Eighteen.

Mikhail

"Thank you, Dominika."

She nods toward me before leaving the room. But her stony gaze stays on the three brigadiers.

I look toward the spiral staircase; then I hear a door click shut. Maria is back in her room. Good, it's safer that we have the rest of this conversation in private. Without a word, I walk toward my office, and the brigadiers follow.

The room is less of an office and more of a lounge. A small chrome bar with select vintages, several low sofas and side tables in chocolate and beige, and a space for art. Many of my treasured pieces are here for me to view alone. Works by Picasso and Pollock not seen in public since the day they were created. I resent having the brigadiers invade my private abode, but it's obvious that Maria likes to listen.

And there are things she cannot be allowed to hear.

"There is no doubt, Mikhail Ivanov," Ippolit speaks, calm and calculating, before I can. "She is Budanov's daughter."

"How can you be certain?" I ask him as I get a grip on my