Page 108 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
His forehead pulls tight. He steps toward me.
“Where?” he asks.
I point back the way I came, toward the main stairwell, not the service one. “Second landing. She fell. Please.”
He hesitates for a second, scanning my face to see if I’m lying.
I let my hands tremble. I let my mouth move without control. “Please. Hurry.”
He swallows and starts down the corridor in the direction I indicate, phone pressed to his ear now. He walks fast, then faster. Halfway down, he glances back. I’m still standing where he left me, eyes wide, frozen in place.
“Go,” I call after him. “Please.”
When he turns the corner and disappears from sight, I count to three. Then I move.
A woman farther down the hall flattens herself against the wall as I pass. She stares at my hands.
I grip the strap of my bag and steady them. If anyone opens it, they’ll find paperwork. Nothing more.
I keep my pace even. I don’t run.
The route we mapped is clear in my head. Four turns. Down two flights. Through the records wing. Out the rear service door. Six minutes if I keep steady. I follow it for three. Then I change it.
Anyone disciplined enough to shut down the building without noise will assume I stick to the plan. They’ll watch the exits Dominik is positioned to defend. They’ll expect me to trust what we rehearsed.
I turn down a side corridor instead.
A red fire door opens into a maintenance stairwell. I take it down one level and step into a loading hallway that opens behind the block.
A delivery truck idles near the curb, the driver leaning against the door with a cigarette. I walk past him without looking. My shoulder brushes the side mirror and I keep going. I cut into the narrow space between two buildings where the pavement breaks and weeds push through.
There’s a second car waiting two streets over.
I don’t go to it.
If they’re watching Dominik, they’re waiting for me to run to the car. If they lose him, they’ll keep eyes on it anyway. I won’t give them that.
I cut across the next block and fall in with people heading toward the tram stop. A tram rolls in from the opposite side. I cross the street between cars, step over the rails, and reach the doors as they start to close. I slip inside before they seal.
I don’t take a seat. I stay on my feet near the center pole, one hand steady, the file tucked under my coat. I keep my eyes on the glass across from me and watch what moves in reflection instead of turning my head.
Three stops later, I get off and circle back on foot, doubling through streets that don’t lead anywhere important. I change direction twice more before I angle toward where the second car waits.
When I reach the spot, I don’t approach from the front. I come in from behind the building and watch first.
The car is still there. The mirror is folded in.
We never fold the mirror.
Instead of heading for the car, I walk three blocks straight, matching my pace to the people around me. At the bus stop, I stand with the others and stare at nothing in particular. When the bus pulls in, I let it block the view from the street, step around its rear, cross, and slide into a taxi waiting at the curb.
The car smells like lemon cleaner and worn vinyl. The driver glances at me in the mirror, half curious. I give him an address that fits the hour, promise extra if he keeps moving, and tell him to stop two streets short.
I change again.
I take the metro two stops and get off without looking back. I go down one set of stairs, up another, and come out onto a different street. I take apart the phone in a restroom stall in a transit hub, drop the pieces into three different bins, then wash my hands until they steady.
Then I keep going. The copy isn’t paper. It isn’t bulky. It doesn’t rustle or weigh me down.
