I do. The calculus is simple: one woman’s life weighed against millions in revenue, multiple political protections, and the fragile truce between Rudenko and Sartore interests that’s held for nearly two years. Operationally, strategically, the decision should be immediate.
“Lorenzo suggested discrediting her publicly,” Pavel continues when I don’t respond. “Leak something that makes her look unstable. Obsessed conspiracy theorist grieving her dead brother, desperate to assign blame where there isn’t any. Alternative option is removal. Stage another accident, close the file permanently.”
The thought of Diana hurt—or worse—sends something cold and sharp through my chest. I force the reaction down, burying it beneath layers of control I’ve spent decades perfecting.
“That’s an overreaction,” I say.
Pavel’s eyes narrow slightly. “How is containment an overreaction, when she’s actively reconstructing evidence?”
“Killing a marketing executive whose journalist brother died in suspicious circumstances draws exactly the kind of attention we’re trying to avoid.” I lean forward, framing this as tactical assessment rather than hesitation. “Her brother’s accident already raised questions. Federal investigators closed the case, but journalists remember. If Diana Clarke dies now—vehicular crash, sudden illness, random mugging—it becomes a pattern. Patterns trigger investigations we can’t control.”
“Then discredit her.”
“That only works if she goes public immediately. She hasn’t contacted journalists, hasn’t filed anything with federal prosecutors, hasn’t made noise beyond pulling donor compliance reports.”
Pavel studies me with the kind of patience that comes from years of reading men under pressure. “You’re arguing for surveillance.”
“I’m arguing for strategic containment. We keep monitoring her movements, track her contacts, intercept any attempt to publish. If she escalates, we respond. Preemptive elimination creates more problems than it solves.”
“If she’s already escalated and we just don’t know it?”
The question is valid. Diana could have backup files stored somewhere we haven’t found, contacts we haven’t identified, contingency plans designed to trigger if something happens to her. Killing her without knowing the full scope of what she’s prepared could release exactly the kind of exposure we’re trying to prevent.
That’s not why I’m hesitating.
Pavel takes another slow sip of whiskey, his gaze never leaving mine. “You’ve grown sentimental.”
The accusation lands quietly, almost conversational, but it carries weight. Sentiment in our world is weakness. Attachment creates leverage that can be exploited. Men who care about things outside power and survival don’t last long.
“I’m being practical,” I say evenly.
“You’re being protective.” Pavel’s tone sharpens slightly. “Which is interesting, considering you met her once at a donor gala and had coffee in Brooklyn this morning.”
Shit. So he knows about the café. Either his people are tracking me, or Sartore’s watchers reported back. Either way, the surveillance net is tighter than I anticipated.
“I needed to assess the threat personally.”
“What did you assess?”
That she’s intelligent, defiant, and dangerously curious. That she holds eye contact without flinching even when she’s frightened. That the memory of her waist beneath my hands has disrupted my focus for three days straight.
“She’s competent,” I say instead. “Which makes her a calculated risk, but not an immediate threat.”
Pavel leans back, his expression unreadable. “Lorenzo gave you forty-eight hours to contain her. That deadline passed this morning. He’s expecting action.”
“Then tell him I’m handling it.”
“How?”
“Surveillance. Interception if necessary.” I meet Pavel’s gaze directly, letting the steel show. “No one touches her without my approval.”
The statement shifts something in the room. Pavel’s expression doesn’t change, but his stillness suggests he’s recalibrating his assessment of the situation.
“No one touches her,” he repeats slowly. “That’s an interesting line to draw.”
“It’s a strategic one.”
“Is it?” Pavel’s mouth curves slightly, something cold beneath the amusement. “From where I’m sitting, it looks personal. Personal decisions get people killed, Felix. You know that better than anyone.”
