Dmitri nods once, eyes hardening with resolve. “I’ll start tonight. But Vlad, humor me, brother. Let’s walk through the blast radius if you refuse Aleksander.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
“First, revenue.” He sketches a column of numbers. “Volkov launders roughly three-hundred-million through our freight shells and Swiss guardianship. He pulls that money, we lose twelve percent of annual gross overnight.”
“And the long game?”
“Every other whale notices Angeloff failed to close a contract. Medvedevs, Russo-Colombians… they start fishing for discounts, maybe jump ship entirely.” He taps the paper. “That would be bad.”
I take a swallow of whiskey, the burn secondary to the figures swirling in my skull. “Street cred?”
“Lower-tier capos whisper you’ve gone soft. Chernov’s crew, Sevigny’s shooters—they offer our assassins bigger cuts and a looser leash. Fear keeps them loyal; lose that, and they poach half our talent.”
He scrawls again, an ugly little flowchart that descends into chaos.
“Internal loyalty?” I ask.
“Hard-line enforcers will question your judgment. Rumors such as,‘Angeloff can’t pull the trigger if the mark smiles at him sweetly’will start. Someone like Mikhail Petrov rallies half a dozen hotheads, declares a splinter wing, sells Volkov intel in exchange for favor.”
I grit my teeth. “Politics?”
“Volkov owns three city-council seats, two Port Authority votes. If he pulls their strings, we lose zoning favors, shipping cover, overtime hush money.” His voice drops. “NYPD OCCB reopens every file with our name on it. ATF squeezes the Swiss bank.”
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. Each domino falls in my mind—economics, fear, betrayal, law—until the Angeloff structure lies splayed open like a gutted fish.
“Now you understand my caution,” Dmitri says softly.
I nod, throat tight. Yet the image of Teresa’s name inked on that list flares behind my eyelids like a brand. I down the rest of my drink and set the glass aside.
“Caution isn’t the same as cowardice. I just want all the information.”
Dmitri’s silence agrees and disagrees all at once. He clears his throat. “You remember Sochi, 2014?”
A snap of winter salt and diesel rises in my memory. “Another syndicate’s mess,” I say. “Grigoriev’s Bratva refused an order on principle.”
“One teenage boy,” Dmitri reminds me. “Grigoriev thought sparing him would earn goodwill. Instead, two warehouses torched within a week, twenty men buried in ice, and Grigoriev’s top lieutenant selling him to the FSB for protection.”
I remember the photographs: steel beams twisted, smoke and blood staining the snow. “We salvaged what remained,” I mutter.
“Because we answered our contracts,” Dmitri says. “The code is ugly, but it’s rock solid. Bend it too far and it snaps back through your throat.”
I pick up the empty tumbler and roll it between my hands, watching as the lamplight fractures in the cut glass. My own reflection wavers—predator, penitent, fool.
“She might be innocent,” I say. “If we have proof that she had nothing to do with the attack, maybe we can talk some sense into Volkov.”
Even as I speak the words I realize how foolish they are. Volkov’s motivation is based on pure emotion. There will be no talking him out of this without a logical argument, and even that’s a stretch.
“She could be innocent, you’re right about that,” Dmitri agrees. “That’s why I’ll dig until dawn. But if the file comes back clean?—”
“I’ll choose,” I finish, my voice flat.
Midnight drags its claws across the windows. Dmitri stands, buttons his coat. “I’ll start with Winslow Transport flight logs, Jack’s gambling trail, Trina’s visits. You’ll have a dossier by sunrise.”
I clasp his arm, our oldest gesture of loyalty. “Thank you, brother.”
He holds my gaze. “Whatever you decide, decide fast.”
The elevator swallows him, leaving the penthouse silent. I walk out onto the terrace, the East River wind whipping my hair, slapping my cheeks raw. The city sprawls below—my domain, my burden.
