Page 101 of Vital Signs
"Good," Annie said, her voice hardening to steel. "Let him know we protect our own. Even in death."
Nikita's lips curled into a smile. "He can't prove anything without the body. And he can't claim damages over research materials he technically shouldn't have been collecting in the first place."
Eli straightened in his chair. "What about his threats to deport Misha?"
Hunter's fingers interlaced with mine.
Xander's hand landed on my shoulder, a gentle squeeze. "You okay?"
I nodded, pressing my knee against his in silent thanks.
"Wright's threats are exactly why we're having this discussion," Nikita said from the head of the table. Unlike the rest of us in casual clothes, he wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most cars, pocket square matching his silver tie. "He's escalating because of your unauthorized clinic break-in. The question now is how we handle the consequences."
The accusation in his tone was subtle but unmistakable. I straightened my spine, refusing to look guilty. They'd voted me down, treated me like I was too damaged to think clearly. Hunter and I had done what needed to be done.
"If we hadn't taken those files, we wouldn't know about the twenty-three deaths," I countered, chin lifting. "All connected to his trials. All disposable people he thought no one would miss."
War sighed. "This is exactly why we should have proceeded through proper channels. Wright is escalating because you two went rogue."
Hunter's knee pressed harder against mine. The tension in the room thickened.
Nikita frowned at the dining room window. "We’re being watched. Wright’s people, I think."
River's jaw tightened. "How long have they been watching us?"
"Long enough," Nikita replied, rising.
The doorbell rang.
Yuri stood. "I'll get it."
The family tensed, bodies shifting subtly into readiness. War's hand slipped beneath the table. Xander angled his chair toward the doorway. River's fingers closed around the steak knife beside his plate.
Raised voices drifted from the front hall. Male voices, professional tones with an edge of authority. Then Yuri's deeper rumble, barely contained anger beneath his words.
"The fuck is this?" War muttered, half-rising from his chair.
Three men in tailored suits swept into the dining room behind Yuri. The intruders carried leather portfolios and stood with shoulders squared, chins lifted. Their suits screamed money, but their eyes screamed mercenary.
The lead man surveyed the table with Arctic eyes. "Preston Whitmore, Meridian Legal Services. We represent several pharmaceutical companies."
Nikita dabbed his mouth with a napkin, unhurried. His eyes narrowed slightly, the only sign that he recognized the name. As the family's lawyer, he would know every major player in the legal field. "Mr. Whitmore. Your reputation precedes you. Corporate fixer for the pharmaceutical industry, if I recall correctly. I don't, however, recall inviting you into my home during a family meal."
Whitmore's eyebrows rose a fraction. "This couldn't wait."
His associates distributed envelopes. Mine read MICHAEL VASILIEV. Hunter's: HUNTER SONG.
I tore open the envelope, pulling out thick stacks of legal documents with "CEASE AND DESIST" stamped in red across the top page.
"The cease and desist language in these documents is unnecessarily broad," Nikita commented, not even opening his envelope. "And the jurisdictional claims are questionable at best. I assume the NDAs contain liquidated damages clauses that would never survive scrutiny in court?"
Whitmore's lips thinned. "Your legal expertise is noted, Mr. Volkov. However, my clients have authorized me to offer a generous settlement." Whitmore nodded to his associates, who produced additional documents. "Eight figures, plus relocation assistance to any city of your choosing. Sign the NDAs, return all stolen materials, release the Graham remains to Dr. Wright, and this unpleasantness ends today."
The threat behind the offer hung in the air. No one reached for their envelopes. No one spoke. Shepherd leaned back in his chair, blue eyes cold as he studied Whitmore.
"And if we don't sign?" he asked finally, pushing his envelope away with one finger.
"Federal prosecution for theft of medical records, corporate espionage, and violation of multiple confidentiality agreements." Whitmore's smile never reached his eyes. "Mr. Vasiliev's immigration status makes his situation particularly precarious. Deportation would be the least of his concerns."
