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Anna answers immediately, abandoning protocol in response to emergency signal. "What's happened?"

"Implement Protocol Seven," I instruct, voice steady despite the fear choking me. "Surveillance detected. Potential compromise imminent."

Protocol Seven—immediate relocation of Sofia and Anna to our secondary safe house, using prearranged channels designed to leave no electronic or physical trace. The most extreme contingency we established, meant for only the gravest security threats.

"Understood." Anna's voice remains calm despite the severity of the instruction. "Estimated completion time eight hours. Communication blackout until confirmation of secure relocation."

"Proceed with maximum security." I swallow against the thickness in my throat, desperate need to hear Sofia's voice, to know she's safe, battling against security requirements. My throat constricts around the words, making them painful to push out. "Trust no one. Verify everything."

"I will protect her with my life," Anna promises—the only time she's broken professional distance to acknowledge the human reality behind our security protocols. "Confirmation will follow established channels when secure."

The line disconnects, leaving me alone with the knowledge that my daughter is now in transit to an unknown location—safer from Viktor's surveillance but facing new risks in the movement itself. The necessity of the decision does nothing to ease the cold fear spreading through me.

To think my child’s own father has pushed me to this extreme security measure. It’s unthinkable. But after his words to me today, I know without a doubt it is best not to trust him in any way. He even went so far as to throw the very “independence” he praised me for in Paris in my face today as if it makes me a liability to him.

In the privacy of the car, I allow myself thirty seconds of genuine emotion—hand pressed against my mouth to muffle the sound of ragged breathing, eyes closed against threatening tears. Thirty seconds to feel the terror and grief and rage that define my existence. The leather seat beneath me fades away, the world narrowing to the overwhelming panic that threatens to consume me. Sofia moving through the world without me, vulnerable despite Anna's protections, so far from my arms that could shield her.

Then I straighten, composure settling back into place like armor. The driver will report my behavior to my father. Viktor's separate surveillance may be monitoring even this supposedly private space. Nothing is truly secure except the iron will that has kept Sofia protected these long months.

I press my hand to my throat, feeling Sofia's locket beneath my blouse. The small silver oval contains a tiny lock of her hair—the only physical piece of my daughter I can safely keep. The metal warms against my skin, a talisman of what I'm fighting for.

Viktor Baranov may have established his surveillance network, but he's hunting secrets without understanding exactly what he's tracking. He seeks information, leverage, tactical advantage in whatever game he's playing within my father's organization.

What he doesn't know—what he cannot be allowed to discover—is that I'm not merely protecting diplomatic contacts or Bratva business connections.

I'm protecting our daughter.

And there is nothing I won't do, no line I won't cross, to keep Sofia safe from both my father's world and whatever dangerous game Viktor Baranov is playing within it.

Even if that means destroying him before he can destroy everything I've sacrificed to protect.

18

VICKTOR

The patterns emerge like constellations across my office wall—surveillance reports, communication logs, security footage stills, all connected with red thread in a physical manifestation of obsession I can no longer deny. The room smells of coffee gone cold, expensive whiskey, and faintly—impossibly—of her perfume, as if Anastasia's essence has infiltrated even this private space. My sanctuary has become a shrine to her secrets.

Three weeks of monitoring her movements, tracking her communications, analyzing every detail of her carefully controlled existence. I pin another photograph to the wall—Anastasia exiting the Tretyakov sports complex, face composed but eyes holding something I can't decipher. Something that makes my chest tighten with an emotion I refuse to name.

"Chyort voz'mi," I mutter, the Russian curse falling from my lips as I study the evidence before me.

Seventeen secure calls. All between three and four minutes in duration. All routed through Swiss proxy servers. All following the same seventeen-step authentication protocol.

All to an unknown recipient that security protocols prevent us from identifying despite my best technical resources.

The surveillance equipment hums softly in the background—state-of-the-art technology acquired through channels even Markov doesn't know about. Directional microphones, thermal imaging cameras, signal interceptors—the tools of my obsession arranged with military organization around the room. On another wall, monitors display real-time footage from cameras placed throughout Moscow, each following her movements with relentless dedication.

I stand before the evidence board at three a.m., whiskey untouched in a crystal tumbler, mind racing through possibilities I refuse to fully articulate even to myself. Professional assessment identifies clear security measures—Anastasia is communicating with someone she doesn't want discovered. Analysis suggests a clandestine alliance, potentially threatening my position within the Markov organization.

But something darker, more primal drives this investigation beyond tactical considerations. Something I refuse to name.

When I'm certain no one watches, my fingers reach out to trace the outline of her face in the largest photograph—Anastasia at the Moscow Ballet, elegant in black silk, her profile caught in a rare unguarded moment. My touch lingers on the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, a moment of weakness I would never permit if anyone else were present.

She's calling someone she cares about. I can see it in her eyes in these photos taken after her calls—the softening that never happens around me, the faint relaxation of her features, the subtle change in her posture. Something inside me twists painfully at this realization.

"Fifteen minutes yesterday. Location: women's changing room at Tretyakov sports complex." Yuri, my most trusted surveillance operative, stands at attention while delivering his latest report more fully than his terse per-occurance updates. His face remains professionally blank, but I catch the slight shift in his stance—discomfort at witnessing what is clearly becoming more than standard surveillance. "Subject retrieved secure communication device from locker compartment with false bottom. Call duration three minutes, twenty-six seconds."

"Visible emotional response?" I keep my voice neutral despite the tightness in my chest and the acid burning in my stomach.