Chapter 16 - Roman Smiles for the CamerasRoman Volkov looked nothing like his brother.
Mikhail was winter: dark, silent, sharp.
Roman was fire in a designer suit—golden smile, easy posture, eyes warm enough to make fools forget they were standing near gasoline.
He walked through the safe-house gates flanked by police, lawyers, and cameras.
A grieving uncle.
A concerned citizen.
A liar good enough to sell mercy.
Detective Cross cursed under her breath.
“He brought media.”
Mikhail watched the monitor. “Of course he did.”
Roman lifted his hands toward the cameras outside. Even through the security feed, I could see the performance.
“My nephew is inside,” he called. “I am begging my brother to end this peacefully.”
Misha stood behind me, shaking.
“That’s Uncle Roman.”
Mikhail turned. “Do not listen to him.”
“He gives me candy,” Misha whispered. “Then asks what Papa talks about.”
That small sentence was worse than any confession.
Cross heard it too.
She knelt. “Misha, did your uncle ask you about your father’s work?”
The boy nodded.
“And your house? His guards? Where things were kept?”
Misha’s lips trembled. “He said it was a game.”
Mikhail turned away like the sight physically hurt him.
On the monitor, Roman continued.
“Clara Bennett is a desperate woman manipulated by my brother. She has my nephew. We only want the child safe.”
My name in his mouth made me sick.
Then my phone rang.
Impossible.
It had been destroyed in the diner.
Mikhail’s tech man held up a spare device. “Unknown number. It’s routing through your old diner line.”
Mikhail looked at me.
I answered on speaker.
Roman’s voice, smooth and intimate, filled the room.
“Clara, you should have taken the money when my brother offered it.”
I gripped the table.
“What do you want?”
“What everyone wants. To survive the Volkov family.”
“You burned my diner.”
“You were never going to keep it. The bank takes what fire doesn’t.”
I went still.
“How do you know about the bank?”
Roman laughed softly. “Your father’s debt was useful. Your loneliness was useful. Your kindness was predictable.”
Mikhail’s eyes turned murderous.
Roman continued, “Bring Misha out, Clara. Walk him to me in front of the cameras, and you become the woman who saved him. Refuse, and you remain the kidnapper who helped a mobster hide his son.”
“You think I’ll hand him to you?”
“I think poor women eventually choose survival.”
I looked at Misha.
Then at Mikhail.
Then at Detective Cross.
“No,” I said. “Poor women choose survival every day. That’s why we recognize predators before rich men do.”
Roman’s silence was brief.
“You have one hour.”
The line died.
Cross looked at Mikhail. “We need a plan.”
Mikhail’s gaze stayed on me.
May you like
“I have one,” he said.
I did not like the way everyone suddenly looked afraid of him.
