requires knowing exactly when and where Lev will be vulnerable.
I can't do this. I can't give him that information.
But then my phone buzzes with a photo of Ethan leaving school, and the message is clear:Tick tock, Valerie.
So, with rubbery legs, I'll walk into that study, photograph whatever I can find, and hand my brother's safety over to Patrick one more time.
And I'm going to hate myself for it.
I wait until I hear the front door close. Lev's voice drifting back as he gives Mikhail instructions. The sound of multiple footsteps heading toward the east wing.
Then silence.
I give it five more minutes, heart hammering the entire time, before I move. The hallway to his study is empty. Security cameras blink red in the corners, but I've learned their blind spots. Learned how to move through this house like a ghost.
Three weeks of practice.
The keypad glows beside his door. Six digits. I replay Sofia's hand movement in my mind—down, left, down, right, up, center.
Numbers on a keypad. Down-left is 1. Down is 2. Down-right is 3. Left is 4. Center is 5. Right is 6. Up-left is 7. Up is 8. Up-right is 9.
So the pattern would be... 1, 4, 2, 6, 8, 5.
I punch it in with shaking fingers.
The lock clicks.
Oh God. It worked.
I push the door open and slip inside, closing it quickly behind me.
Lev's study is exactly what I expected—dark wood, steel accents, everything meticulously organized. His desk dominates the center of the room, laptop closed on top. Filing cabinets line one wall. Windows overlook the grounds where I can see guards patrolling.