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Yet something inside me rebels against dismissing her so easily, against reducing our connection to mere strategy.

"The mission proceeds as planned," I concede finally. "But maintaining awareness of Markov's daughter provides tactical advantages."

Anton studies me for a long moment, clearly unsatisfied but recognizing the limits of this confrontation. "The Chinese shipment arrives next month. Markov will oversee the transfer personally—our best opportunity to access his secure systems and extract the evidence we need."

"I'll be in position," I assure him, grateful for the shift back to details.

"See that you are." Anton's voice carries unusual sharpness. "With your mind clear and focused. Too many people have sacrificed for this mission, Viktor. Don't dishonor them by getting distracted now."

The accusation stings precisely because it contains truth. My parents, my sister, my brother—their ghosts demand justice, demand follow-through on the vengeance I've dedicated my life to delivering. How can a momentary connection with Markov's daughter weigh against that blood debt?

Yet as we finalize the details for the upcoming Chinese shipment, my thoughts repeatedly drift to the surveillance images. Anastasia in Geneva, pursuing diplomatic studies far from her father's control—showing the independence and determination I glimpsed during our brief time together.

"Viktor." Anton's sharp voice pulls me back to the present. "Are you listening? This is critical information."

"I heard you," I respond automatically. "Chinese shipment arriving through Helsinki, Markov personally overseeing transfer. Optimal intervention point."

He looks unconvinced but continues outlining the plan that will finally bring down Mikhail Markov's empire. The plan I've dedicated my life to executing, sacrificed my soul to implement.

Later, alone in my apartment—an excessive luxury by Moscow standards but fitting for Markov's trusted lieutenant—I review the surveillance photographs again. Downloading them was reckless, a security breach Anton would condemn. But I can't stop examining every detail, searching for something I can't quite define.

Anastasia at a diplomatic reception, her smile carefully measured. Entering her apartment building with an armload of textbooks. Walking through Geneva's old town, momentarily unguarded, a glimpse of genuine pleasure on her face.

These images show a woman caught between worlds—the poised Bratva princess in public, glimpses of authentic self in unobserved moments. A duality I understand too well, living my own divided existence as Viktor Baranov, Markov's rising lieutenant, while plotting his destruction.

As dawn breaks over Moscow, I face the uncomfortable truth growing within me. Five years of single-minded focus on vengeance, on bringing down Mikhail Markov, yet one night with his daughter has created cracks in my resolve. Not enough to abandon the mission, but enough to question the collateral damage—including what my vengeance might cost Anastasia.

My secure phone vibrates with Markov's private signal—another assignment, another opportunity to advance toward a vengeance that suddenly feels more complicated than before.

The phone continues vibrating as I stare at Anastasia's photograph, at the woman I knew briefly in Paris before duty reclaimed me. The woman whose father I've sworn to destroy, regardless of the consequences.

For the first time, I silence Markov's call, letting it go to voicemail while I contemplate the unexpected fracture in my resolve: the mission that defined me for five years, or the possibility of something beyond vengeance.

And somewhere in Switzerland, unaware of my true identity or purpose, Anastasia builds a life separate from her father's shadow—a life that collides catastrophically with the destruction I've planned for the Markov empire.

12

ANASTASIA

TWO MONTHS AFTER GIVING BIRTH TO SOFIA IN A PRIVATE SWISS CLINIC

Acool Alpine breeze drifts through the open terrace doors, carrying the scent of mountain herbs and distant snow. I step back from Sofia's bassinet, satisfied that the newly installed mosquito netting provides both protection and proper airflow. Two months old and already sleeping in a fortress—a fitting start for a Markov child, though not the kind of protection I ever envisioned providing.

"The security system installation is complete, Miss Ivanova."

Anna Petrova stands in the doorway, her practical linen dress and sensible shoes belying her former career as a pediatric nurse in one of Moscow's most exclusive clinics. The faint scar along her jawline—a reminder of her escape from an abusive oligarch husband whose Bratva connections made divorce impossible—catches the morning light.

At fifty-three, she carries herself with the quiet confidence of someone who has weathered significant storms, including the collapse of her brother's Bratva-adjacent business that left her family vulnerable and in need of discreet, well-paid employment.

"Thank you, Anna. And please, it's Anastasia when we're alone." I move to the window, scanning the property's perimeter through newly installed privacy glass. "Did they explain the protocols?"

"Thoroughly." Her dark eyes hold the same protective vigilance I've come to rely on these past months. "Biometric access for the three authorized personnel only. Motion sensors covering all approaches. Silent alarm connected directly to the private security firm." She recites the features with no emotion. "The panic room is stocked for seventy-two hours, and the evacuation protocol can be initiated with a single command."

I nod, mentally reviewing the layered security systems I've built around Sofia during the past eight weeks. The isolated chalet outside Montreux sits on private land surrounded by discreet but comprehensive protection measures. Three separate shell companies own the property. The utility connections operate under a fourth corporate entity. The financial arrangements flow through a complex network of offshore accounts untraceable to the Markov organization.

A parallel world constructed specifically to protect one tiny life.

"And the medical equipment?" I ask, though I've personally inspected every item twice already.