Viktor’s hand snapped away from his holster immediately, his palms turning outward in a universal gesture of defense. Beside him, Ilya and Yuri—two veterans of the Chechen conflicts who had guarded Alexei through a dozen assassination attempts—instantly fanned out, their backs forming a defensive semicircle around the desk, their eyes darting wildly between each other and the hallway.

“Not me,” Viktor rasped, sweat beading on his forehead. “I brought his espresso from the private kitchen myself. I didn't let anyone touch the tray.”

“The tray passed through three sets of hands before it reached this room,” Dmitri countered, stepping over Alexei’s motionless body. His massive frame blocked the exit entirely. He pulled a heavy-duty tactical knife from his belt with a sharp schwing that made Sophie jump.

“Mommy, it’s loud,” Sophie whimpered, finally retreating a few inches, grabbing handfuls of my jeans.

“Hush, baby, look at me, keep looking at Mommy,” I pleaded, pulling her tight against my legs while my mind raced in frantic circles.

If Alexei had been poisoned, and the poison was fast-acting enough to shut down his nervous system within seconds of his final sip, then the killer had to be someone with intimate knowledge of his daily habits. Someone who knew he always took his black espresso un sweetened at precisely 4:15 p.m.

My gaze snapped to the silver tray resting on the corner of the heavy oak desk. The porcelain cup lay on its side, a dark puddle of coffee soaking into a stack of high-stakes shipping manifests.

“Dmitri,” I called out, my voice surprisingly steady despite the roaring in my ears.

The Russian turned his head slowly. “Speak, Clara.”

“It wasn't the coffee.”

Dmitri narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

“I clean this office every morning at six,” I said, stepping carefully around Alexei’s outstretched hand. “Mr. Petrov is obsessive about his routine. He never drinks the coffee if it sits for more than two minutes. But look at the cup. It’s tipped over after he stood up. He didn't collapse while drinking. He collapsed while walking toward the window.”

I pointed to the shattered glass on the sill. A small, delicate dart—thin as a sewing needle and tipped with a microscopic gray feather—was embedded deep into the heavy velvet curtain.

Silence fell over the room, heavier and darker than before.

Viktor sucked in a sharp breath. “A blowgun. Or a pneumatic projector from the courtyard.”

“Which means,” Dmitri snarled, his eyes locking onto the tall, arched windows overlooking the private gardens, “the assassin was outside the estate perimeter. Or… someone let them into the conservatory.”

“The conservatory alarm was disabled at 3:00 p.m. today,” a quiet, trembling voice spoke from the corner.

We all whipped around. It was young Nikolai, the newest recruit, a twenty-two-year-old kid whose uncle had begged Alexei to give him a job out of the neighborhoods. The boy looked like he was about to vomit on the Persian rug. He was holding a handheld security tablet, his fingers shaking so violently the device slipped and clattered onto the floor.

“You disabled the alarm?” Dmitri stepped toward him, the blade of his knife catching the amber lamplight.

“I-I had to! Maintenance! The humidity sensors were acting up!” Nikolai stammered, backing up until his spine hit the mahogany bookshelf. “I swear to God, Dmitri! I didn't know!”

“Maintenance doesn't work on Saturdays,” Dmitri whispered, closing the distance between them with terrifying speed.

Before Dmitri could grab the kid by the collar, Sophie let go of my jeans.

She walked over, her little pink sneakers squeaking on the polished floor, and stood right between the towering Russian enforcer and the terrified teenager.

“You’re yelling too loud,” Sophie announced, crossing her arms over her yellow duck shirt. “You’re going to give the man on the floor a headache when he wakes up.”

Dmitri froze, staring down at the little girl as if she were an alien creature dropped from the moon.

“Kid,” Dmitri grunted, his voice softening by a fraction. “This man is dying. The people outside want him dead. We don’t have time for games.”

“He’s not dying,” Sophie said with absolute, chilling certainty. She pointed a small finger straight at Alexei’s chest. “His ticker is just sleeping. But he needs his magic water.”

“Magic water?” I breathed, stepping forward and kneeling beside my daughter. “Sophie, sweetheart, what are you talking about?”

Sophie turned her big brown eyes toward me, completely unbothered by the three armed guards and the pool of poisoned coffee.

“The silver box in his desk,” she said simply. “The man with the beard keeps his mints there. They aren't mints, Mommy. They're little white shields.”

Dmitri’s head snapped toward the heavy mahogany desk. His eyes widened in sudden, dawning realization.

“The emergency kit,” Dmitri gasped.

He lunged across the room, wrenched open the bottom-right drawer of the desk with such force the brass handle ripped off in his hand, and began shoving aside leather-bound ledgers and boxes of imported cigars. At the very back, hidden beneath a false wooden panel, sat a small, unmarked silver tin with a red cross etched into the lid.

He popped it open. Inside, nestled in black velvet slots, were three glass ampoules and a syringe loaded with a clear, amber liquid.

“Atropine,” Dmitri breathed, relief flooding his battered features. “The old bastard always kept a backup for toxin exposure.”

He spun around, syringe in hand, ready to plunge it into Alexei’s arm.

“Wait!” I screamed, throwing my hand out. “Are you sure it’s atropine? If it’s the wrong antidote, you’ll stop his heart completely!”

Dmitri froze, the needle hovering inches above Alexei’s skin. He looked at me, then down at the syringe, the terrible burden of leadership crushing down on his broad shoulders. In his world, a wrong guess meant a funeral by nightfall.

And then, Sophie walked over, took the syringe gently from Dmitri’s massive, trembling hand, and pointed it toward Alexei’s thigh.

“It’s the right one,” she said softly. “The picture on the box matches the picture on his keychain.”

We all looked down. Dangling from Alexei’s heavy gold key ring was a tiny silver medallion of Saint George slaying the dragon—the exact same red cross emblem stamped onto the secret tin.

Dmitri didn't hesitate another second. He placed his hand over Sophie’s tiny fingers, guided the needle down through the fabric of Alexei’s trousers, and depressed the plunger.