Damian’s words settled over the room like a warning no one understood.
“She can hear what none of you can.”
The guards at the doorway exchanged uneasy glances. Dr. Anton Petrov, the physician who had treated Damian since the poisoning, stood near the window with his leather medical case open. Even he appeared uncertain whether Damian was speaking from fever, pain, or something far more disturbing.
I moved quickly toward the bed.
“Lila, come here.”
My daughter did not turn.
She sat beside the most feared man in Baltimore as if he were simply another lonely patient. Her tiny palm remained pressed against his chest, her cloth rabbit tucked beneath her arm. Damian’s hand covered hers, not forcefully, but almost protectively.
“Mr. Volkov,” I said carefully, “she doesn’t understand where she is.”
Damian’s dark eyes lifted to mine.
“She understands more than anyone in this house.”
His voice was barely above a whisper, yet every guard straightened.
Lila studied his face. Then she raised her free hand and signed slowly.
Your heart is scared.
My throat tightened.
Damian stared at her fingers.
“What did she say?”
I hesitated.
“She said your heart is frightened.”
One of the guards shifted uncomfortably. Men like Damian Volkov were not supposed to be frightened. They made other people afraid. They entered rooms and changed the air. They spoke softly, and powerful men disappeared.
Yet Damian did not become angry.
Instead, his fingers curled around Lila’s hand.
“She’s right.”
The confession was so quiet I wondered if I had imagined it.
Lila reached into the pocket of her yellow raincoat and pulled out her worn cloth rabbit. One ear had been sewn back on twice. The faded blue ribbon around its neck was the last thing her father had given her before he died.
She placed the rabbit beside Damian’s hand.
Whenever she sensed fear, she shared Bunny.
Damian looked at the toy for a long moment.
Then a tear slipped down the side of his face.
The guards froze.
Dr. Petrov lowered his gaze.
“No one has given me anything without wanting something in return,” Damian said.
His voice broke slightly on the final word.
A strange ache opened inside me. For months, I had heard terrible stories about him. Men said Damian Volkov had built his empire from blood and iron. They claimed he could identify a liar before the lie was finished. They said betrayal was the only sin he never forgave.
But in that moment, he did not look ruthless.
He looked exhausted.
He looked alone.
Then hurried footsteps thundered through the corridor.
A young laboratory assistant rushed into the room, clutching a folder against his chest.
“Dr. Petrov,” he gasped. “The second toxicology results arrived.”
Dr. Petrov took the folder. His expression changed as he scanned the pages.
Damian noticed.
“What?”
The doctor swallowed.
