“It’s important,” he says, tone hard enough to close the conversation.
I rise. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Yakov, who watches the scene with the amused interest of a man watching pawns reposition themselves.
Out in the hallway, Igor closes the door behind us.
“We’ve confirmed the connection,” he says. No lead-in. No softening. Just steel. “Pablo Montoya is Emilio Diaz’s nephew.”
The floor tilts under me. “Pablo, my patient?”
“Yes.” His expression doesn’t change. “He’s been sent here to feel out our weak points. And you’re one of them.”
I shake my head, slow at first, then faster. “He came to me with anxiety. Public speaking?—”
“He came to you with a cover,” Igor snaps. “And now he knows who you are, who you’re connected to. You think it’s a coincidence he keeps pushing boundaries?”
The messages. The lingering looks. All suddenly more calculated than inappropriate. A predator, not a creep.
“We got the confirmation through facial recognition,” Igor continues. “It’s airtight. He’s Diaz’s blood. And you’re now a target.”
I lean against the wall, steadying myself. “What do I do?”
“Cancel his sessions.”
I nod. “Already done.”
“We’ll double your security. But there’s something else.” His gaze sharpens. “We think Yakov might know more than he’s let on.”
“About the cartel?”
“He’s had ties in South America in the past. Before Anastasia. Before all of this. If Montoya’s here to provoke a war, Yakov might have information we need.”
I nod slowly, but my thoughts are racing far ahead—back to Pablo’s stare, his too-smooth questions, the way he always knew exactly when I’d arrive.
Back inside, Yakov hasn’t moved. But he’s watching me. Closely.
“Everything all right, Doctor?” he asks. Casual on the surface. Anything but underneath.
“Scheduling change,” I say, sitting down again. My voice sounds normal.
He tilts his head. “You’re lying. Your pulse is visible at your throat. You’ve blinked four times in the last ten seconds. That’s twice your baseline.”
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I’m sure he can hear it. Sweat pricks along my spine as he leans closer, and Icatch his scent, that dangerous mixture of expensive cologne and something darker. Male. Lethal.
He leans in, his voice gravel. “Sokolov told you something that scared you. What was it?”
I should redirect. I should reinforce the boundary between us. But I don’t.
I just say, “We were discussing my patient schedule.”
“The Colombian,” he says, as if tasting the word. “The one who’s been following you.” His voice changes on the last word, darker, edged with something that makes my stomach flip. “Following what’s mine.”
“What? I’m not?—”
“You are my therapist,” he cuts me off, eyes burning. “Three times a week. You see me. Accept me exactly the way I am. And now some Colombian thinks he can—” He stops, jaw clenched so tight I hear his teeth grind.
I freeze. “How do you know that?”
“The guards talk.” He shrugs. “And I know how to listen. There’s been chatter. About a car. About extra rotations around your building. You don’t need to be told what that means.”
