Page 64 of Break For Me
Men line the path. Six that I count. Armed. Positioned at intervals along the corridor of container stacks. They watch me pass. Not with curiosity. With the flat assessment of men calculating how much trouble I’m worth.
The office is at the far end of the warehouse. A prefab structure bolted to the concrete floor. Metal steps. Steel door. A window covered from the inside.
The guard who searched me opens the door and gestures.
I climb the steps. I enter.
Dmitri Volkov is sitting behind a steel desk eating an apple.
The image makes my brain stall. The man who threatened my sister’s safety, who controlled my life for two years, is sitting in a portable office, paring an apple with a folding knife.
He eats the slices off the blade. He looks up when I enter. The pale eyes. The compact build. The toothpick is gone, replaced by the apple, but the mouth is the same. The small, even teeth. The thin smile that communicates nothing except the awareness that he is holding all the cards.
"Doctor." He sets the apple on the desk. The knife stays in his hand. "I am surprised."
"I doubt that."
"No. I am genuinely surprised. I expected to find you in a ditch. Or in federal custody. Or in a Falcone holding cell." He tilts his head. The motion is reptilian. "Instead, you walk through my gate wearing a borrowed suit and ask for me by name. This is either very brave or very stupid."
"I came back because the alternative is worse."
"The alternative being?"
"Running. The Falcones have no reason to protect me long-term. The federal government has no use for a disgraced surgeon with no license. My options are limited." I pause. I let him hear the calculation in my voice. Cold, transactional. I’ve chosen the devil I know.
"I want to resume our arrangement. I want Elena’s funding to continue. I want the security detail on her building maintained. In exchange, I’m here. I’m compliant. I’ll work."
Dmitri eats another apple slice. The knife is sharp. The blade catches the fluorescent light and throws a small bright line across the ceiling. He chews slowly.
"Kazimir is not pleased."
"Kazimir’s displeasure is a consequence of the Falcone enforcer’s actions, not mine. I was taken by force. I operated under duress. Every procedure I performed was at gunpoint. I’m not a combatant—I’m a physician."
"You are property."
The word lands where it’s aimed. Center mass. The familiar dehumanization that used to make my stomach turn. Now, it barely registers. Property. Tool. Function. I’ve been called worse by the man who is chained somewhere in this building.
"Property that walked back through the gate on its own," I say. "That should count for something."
Dmitri sets the knife down. He wipes his fingers on a napkin. The gesture is fussy, precise.
"The Falcone enforcer. He is here."
"I’m aware."
"He is alive because Kazimir believes you will come for him. And here you are." The smile widens. "Predictable. All of you. You confuse attachment with strategy."
"I didn't come for him. I came for the arrangement. But if you want me functional, I need my hands unbroken, and I need to demonstrate my value immediately."
I fold my hands behind my back. The posture is rigid, clinical. The attending surgeon addressing the chief of staff.
"Let me treat him. Whatever damage your men have done, let me repair it. You can film it if you want—proof of my compliance. Show it to Kazimir. Show him his property is back in the workshop."
Dmitri studies me. The pale eyes are unreadable. He is deciding whether my compliance is real or performed. The decision will determine whether I leave this office on my feet or in a bag.
He picks up a radio. He speaks three words of Russian. I catch doctor and container.
"Building C," he says to me. "Bay twelve. Your patient is waiting."
