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“Yes.”

“Then her father helped them.”

“Don’t treat it as settled.” I ease my sweater from Misha’s fist and move a few steps away with Dmitri. “The captain may have helped Belov without knowing the whole plan.”

Abramov arrives and hands me a folded document. “We found this inside the courier’s vest.”

A Blacklist transfer order bears Vera’s false debt number. Beneath it, Misha is listed as attached property. The order allows them to remove both in a private ambulance, process them through a clinic under false records, and hand them to another claimant.

I look up.

Vera is watching me. “What is it?”

I glance at Misha in her arms.

Her expression hardens. “Tell me.”

I step closer and lower my voice. “The order was for both of you. They came to take Misha.”

Her face goes blank.

“They put him on the order.” Vera tightens both arms around Misha.

I read the final lines again. “Trace the claimant named on the final page and every signature attached to it,” I tell Abramov.

Dmitri looks toward the dead men in the corridor. “Belov used our old rules against a child.”

Maksim arrives with two guards behind him. He checks Misha, then takes the transfer order from Abramov.

“Elena, Lev, and Cara are safe,” he says. “Mikhail slept through half the shooting.”

“Dmitri’s son,” Dima mutters as he wipes blood from his knuckles. “He probably finds gunfire relaxing.”

Misha lifts his head at Mikhail’s name, but he keeps his arms around Vera.

Maksim finishes reading the order. “The living one goes downstairs.”

Abramov orders every door code in the west wing changed before morning.

The guards clear the suite while Irina checks Oksana first, then Sergei and the wounded guards. She comes to me last. She checks my pulse, temperature, and incisions before moving on. Sergei refuses stitches until someone confirms the pool passage is sealed.

Vera stays near the linen closet with Misha against her chest. One of the house staff brings her a pair of slippers and sets them by her bare feet.

Misha's yellow car lies beside the door. I pick it up and keep it in my pocket. He grabs my sweater again before I can move away. The pull brings me close to Vera.

Her hair is tangled, her sweater is rumpled, and blood marks the arch of one foot. It isn’t hers.

Misha clings to Vera with his face pressed against her shoulder. I rub a hand over his hair and bring my mouth close to his ear.

“You were brave, and you remembered exactly what to do.”

He lifts his head and looks at me. “I remembered, Papa.”

“You did.”

“And I know my birthday,” he says. “And Sasha is my best friend, and Miss Katya says I’m clever.”

“You are.”