Page 111 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Staff move with flower crates, polished silver, and folded linen. Mrs. Wentworth’s face suggests one crooked fork could start a civil war. Extra guards shift through the halls in dark suits, and Lidiya argues with a footman near the stair landing over chair placement in the main hall.

Mikhail notices everything.

“Is the house having a birthday?” he asks, sitting cross-legged with three cars lined on the rug.

Kathryn looks up from her coffee. “Rich people are strange, honey. Sometimes, they decorate their house when they’re nervous.”

Near the nursery corridor, Sergei keeps his eyes forward.

Mikhail pushes a car forward. “Is Dmitri nervous?”

My hand stops on the edge of the washbasin. His face is innocent, but I need a second before I answer.

I saw Dmitri earlier in the corridor with a security update in his hand. He didn’t speak to me. His mouth was set, his shirt sleeves were rolled, and his eyes were on the paper. He’s furious because tonight’s trap needs me inside the estate dining hall full of people who may be tied to Morozov’s machinery.

“He isn’t nervous, honey,” I tell Mikhail, smoothing his hair back. “He’s working.”

Mikhail accepts that because adults’ work is boring.

Kathryn gives me one look over her mug and saves the lecture for later.

Elena sends a dress in the afternoon. Simple black, long sleeves, clean lines. No sparkle. No obvious price tag. The coat is dark wool with a collar that frames my face. The jewelry passes as tasteful and expensive.

I’ll belong where people don’t want me tonight. Elena made sure my name was on the list.

She arrives while Lidiya is fixing my hair into a low twist.

“You look composed,” Elena says, setting a seating plan on the vanity.

“I am,” I say, watching Lidiya in the mirror.

Elena’s mouth moves. “Good. Men trust a woman more when they think she’s trying hard to fit in.”

Lidiya coughs into her hand.

Elena points to the plan. “Maksim sits at the head. I’ll be on his right. You’ll be near me, close enough to hear the donor side. Lena Markovic sits across from the retired judge, Arkady Velenko. He had old influence over customs disputes and charity registrations.”

“Old influence,” I say, reaching for an earring.

Elena’s gaze hardens. “In Moscow, that means people still ask his opinion.”

She walks me through names, wives, donors, legal aides, and shipping men while Lidiya brushes a light shadow over my eyes and adds mascara. She tells me who talks after wine, who thinks medical-aid work makes him holy, and which charity workers may actually believe the brochures.

My job is simple.

Listen and observe.

At five, I check on Mikhail. He’s with Kathryn, reading a book, while Sergei listens from his post and does a bad job of hiding it.

Mikhail looks up. “Mama, you look beautiful,” he says, scrambling to his feet.

I bend as he runs into me, and his small arms squeeze my waist.

“Thank you, baby,” I say, pressing my lips to his hair.

Kathryn’s eyes soften, then narrow. “Be careful,” she says, standing.

“I will,” I say, holding Mikhail longer.