Victor Dandre entered the hall—and stopped. There was a scent in the air—not perfume, not wax, not rosin. Something metallic and resinous.
Anna stood by the fireplace without her cane. "What have you turned my house into?" he said with the intonation he had perfected over the years. Quiet. Offended. Impeccably polite.
Anna looked at him. Without haste. As one looks at something long studied and no longer surprising. "Not yours. Mine." A pause. "Like everything else here."
Dandre adjusted his glove. He looked around once more—and smiled. Conciliatory. Weary. Like a man who had arrived after a long journey and didn't want to quarrel at the threshold. "Anna. You are tired. But perhaps you will allow me..." he stepped toward her, "to just talk. Without all of this." "Talk."
He talked. His voice was steady. He had missed her. He was worried. He had heard strange things. He wanted to make sure she was alright. That no one was taking advantage of her kindness. That business wouldn't suffer.
Anna listened. She didn't interrupt. She didn't nod. Dandre spoke well. He had always spoken well—it was his primary weapon. The courts of St. Petersburg, creditors, contacts across the globe. His words were like a fine suit—they fit perfectly, concealing everything unnecessary.
"I don't see O’Reilly; tell her to put the tea on," he said finally, with that same smile. Anna stepped aside toward the rehearsal hall. Dandre followed her with his eyes—for a second, no more—and moved toward the sideboard against the wall.
The lock on the cabinet door was open. He took out the valise. Found the compartment. His fingers worked quickly—not because he was in a hurry, but because he was practiced. He took out the ampule. Found the correct shelf. Swapped them.
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"Evidence, Baron."
Dandre turned. Charlie was standing by the screen; in his hands was a good old Leica I. "You know, I’ve filmed many villains," he said, almost cheerfully. "They all made the same face when they were caught. You are no exception."
Dandre spun around, his hand sliding under his coat. "Charles? I warned you..." He didn't make it.
I was standing behind the second curtain. I intercepted the wrist before the fingers found the hilt. Cold steel settled across his throat. "I wouldn't advise it," I said from behind his back. Dandre froze. He breathed. He calculated options—and found not a single one that worked.
Anna entered. She stopped in the doorway. She looked at him—at the twisted arm, at the valise on the floor. At the ampule. The silence lasted several seconds. "So, vitamins," she said finally.
Dandre tried to speak—about misunderstandings, about explanations, about how she didn't understand the situation. The words came habitually, of their own accord. The fine suit was working even now. Anna listened. To the end. Then she said—quietly, as one says what has long been decided: "You were afraid I would become weak. But it turns out—it was you who became weak."
Dandre fell silent. "You managed my life for twenty years," she continued without anger. "The contracts. The schedules. The money. The people around me. I allowed it. I thought—that was care. Now I know what it’s called."
In his face, bewilderment shifted to something cold. "You don't understand who you've involved yourself with," he said with a fanatical glint in his eyes. "None of you understand! These people you've invited into the house—they aren't protection. They are your sentence!" "I know," Anna replied.
She nodded—shortly, toward the corridor door. Two figures stepped out of the darkness. Dandre looked at them—and something in his professional self-control finally cracked. Not from fear—but from understanding. That these were not the kind of people to whom one offers explanations.
They led him to the cellar. At the door, he turned—one last time, with that very smile: "You know not what you do." But no one answered him.