The cellar was no longer a den of fear—it was a throne room. The air crackled with the savage joy of victory.
Pavel slammed the iron-banded payroll box onto the floor. The crowbar bit into the lock, wood splintered, and the sound filled the room like applause.
Bundles of rubles spilled out in thick stacks, paper bands snapping apart. The gang erupted—a guttural cheer of triumph that shook the walls. They dove for the money, laughing, shouting, clapping each other on the back. The vodka bottle, forgotten in the morning's tension, was passed like a trophy.
Pavel swaggered to Jake, his single eye gleaming. He scooped a fistful of cash into a burlap sack and shoved it into Jake's hands.
"You earned this, planner," he said, clapping Jake's shoulder hard enough to sting. "We'd be dead without you. Drink!"
The sack was heavy—too heavy. The coarse fabric scraped against his skin, the smell of sweat and liquor choking the air around him. The weight of it was more than rubles. It was the cost of blood, fear, and one more piece of his soul.
Before he could respond, Viktor stumbled forward, his face red with drink and anger.
"You!" he spat, jabbing a shaking finger. "You almost got us killed! That rifle shot—if that woman screamed, the whole damn police force would've been here!"
The noise in the cellar died instantly. The laughter faded. The gang turned to watch.
Jake didn't move. Didn't raise his voice. He just stared at Viktor with calm, cutting precision.
"Her scream," he said quietly, "would have brought a patrol. Two, maybe three men. Scared. Clumsy. A nuisance."
He stepped closer. Viktor flinched.
"But your knife," Jake continued, his voice a low hiss, "in that woman's throat would have brought the Okhrana's murder division. The Tsar's best men. They'd lock this whole district down. They'd peel the city apart, brick by brick, until they found you."
He let the words hang, his gaze sweeping over the others. "I didn't almost get you killed. I saved your life by stopping you from thinking with your fear."
The cellar was silent. Viktor's anger drained away, replaced by dawning, terrified comprehension. The others turned from him, disgusted—and afraid.
Jake's authority, once earned through planning, was now sealed in blood.
Viktor muttered something that might have been an apology and backed into the crowd.
The door creaked. Misha slipped in, pale and sweating, his chest heaving.
"It's done," he gasped. "The fire, the run… I left the package behind the brick. Just like you said. No one saw."
For the first time in days, a trace of warmth flickered through Jake's mask of composure. Hope—a small, fragile thing. His message was out there now, drifting in the dark currents of the city.
"Good," Jake said softly. "You did well."
Misha straightened, pride brightening his face.
Jake turned away, gripping the sack of money. He had proven he could survive as a gangster. Now he had to find out if he could still become a revolutionary.
Borjomi smelled of pine and mountain air—clean, sharp, alive. But for Kato, it was a cage. The resort's elegant boulevards and glittering sanatoriums were nothing but gilded bars.
She was done waiting.
For weeks she had obeyed, living quietly in the apartment Kamo had arranged, keeping her head down while the rest of the world moved on. No letters came. No messages. Just silence from the north.
The man she'd loved—her Soso—had once been a firebrand. A poet who spoke of justice like it was scripture. But the man who'd sent her away from Tbilisi wasn't that person anymore. He was cold, calculating—a creature of command and consequence. She had seen it in his eyes when he killed, and they hadn't changed.
Kamo fears him now, she thought. Even I fear him.
But love, stubborn as it was, refused to die. If the man she loved still existed somewhere beneath that hard shell, she had to find him.
She dressed plainly—respectable, anonymous. A modest blue dress, hair neatly pinned. No one would look twice.
The teahouse was warm and smelled of honey and mint. She took a seat in the corner, nerves coiled tight beneath her calm exterior. Every patron in a dark coat looked like an agent. Every whisper sounded like a warning.
When the waiter passed, she asked softly, "I'm looking for Mr. David Zaguri. The teacher."
The young man's eyes flicked toward her, then away. He shook his head and moved on.
She felt foolish. Reckless. She was about to leave when a shadow fell across her table.
A thin man with hollow cheeks and eyes full of ghosts sat down without asking.
"Ekaterina Svanidze?" he whispered. "You are Dzhugashvili's wife?"
Her heart stopped. She nodded.
The man—Zaguri—leaned closer, his breath sharp with fear. "You have to leave. Now. Borjomi isn't safe. Asking questions here is suicide."
He looked around the room, voice shaking. "The network in Tbilisi is gone. Not damaged—erased. They arrested everyone. The Okhrana knew everything—names, safe houses, dead drops. All of it."
Kato felt her stomach twist. "How?" she whispered.
Zaguri's eyes darted to the door. His voice dropped to a tremor. "They say there's a ghost in the party. A traitor high up. Feeding the Okhrana."
He froze mid-sentence. His eyes locked on a table by the entrance.
Two men sat there, coats buttoned, faces blank. They weren't drinking. They weren't talking.
They were watching.
Zaguri swallowed hard. "They followed me," he breathed. "God help us. They know you're here."
Kato turned slowly. The men's eyes met hers—flat, professional, patient.
Her blood turned to ice. The teahouse that had seemed so warm a moment ago now felt like a trap.
She realized, too late, that her search for her husband hadn't brought her closer to safety.
It had brought the hunters straight to her.