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“Not with your mama.”

His serious face softens for half a second.

“What’s his full name?” I ask.

“He has nothing to do with this.”

“I didn’t ask what he has to do with it.”

The boy answers before she can. “Misha Markova.”

“Markov,” Vera corrects automatically.

He frowns. “That’s what I said.”

Something almost like laughter moves behind Abramov and is wisely killed before it escapes.

“How old are you, Misha?” I ask.

“Three,” Vera says too quickly.

Misha holds up four fingers, studies them, then folds one down.

“When is his birthday?”

“That has nothing to do with armed men outside my door.”

The gala returns in pieces. Warm gold lights. Vera’s green eyes. Her dark hair coming loose beneath my hand. A hotel suite. The scratch of her nails along my ribs. Almost four years.

I look at the boy again.

Gray-green eyes. Dark brow. A watchfulness no three-year-old should possess.

Vera catches me assessing him and moves closer to the narrow opening. “Stop studying my son.”

“I’m studying the security risk.”

“Go back, Alexei.”

“That’s not why I came.”

Her grip tightens on the knife. “You’re bleeding on my threshold.”

“I bought your Blacklist entry.”

Vera has no answer. Then fury arrives so quickly, it’s almost impressive.

“You did what?”

“Leonid transferred the claim into my name before another buyer could take it. No one can move you while I hold the paper.”

“Hold the paper?” She repeats the words carefully, preparing each one for use against me. “You bought me?”

“I bought the entry.”

“And you came here to claim your right?” She scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

“It should comfort you tonight.” Nausea rolls through me, and I need this meeting finished on my terms. I collect debts. I don’t repay them. “Belov can’t transfer you to one of his men while I hold the claim.”