I crouch to her level, my gun down. “It’s over,” I say. “No one’s touching you.”
Ana’s hold tightens. “You don’t get to say that.”
Fair. I don’t argue. Honestly, there’s no time, either. Sirens sound somewhere, closing by the minute.
I gesture toward the stairwell. “We need to move. Now.”
“I have a car,” she says.
“And you think it’s not rigged by now? We take mine.”
She hesitates for a beat, then nods and shifts the child higher on her hip without breaking stride. I take the lead as we exit, eyes sweeping corners, ears tuned for engines turning over or boots that don’t belong.
The girl keeps her face tucked into the curve of Ana’s neck, fingers twisted tightly in her braid. Ana murmurs to her, soft and steady, words meant to anchor her to something ahead, something simple and safe, a beach, a ball, plenty of fun in a place where this moment doesn’t exist.
Before we hit street level, I ping Denis. Denis pulls up moments later and parks his Lada at the curb. His eyes flick to Ana, then to the child. He reads the scene and says nothing.
I open the back door. “Get in.”
Ana pauses for half a second, then climbs in, the girl locked to her chest. I close the door and get in on the other side. Denis locks the doors and pulls out. We blend into the city traffic without a ripple.
Three streets out, I lean back just enough to check the side mirrors. When I do, the child is watching me. Her eyes are dark, the same shape as Ana’s, the same stubborn set to her mouth. I look for something else and Ana catches me. Her mouth tightens. “Don’t.”
I meet her gaze. “Did you access the account?”
“I tried. I didn’t take anything. Couldn’t.”
I don’t respond. I already know what that means. She lit herself up, and the kid with her.
Denis pulls onto a side street. I ask evenly, “What’s her name?”
Ana doesn’t answer right away. I glance back. The child is watching me again.
“Mila,” Ana finally says.
Something shifts in me. The name grounds her, strips away the distance.
“How old?” I ask.
“Four.”
She says it fast, which means she’s rehearsed the answer. “It doesn’t concern you,” she adds before I can look again.
That’s Ana’s code for telling me I’m not the father, but something about this refuses to sit right with me. I don’t answer her, but I look at Mila once more. Dark hair like Ana’s. Same eyes. Same mouth. Nothing of Markov in the child’s face. Nothing that points anywhere else, either. And if she’s four… that’s slightly young to match up to when we were… dare I say together? My chest contracts at the thought of someone else’s hands on Ana, but I say nothing.
That doesn’t settle anything. It just keeps the question open.
I don’t say much else. The road narrows. Denis drives faster than I would here. We reach the river road and merge with traffic heading north. He changes lanes twice, then again, watching reflections, counting cars that stay too close.
“It’s clear for now,” he declares.
“Take us to Repino,” I say.
Denis swings toward Liteyny Bridge and pushes us over the Neva. We clear the embankments fast and head north, the city thinning into trees.
Ana shifts in the seat. “You should’ve stayed out.”
“So should you.”
