He does not retreat because he’s beaten. He retreats because he wants the board reset. He always preferred pawns at a distance. Lawyers, cousins, godsons, captains with dead eyes and living ambitions. Men who can approach where he cannot. Men who can smile and offer peace while carrying instructions that smell like a grave.
So yes, I’m relieved he’s not here.
That’s why tonight matters.
A council gathering is never just dinner. It’s a census. A display. A chance to see who enters with confidence and who scans the room first. Who brings too many men. Who brings too few. Who drinks. Who does not. Who smiles at my face and who looks at the exits over my shoulder.
I take a glass of whiskey from a passing tray and turn slowly, letting the room come to me.
There.
Victor Anisimov near the back wall, pretending to admire the flowers while watching the private stairs.
There.
Malenko’s youngest son whispering to one of Andrei’s old customs brokers.
There.
A woman I do not know at all, seated near the second pillar, looking at no one and seeing everything.
Interesting.
Mikhail steps close enough to speak without being seen speaking.
“No sign of Morozov people at the door,” he says.
“There will be.”
“You think tonight?”
“I think every night until my father is dead.”
Mikhail nods once. He has learned not to comfort me with optimism. That’s why he’s still alive.
“Any word on Oleg?” I ask.
His mouth tightens. “Nothing solid. Prague rumor was false. One of the Warsaw leads might have been planted.”
“By him?”
“Or by someone who wants us looking the wrong way.”
I drink the whiskey and let it burn.
“Oleg won’t run forever,” Mikhail says.
“No,” I agree. “But he will die tired.”
Across the room, the music shifts. The orchestra eases into something slower. More guests arrive, all fur, diamonds, and dark coats. The hostess glides by with a smile polished enough to cut glass and murmurs that the council room upstairs is ready whenever I wish.
Not yet.
Let them gather first.
Let them look at me in the open light and decide what story they want to believe. The bastard son who made himself rich in America. The patient one. The violent one. The one who has already taken too much from the Morozovs to ever be allowed to stop.
All the stories are useful.
