Not money then. History.
The kind that gets men killed long after they think they have outlived their sins.
“Who got in?”
“We don’t know yet. Whoever did it had our timing, the emergency override, and the patrol gaps.”
Oleg again, maybe, even if his hand is not directly on it. That bastard leaked enough over the years to let half the city kill itself over scraps.
I glance once toward the Markovs’ table.
Katerina is not there.
Good. Or bad. I cannot decide quickly enough to matter.
Mikhail follows my gaze and says nothing.
“Get the cars,” I tell him.
“They’re already outside.”
I pass two council men on my way to the front and give them a nod cold enough to signal business, not insult. One of the Volkovs starts toward me, then thinks better of it. The hostess appears in my path as if to ask whether I’m leaving so soon, sees my face, and steps aside without a word.
Near the side of the ballroom, I catch Sergei Markov watching me.
He knows something is wrong. He may not know what, but men like him can smell urgency the way dogs smell blood.
I do not slow.
If he wants to read meaning into my departure, let him work for it.
I’m almost at the doors when a small figure collides with my leg.
I look down, and my heart squeezes. It’s Katerina’s kid. Lev’s kid too, if Mikhail is right. She looks like Katerina but also like Andrei Morozov. I hate that, but I can’t hate her.
She’s in white tights and shiny shoes, hair half-falling out of whatever elegant arrangement someone forced it into. She has apparently escaped her grandmother, her mother, and every person in this room with common sense. She wraps both arms around my thigh as if she has known me long enough to do it without hesitation.
I stare at her.
For one second, the urgency fractures.
“What’s your name, little one?”
“Sofia,” she says. “Sofia Markova.”
She tips her face up at me. “You’re leaving.”
It’s accusation, not question.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Work.”
She narrows her eyes with immediate suspicion. “At night?”
“Yes.”