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"Perhaps." I've never voiced these suspicions aloud, never had anyone I trusted enough to share them with. The release is both terrifying and exhilarating. "Sometimes I catch my father watching me with an expression I can't quite read—pride mixed with something that might be fear."

"He should be afraid," Viktor says, his voice carrying an edge I can't interpret. "You're more formidable than he realizes."

The compliment warms me in ways I refuse to examine too closely. "Not formidable enough to escape the path he's laid out for me."

"Not yet, perhaps." His silver eyes hold mine with disturbing intensity. "But paths can change, Anastasia. Destinies can be rewritten."

"By whom?"

"By those with the courage to seize control of their own stories."

His words hang between us, carrying weight beyond their surface meaning. Something shifts in the air between us—an unspoken understanding, a recognition of shared purpose though the details remain deliberately vague.

In these stolen hours, we've created a fragile bubble outside time, outside obligation, outside the bloodstained histories that have shaped us both. A space where Anastasia exists without Markov, where Viktor exists without whatever shadows darken his past.

As dawn breaks fully over Paris, I close my eyes against his chest, letting sleep claim me at last. My last conscious thought is my mother's favorite proverb, whispered to me on nights when the walls of our gilded cage felt most confining:

"Even the most carefully constructed prison has a key, Nastya. The trick is knowing which locks it fits in."

Perhaps, in Viktor Baranov, I've found my key.

6

VIKTOR

The vibration against my wrist drags me from rare, dreamless sleep.

Four short pulses followed by two long ones—our emergency protocol. I extract myself from Anastasia's sleeping form with practiced stealth, slipping from the bed without disturbing her. She shifts slightly, murmuring something unintelligible before settling back into deep slumber, dark hair fanned across my pillow, one arm stretched into the space I've vacated.

The sight catches something in my chest—a newfound weakness I can't afford.

Moving silently, I retrieve the encrypted phone from its hidden compartment in my office, thumb scanning the biometric lock.

Anton's message is brief:COMPROMISED. PETROV SURVEILLANCE IDENTIFIED YOUR LOCATION. EXTRACTION WINDOW CLOSING.

My blood runs cold. The Petrov faction has resources throughout Paris—eyes and ears in hotels, restaurants, surveillance on strategic locations. One of the most ruthless rivals to both Markov and Sokolov organizations, they've been expanding aggressively into Western Europe. If they've identified my safehouse, it's only a matter of time before they connect me to Anastasia.

A second message follows:ALLEY SURVIVORS IN HOSPITAL. TALKING. BRATVA NETWORKS ACTIVATED.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, mind racing. The men from the alley survived, as I knew they would. I wasn’t out for blood last night. They've revealed Anastasia's presence in the city and her rescue last night. The Bratva networks are activating—not yet at highest alert, but awareness is spreading.

Every Petrov operative in the district will be mobilized by late morning. Every safe house monitored. Every travel route scrutinized. And somewhere in that dragnet, my identity as Viktor Baranov-Sokolov risks exposure—the vengeful ghost of a family Mikhail Markov believed he'd erased from existence.

Five years of meticulous planning, of careful infiltration and positioning—all potentially compromised because I couldn't let Anastasia Markov walk into that ambush alone.

I type: Confirm security breach level and timeline.

The response is immediate: Local Petrov network only for now. Markov Moscow headquarters not yet informed. Two tactical teams positioning near your location. Estimated 30 minutes before perimeter complete. Extraction window: 15 minutes max.

Fifteen minutes. My mindset snaps into place, pushing aside all sentiment, all confusion about the woman sleeping in my bed. I can feel my thought patterns shifting into the staccato rhythm I've developed for high-pressure situations—short, direct, efficient.

Evidence of connection to us? I ask.

Negative for now. But timeline limited. K-7 extraction protocol activated. Safe route pre-mapped. Vehicle at emergency exit B.

I type back acknowledgment, then check the building's security feeds. External cameras show a black SUV—the distinctive Maybach model favored by Petrov's senior lieutenants—parked three blocks north. Two men in tactical gear visible, checking weapons. Not bothering with subtlety anymore, which means they're preparing for a raid, not continued surveillance.

I switch to the thermal imaging overlay. Six more heat signatures visible in surrounding buildings. Snipers, most likely, establishing line of sight to all exit points. Standard Bratva siege formation—central command vehicle, perimeter snipers, ground teams ready for breach. A classic Petrov tactic I've documented in Warsaw, Berlin, and now Paris—overwhelming force applied suddenly, with no possibility of negotiation.