I don’t answer. My attention flicks back to the ballroom, scanning for loose ends. Anyone who noticed too much, anyone who’ll talk. “She’s not like the others.”
Pavel shrugs, easy. “Maybe she’s lost. Or maybe she likes trouble.”
“Don’t project, Pavel. I said watch. I didn’t say interfere.”
He leans closer, voice dropping. “If she’s police, if she’s another family’s plant—”
“She isn’t,” I cut him off, tone final. “She’s nobody’s asset. She’s raw. New. Out of her depth, but she’s not here by mistake. Find out why.”
Pavel grins, delighted. “I’ll put a tail on both of them. Keep it light, keep it friendly. What do I tell you if they split up?”
I turn away, jaw set. “You follow the one in black. The other can wait. I want every address, every employer, every habit. Start tonight.”
He finishes my drink in one gulp, passing the glass to a waiter with practiced ease. “You always pick the difficult ones, Miron. I should bill you overtime.”
I glance at him, letting a trace of threat color my voice. “You’re not paid to complain. You’re paid to deliver.”
He holds up his hands, still grinning. “Consider it done. You want pictures?”
“Just names for now.”
Pavel melts away into the crowd, already switching to English as he intercepts a guest. I watch the woman in black and Izzy descend the stairs, their heads bowed together in conversation, masks dangling from their wrists. The crowd shifts, voices swelling again, but the night feels sharper, more dangerous than before.
I pocket her image for later. Names will come. Everything else is a matter of time.
Chapter Three - Seraphina
Morning comes too soon. I barely sleep—my brain refuses to let go, replaying every inch of the ballroom, every accidental touch, every word the stranger spoke. His voice lingers. I try to shake it off, convince myself it was nothing. Just a man, just a dance, just a party. No reason for my hands to tremble at the thought of him.
My laptop blinks to life, humming quietly in the morning hush. I settle at my desk, oversized sweater swallowing my arms, hair scraped up in a hasty bun. The apartment is all rectangles and angles, neat and silent except for the clack of keys. I can still smell last night’s perfume on my wrist. It’s a reminder I scrub at with the heel of my hand. Stupid. Time to get back to real life.
The first files are easy—bank statements, routine transfers, the usual petty fraud. I lose myself in code, in the logic of patterns, until the edges of the night before start to fade. Not completely. Every now and then I catch myself glancing at the window, as if I’ll see that black mask reflected back at me. Ridiculous.
By noon, my eyes ache from squinting at encrypted logs. I shift in my chair, spine popping, and take another sip of cold coffee.
That’s when I find it: a set of transfers that don’t fit. Tiny withdrawals in the early hours, routed through shell companies with nonsense names. On their own, they look like noise—barely enough to notice.
They repeat, looping through different accounts, skipping between jurisdictions. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure no one noticed. Except I did.
My curiosity sharpens. I write a script, fingers flying. As the results pile up, my pulse quickens. The same names keep surfacing, drifting through every layer: faded LLCs, offshore trusts, strings of numbers that feel almost mocking in their simplicity. Each lead seems to vanish into the same fogbank, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
An hour slips by. Maybe more. I almost don’t notice when the pattern resolves into something clearer—a series of recurring wire codes, identical in format, buried in the metadata. At the bottom of the transaction chain, a name. Miron Sharov.
My hands freeze. I stare at the letters, reading them over and over as if the meaning might change if I blink. Sharov. My heart thumps, irregular. The name isn’t exactly common. I run a quick background search. His public record pops up: corporate registrations, international addresses, old news pieces. A couple of photographs, all steel-blue eyes and unsmiling mouth. I feel a jolt somewhere deep, sick and hot at once. Powerful. Untouchable. Dangerous.
It’s absurd—coincidence, surely—but something in me refuses to let go. I scan the photos again, lingering on the lines of his face. Could he be the man from last night? I can’t tell. The image is grainy, the light all wrong, and the idea is ludicrous anyway. Still, my brain won’t let go of the suspicion. Maybe I’m just tired. Or maybe I’m hoping for an explanation that doesn’t exist.
I lean back, closing my eyes for a moment. In the darkness, I see the cut of his mask, the burn of his stare. I can’t shake the feeling that somehow he both saw meandlooked right through me.
My phone buzzes. An email from my manager. “Status on the report?” it asks, nothing more. I sigh, pulling the cardigan tighter around myself. I’m halfway tempted to reply with thewhole story, screenshots attached, every red flag circled in bold. Instead, I open a new draft and type out a summary.
Possible irregular activity, recommend further review. I hesitate, then add: Pattern suggests potential syndicate involvement. Multiple accounts, layered code, links to known foreign entities. High risk.
I read it back twice before sending. My finger hovers over the mouse. The room feels colder, the day darker. Why am I hesitating? It’s not like me.
Minutes later, my phone rings. I let it buzz, forcing myself to breathe. I know what’s coming.
“Seraphina.” My manager’s voice is flat, bored. “Got your note. You’re overcomplicating things. It’s probably just layering to avoid US tax. We see it all the time. Don’t waste your time on ghost stories. Get me a tidy summary by five, and move on.”
