Page 44 of Feral King

“And now I know why my nephew can’t stop talking about you.”

My heart skips a beat at the mention of Julian. I clear my throat and compose myself, so I don’t look tooexcited.

“Julian talks about me?”

“Julian hasn’tstoppedtalking about you. And that’s how I know it’s serious. The man has mentioned your name multiple times in the last ten days. For Julian, that’s practically shouting it from a mountaintop.” She picks up her tea and sips slowly while I process her words.

Something in my chest tightens. I take a quick swig of my spring water and follow it with a slow breath. I want to ask her about the context in which he mentioned me, what he said, but I stop myself. I don’t want to appear like a silly teenager in front of her.

“Let’s go over the table assignments,” I suggest, trying to turn the focus back to business. “I want to make sure that the donor tables are balanced, that the donors complement—and encourage one another. Maybe they’ll start a friendly bidding war, and we can get more donations.”

“Good idea. Let’s take a look.” She flicks her gaze at me quickly before turning her attention to the papers, then we go to work. Elena knows every name on the list, their net worth, their political leanings, even their dietary restrictions, and, in several cases, the details of their divorce proceedings. She’s a walking encyclopedia of high-society intelligence, and she knows how to use it.

“The Karimov family, table 4,” she says. “Verygenerous donors, but Viktor Karimov’s wife despises the Orlovs. Seat them on opposite sides of the room, unless you want a scene before the salad course.”

“Done. Orlovs are at table 9, near the bar.”

“Wise move; she’s a drinker.”

I spot six seats at table 12. The names are listed in the foundation’s system—donors who RSVP’d through the online portal, not Elena’s office. Three of them I recognize as mid-level corporate contacts. But the fourth name is one I don’t recognize at all, and there’s a fifth listed as a plus-one “security liaison.”

The sixth name is Gennady Fomin.

I pause, placing my finger tip at the name.

“Elena, who approved the guest list additions for table 12?”

She frowns, then pulls the sheet closer. “They came through the general portal. Sophia processed them before she was terminated. I suppose I assumed your office had vetted them.”

“We didn’t. This list was finalized before I came back.” I tap my finger on the sixth name. “Gennady Fomin. Do you know him?”

Elena’s expression changes, the warmth disappearing, her features hardening.“Fomin works for Dobrov,” she says. “He’s not a donor; he’s an enforcer.”

The room suddenly feels smaller. I look at the seating chart in the way I’ve trained myself to—studying logistics, not just for aesthetics or flow, but also forintention.

Table 12 is positioned adjacent to the VIP corridor that leads to the private reception room—the room where Julian will be greeting high-value donors and syndicate allies one-on-one throughout the evening.

The “security liaison”means that Fomin walks in with a credential that bypasses the main checkpoint. And that means someone put an enforcer within fifteen feet of the private corridor, with a badge that gets him past security at an event where Julian will be exposed and vulnerable.

“This isn’t a seating error,” I say. “Someone placed him here so that he’d have access to Julian. He could slip in and no one would notice.”

Elena stares at the chart. She looks at me. Then back at the chart.

“Move table 12 to the far wall,” I say, already redrawing the layout. “Then we can reassign Fomin and the other unvetted names to a holding list—they won’t get through the door until Ethan’s team runs them. Then we reroute VIP corridor access through the east entrance, instead of the south. Oh, and add a secondary checkpoint at the reception room door.”

I’m writing as fast as I can think. Elena watches me with an expression of alarm and admiration all at once.

“You caught this from a seating chart,” she says.

“I’ve spent enough time studying the names to recognize them. Sophia, on the other hand, wouldn’t have known Fomin from a florist. But whoever fed her the list was counting on that, knew she’d put them right where they asked without a second thought.”

“Dobrov.”

“Or someone working for him. Either way, this would’ve put an armed man inside the security perimeter without anyone noticing until it was too late.”

Elena pauses and looks away. Her mouth twitches a bit as she considers the implication and what could’ve happened.

She sets down her tea. “My nephew needs to see this.”