I hand him the phone.
He reads the address, and his face changes too.
“That’s him,” I say.
Not because I have proof. Because I know.
The simplicity of it gives him away. No negotiation. No ransom. No attempt to sound like anyone else. Just an address and the confidence that I will understand what it means.
Mikhail looks at me for a long moment. “It’s a trap.”
“Yes.”
He says it again, more firmly this time. “Roman, it’s a trap.”
I take the phone back.
The message sits there on the screen like an invitation to my own funeral.
Maybe it is. I don’t care.
“If he wanted them dead,” I say, “he wouldn’t send me anything.”
“That doesn’t mean he wants them safe.”
No. It doesn’t. It means he wants me there.
The room has gone very quiet now. Even the men at the far end of the office have stopped pretending not to listen.
Mikhail steps closer and lowers his voice. “Let me go in first.”
“No.”
“Then let me send a team in first.”
“No.”
“Roman.”
I look at him.
He knows better than most people what that address means. Not the building itself. The message under it. My father has stopped moving through shadows and started drawing lines. He wants me to come. He wants me to know he wants it.
That alone is enough to make this personal in a way Mikhail can’t fix with tactics.
He tries anyway.
“We can box the property,” he says. “Watch for movement. Sweep the perimeter. If the children are there, we do this right. If they aren’t, we still keep you breathing.”
Every word is reasonable. Every word is useless.
Because if my father sent that address, then he’s not inviting my men.
He’s inviting me.
Maybe he thinks I’ll walk in blinded by anger.
Maybe he’s right. I pick up my coat.
