Page 34 of Crimson Curse
I feel Charlotte at my side before I look away from the case. She doesn’t speak at first. Her presence is a steady warmth at my shoulder, a tether to something simple and familiar. When I finally turn, she pulls me in hard. The hug is fierce enough to hold me together for one more minute. “I hate them,” she whispers, and the fury in her voice tastes like ash.
“They want me to hate and to hide,” I tell her, my voice cracking on the last word.
“Then do the opposite,” Charlotte says, simple as that. She releases me and nods toward Daniil, where he stands with Lex. “Tell him what you want.”
I look again at the empty space in the case, at the placard that still describes the reliquary. My throat tightens in a way that feels dangerous. Charlotte’s hand squeezes mine once, then she leaves me to make a choice that will not be taken back.
We go home in silence, that strange museum hush riding with us like a third passenger. The Chicago night washes past the windows. Daniil’s knuckles are pale on the steering wheel, although he keeps his voice even whenever he speaks into the comm tucked near the console. I touch my abdomen once, unconsciously, the briefest brush of fingers over the life growing inside me. The car hums, the tires sing low over clean asphalt, and I hear my heart in my ears.
The gates open and close behind us. The marble foyer throws back the light in cool, expensive planes that used to feel imposing. Tonight, it feels like a layer of steel I could learn to wear. Lex appears from the hall with that focus he wears when the world narrows to the next necessary move. Timur follows a moment later, quiet and watchful. The house is not restful. It is a war room that pretends to be a home.
I don’t wait for anyone to lead. I step into Daniil’s office and take the chair across from his desk. The leather is cool beneath my palms, and the smell of it mixes with the faint scent of gun oil and the ghost of old cigar smoke that lives in the books. He closes the door, and the quiet falls between us.
“At another time,” I begin, my voice steady, “I would tell you to choose diplomacy because I would want to believe that men who build empires can set them down for an evening and talk like they remember they were born human. I still believe there is power in refusing to become what hunts you. You don’t have to be like them to beat them.”
He studies me over the rim of his glass, his eyes stripped of softness but fixed on every word.
“You think they will come to a table they plan to burn,” he says.
“I think they will come to a table they expect to tip over,” I answer. “They want you angry. They want you to come in hot and predictable. So, make them think you want a conflict-free resolution. Call for a parlay. I know exactly how that sounds coming from me after what happened tonight. Do it anyway.”
He leans back, and the chair creaks a fraction. “A parlay is a stage,” he says. “You are asking me to let them choose the backdrop.”
“I am asking you to write the script, direct the lighting, and make them believe the ending is theirs until the scene closes.” The old me would have apologized for language like that in this room. The old me would have asked permission from the fear sitting in my stomach. The woman speaking now wants a chair, a voice, and a place beside him where no one can erase her with a single move.
Daniil’s mouth hardens. “You will not be anywhere near it.”
“I’m already near it,” I say, and I don’t blink. “They touched my life and my work, to hurt you, and me. The good girl from the museum is gone. I want a seat at the table, even if it is the table in this office where plans are made.”
He sets the glass down very carefully, as if gentleness is a way to keep from breaking whatever lies between us. “Naomi,” he says, and my name sharpens in his voice, cutting straight through me. “They will use you.”
“They already did,” I reply. It’s not something I want to admit, but saying it lets the truth stand upright. “Give me a better way to be used. Let me be the reason they underestimate you. Let me be the hand that steadies you when they try to turn you into something you will hate tomorrow. Call for the meeting. Make them come where we want them. Make them think they are clever.”
He stands and paces slowly, looping behind the desk that gives him time to test the idea from every angle. I watch his shoulders, the tension that never leaves them completely. At last, he nods. It’s not a concession, it’s a decision.
“Lex,” he calls, and the door opens as if Lex were lingering in the hall.
Lex takes in my face, then Daniil’s. “You want logistics or options,” he asks.
“Both,” Daniil says. “Naomi wants a parlay. We make them believe they are walking toward calm while standing in a storm we control.”
“I can work with that,” Lex answers, and a glint of approval shines in his eyes when he looks at me again. “We will need a venue that gives us layered security and clean sight lines, with controlled entries and a way to pivot fast if they bring surprises.”
“Neutral,” Daniil adds. “Not my world. Not theirs. Somewhere that can be evacuated without panic if the floor starts to tilt.”
Timur has slipped in while we speak. He listens with that patient intensity of his and then steps closer to the desk. “Pakhan,there is a decommissioned water intake plant on the Calumet River. Concrete everywhere, internal courtyards, catwalks, and a service tunnel that opens closer to the river wall. The city rents it occasionally for film crews. No residents nearby. If you want layered security, this is it.”
Lex is already typing. “We can control the tunnel, put a team on the roof, set counter-sniper positions on the towers across the service road, sweep air intakes, and lock down the valves. We will need perimeter teams on the access road and boats on the water. The building has only two viable entries if we weld the service doors.”
Daniil’s focus sharpens. “Make it happen.”
Nikolai arrives, immaculate by habit but worn at the edges tonight, the price of digging too long in the dark. Daniil answers with a single nod, nothing more. “We need communication through a third-party broker Lucien trusted once, someone who can pass a message without tracing it back to us until it is too late to matter.”
Nikolai rubs his jaw. “There is a man in Montreal who used to move currency for Lucien’s father when Europe was their playground. He fronts a freight company now. Lucien used him to exchange burner sets two years ago during a dispute with a Turkish crew. No one in Chicago has looked his way since. It will appear respectful to Lucien, and practical to Viktor.”
“Reach him,” Daniil orders. “Nothing with our handwriting on it. Use a number that belongs to no one, route it through the freight company’s overseas switch for plausibility and send the opening line he cannot resist.”
“What do you want the line to be,” Nikolai asks, the corner of his mouth lifting.
