"You won't regret this," Pyotr promises him. For a split second, barely more than the span of a single heartbeat, his grip tightens -- and then, a release, as he follows Gaeta's interrupted exhalation up his windpipe.

"Just relax and keep breathing," Pyotr instructs him, his hand moving back down the length of Gaeta's throat. And this time, on the rise, there it is: a pull from down his chest, like a hook tugging on the sinews of his heart. There is no pain, as Pyotr promised, but the pressure grows, and then comes a sense of weight -- something moving there, under his skin.