Page 35 of The King's Pawn
I do not ask where.
I do not ask who.
Those details are immaterial for now. They will surface soon enough, laid out in sanitized reports, dissected over conference tables, weaponized in conversations meant to look collaborative while hiding ulterior motives. Those answers always arrive once Nikolai decides to call us to his estate for deliberation.
“What kind?” I ask instead.
Volkov exhales, a sharp sound that betrays more than he intends. “A big one. Took out half a block. From what I can tell, it isn’t random.”
Of course it isn’t.
Random violence is for amateurs. For ideologues and fools who think their little act of disobedience will somehow change the status quo. This is something else… a message being refined and presented to the world for some reason. A hand tightening around the throat of the city with increasing confidence.
Morozov’s doing again?
“Nikolai will want all of us present for a meeting. You know he doesn’t like things to be unsettled for long,” he adds, already retreating back to the safety of his own syndicate. Volkov never lingers when he’s unsettled.
“I’m sure he will,” I reply.
The line goes dead after that.
I lower the phone slowly and stare at the surface of my desk, at the faint reflection of my own face staring back at me. There is no anger in my expression, just the same calm mask I’ve worn through wars and betrayals and bloodshed.
But beneath it, something else stirs.
Another bombing isn’t a coincidence. That is escalation. A copycat, perhaps, masquerading in Morozov’s shoes in order to stir up trouble within the city. Perhaps for a distraction or otherwise. Alina’s father wouldn’t be stupid enough to try something like that twice.
He’s already gained plenty of points in the polls over the past few days. There would be no reason for him to upend that with another tragedy when he’s barely been able to control the first one.
Nikolai will want answers. Especially from me, considering it’s within my district’s bounds. He will apply pressure where it will be felt most keenly, where it will force a response even if I have none to give. The Iron Pact thrives on balance, on the illusion of stability, but this… this is a deliberate destabilization I have no control over.
The realization unsettles me.
I think of Alina asleep in her bed upstairs, clutching that photograph like a lifeline. I think of the way she looked at me last night, furious and unbroken. I think of the wine splattered against the wall, too close in color to blood, too close to the world I have spent my life navigating, and find myself wishing for a different outcome.
Nikolai will be tightening the leash soon to gauge my reaction if I don’t respond accordingly. It will be about proving that defiance has consequences and reminding me, and everyone else watching, that stepping out of line does not go unpunished.
All I can do now is wait.
Whatever comes next, I will meet it head-on.
8
ALINA
Breakfast slowly grows cold in front of me.
The eggs on my plate have long since congealed into something rubbery and unappetizing, their sheen dulled, the steam vanished a while ago. I haven’t touched them since they were placed in front of me by one of the kitchen staff. I don’t think I ever intended to. The faint ticking of the clock mounted on the wall behind me drills into my skull with merciless precision.
I stare at the same spot on the table for what feels like hours, my gaze unfocused, fixed on the reflection of the window light sliding across the polished surface. Sunlight creeps in through the tall windows in slow, incremental movements, inching across the silverware to catch on the curve of a spoon, then the edge of a knife, then slipping past it as though even the light is trying to escape this room too.
Lev hovers near the doorway.
I know his name now. I’ve learned the names of most of them, whether I wanted to or not. It’s hard not to when they are theonly constants in my life. Rotating shifts of watchful eyes and quiet footsteps, men who exist solely to ensure I don’t wander too far or act too freely.
He tries, and fails, to pretend he isn’t watching me.
Earlier, he offered me tea. When I didn’t respond, then it was coffee. His voice had been polite and carefully neutral, as if offering some small kindness might somehow soften the edges of my confinement. When I ignored that too, he settled for silence.
