Page 102 of Vital Signs
He paused, gaze moving to me. "I understand you have... experience with photography, Mr. Vasiliev. Our researchers uncovered some particularly interesting sessions from the Roche collection. Stunning composition, if disturbing subject matter."
The room tilted. Those photos still existed. I'd believed they were destroyed. My credibility would vanish.
Hunter's hand found mine under the table, squeezing hard enough to bruise. The pain anchored me, pulling me back from the edge of panic. His thumb pressed against my wrist, finding my pulse. One, two, three beats.
"Look at me," Hunter commanded softly. "Just me. Not them."
I focused on his face, on the scar through his eyebrow, on eyes that had seen me at my most vulnerable and chosen to stay anyway.
"They can't have you," he continued. "You're here. You're safe. You're mine."
The possessive declaration wrapped around me like armor. My breathing slowed to match his rhythm. Around the table, the family waited. Not watching with pity or discomfort, but ready to fight. For me. For us.
I wasn't the helpless victim in Roche's photos anymore. I was Misha Vasiliev, surrounded by people who would kill for me. In love with a man who could ground me with a touch.
Wright's lawyers had no idea what they were up against.
"Our investigators have compiled quite a dossier on the Laskin family's... unusual business connections,” Whitmore continued. “Particularly your association with certain Russian interests, Mr. Volkov. The FBI's Organized Crime Division finds RICO cases involving funeral homes especially interesting. Something about the ease of disposing of evidence."
"Deputy Director Wallace still taking pharma payoffs?" Ash asked from the doorway. "Last I checked, RICO focused on actual organized crime."
Whitmore's eyes narrowed. "And you would know this how?"
"Special Agent Ashley Valentine, retired. Twelve years with the Organized Crime Task Force, four with ViCAP." Ash's smile was all teeth. "Now I handle security consulting for Lucky Losers Inc. Defense contracting, DoD clearance. We help governmentagencies identify which threats are real and which are... corporate overreach."
Whitmore's confidence faltered. His gaze darted between Ash and Nikita, recalculating his position.
Nikita folded his hands on the table. "Your FBI threats need updating, Mr. Whitmore. As for deportation threats, my contact in Congress would find such attempts at intimidation disconcerting."
My blood turned cold nonetheless. I stared at the open documents in my hands. Pages of legal language, threats wrapped in jargon. My throat squeezed shut, the room narrowing to a pinpoint.
I crushed the legal documents in my fist, knuckles white. "You want us to sell Tyler's body." I rose halfway from my chair, leaning across the table. "And let Wright continue killing people. People like us, who the system already treats as disposable."
"We want you to recognize when you're outmatched," Whitmore replied. "My clients have unlimited resources and federal connections that extend to every branch of government. This isn't a battle you can win."
"I've heard similar claims from equally impressive lawyers," Nikita said with a slight smile. "Many of them regretted their overconfidence. But continue. I'm curious where this is going."
"What happens to Wright's research if we sign?" Eli asked.
"It continues under appropriate supervision." Whitmore straightened his tie. "The pharmaceutical advancements benefit millions. A few unfortunate outcomes don't outweigh the greater good."
"Unfortunate outcomes?" Hunter stood so quickly his chair fell backward. "Twenty-three people are dead because Wright kept increasing doses after adverse reactions."
Xavier looked up from where he'd been whispering calculations to Leo. "Twenty-seven, actually. We found four more cases buried in subsidiary databases."
"Dr. Wright's methods may require adjustment," Whitmore conceded with a shrug. "But the work continues regardless. If not through him, then through one of dozens of researchers willing to step in."
"You're saying Wright is replaceable," Nikita stated.
"Everyone is replaceable, Mr. Volkov." Whitmore checked his watch. "This is our final offer. I advise you to take it.”
Nikita stared the man down. “I don’t think we will.”
A muscle in Witmore’s jaw flexed. “Very well.” He snapped his fingers, and the other lawyers gathered their briefcases. “We’ll see you in court. If you last that long.” They filed toward the front door. The door closed behind them with a soft click that echoed in the silence they left behind.
Silence stretched like a held breath. No one moved to clear the abandoned dinner plates. No one spoke for a long time.
"This isn't just about Wright anymore," River said. "This is war."
