“Thank you.”
The dining table is set with a single place. Salad with grilled chicken, arugula, and tomatoes. It looks good, but I barely taste anything anymore.
I pick at the food, staring out at the Vegas skyline. Somewhere down there, Dmitri Kozlov is planning his next move.
My phone buzzes. Just an email notification. I check the time—1:47 PM. Ledger said he’d be in meetings until at least three. Something about another Bratva family, solidifying alliances.
The elevator dings.
I freeze. The elevator requires a key card and code. Only Ledger, Alexi, and authorized security have access.
Two men step out wearing dark suits and earpieces like Ledger’s security team. But they have badges clipped to their belts—official-looking FBI shields. One of the regular guards is with them. Isaac, who started six weeks ago. He won’t meet my eyes.
“Mrs. Volkov.” The older man steps forward. Maybe fifty, graying hair, weathered face. “I’m Special Agent Morrison with the FBI. This is Agent Dalton. We need to ask you some questions about your husband’s business activities.”
“I can’t speak to you without my lawyer.”
“We’re not here to arrest you. This is routine questioning.” Morrison pulls out his badge. The FBI shield looks authentic, with raised metal and official seals. His photo ID shows his name, badge number, and expiration date.
Dalton does the same. Younger, early thirties, built like a gym rat. Cold eyes.
“How did you get up here?” My voice shakes. “This floor requires clearance.”
“Federal agents conducting an investigation have legal access. We presented credentials to building security downstairs.” Morrison’s smile is patient. “We’re not here to cause distress. We just need a few minutes of your time.”
“My husband isn’t home.”
“We’re aware. We’re hoping to speak with you first.”
I look at Isaac. “Where’s Pedro?”
“Downstairs. Security breach in the parking garage.” Isaac still won’t look at me. “I’m covering until he returns.”
Wrong. Pedro never leaves this floor during his shift. Never.
“I need to call my husband.”
“Of course. But refusing to cooperate with a federal investigation can be interpreted as obstruction.” Morrison pulls out a notepad. “We’re just asking for twenty minutes to discuss Mr. Volkov’s import business. Some irregularities in shipping manifests.”
I dial Ledger. It rings twice, goes to voicemail. He’s in that meeting.
I try Silas. Same thing.
Panic crawls up my throat.
“Having trouble reaching someone?” Morrison asks.
“My husband’s attorney?—”
“Mrs. Volkov, we can do this here, or you can come to our field office on Stewart Avenue for a formal interview. Given your condition—” He gestures at my stomach. “We thought here would be more comfortable.”
I stare at the badges again. They look real. Everything looks real.
But something feels wrong.
“What do you want to know?”
Morrison flips open his notepad. “We’re investigating shipping containers that arrived at the Port of LA over the past six months. Manifests list furniture and art for your husband’s hotels, but intelligence suggests additional undeclared merchandise.”
