“Since Yuri gave us the lead, I’ve been digging.” Joey tapped the photo on the glowing screen and Sidarov’s name appeared under it. “And with Kaylie’s intel from the phone call she overheard at Citadel’s creepy villain lair in Chicago? We’ve got a breakthrough. This is the strongest lead we’ve had, and I’ve spent the last seventy-two hours pulling everything I could find on Ksenia Sidarov.”
She clicked again, enlarging the grainy image to focus on the woman’s face. “Sidarov runs in Russia’s elite circles. She’s widowed now, but she was married to Victor Sidarov, a cabinet-level official under the prime minister.” Joey delivered thedossier as though she was a podcaster diving into some true crime suspect. “On paper, Ksenia was a trophy wife. But that proximity gave her access—and she has leveraged it into power. These days, she doesn’t need a husband. Her social calendar reads like theWho’s Whoof Russian politics and industry.”
Joey clicked to another slide—this one appeared to be an old newspaper photo. “This is from her husband’s funeral,” she said. The black-and-white shot showed Ksenia Sidarov standing alone at the graveside. While generals saluted and mourners wept, she stared straight at the camera, lips pressed in a line, her eyes cold and dry. “Reporters said she didn’t shed a tear. Not one. People in Moscow started calling her the Iron Widow.”
Marshall felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
The room quieted. No one moved, the only sound the hum of the projector. Marshall had been in plenty of tense briefings, but this silence felt different. Like everyone knew they’d just stepped closer to the heart of the Syndicate than they ever had before.
Jackson let out a low whistle. “Well, she definitely givesmeevil grandma vibes.” Marshall glared at him. Couldn’t his brother ever take things seriously?
Joey tapped again, revealing the web of connections she’d been creating, but leaving Sidarov’s photo visible. “Bare minimum? Sidarov’sinthe Syndicate and on speed dial with Shane Lowell. But if our theory is right, she’s Saltykova.” Joey’s gaze swept across the team. “And if she is? That means every nightmare Darkshade babbled about before he took a bullet in the skull? That’s her reputation getting in his head.”
Miranda leaned forward, pen tapping her notebook. “So she’s not just another player. She’s one of the architects. Orthearchitect.”
Will frowned. “This is all just a theory, though.” He was as pragmatic as they come, and Marshall wasn’t the least bitsurprised he wasn’t willing to take the story as fact just yet, no matter how convincing a tale Joey spun.
“True,” Joey said with a shrug. “We don’t have her on a Syndicate Zoom call with a nametag.” “But between one—" Joey counted off on her fingers. “—Kaylie overhearing Shane Lowell greet a caller asKsenia. Two, Ryder flagging Sidarov, and three, every terrified whisper I’ve tracked online...Yeah. My money’s on her.”
Stephen jumped in, sounding slightly nervous. He wasn’t used to presenting in briefings yet, but Marshall liked the awkward computer nerd well enough. “Like Saltykova’s reputation, Sidarov is brutal. In business, she’s made a name for herself buying and gutting companies without mercy. Personally, multiple staff have fled Moscow or just...vanished. One of them turned up floating in the Moskva River with one hand sliced off and his skull crushed in. Everyone else learned to keep their mouths shut.”
Marshall chimed in with the question that had been niggling at him. “What’s her motive?”
Stephen shook his head. “We haven’t found it yet. Not sure it has to be more than money and power, right?”
As the others began to speculate, Marshall’s mind spun. Money and power were the easy answers, but they didn’t fit the kind of fear he’d seen in Darkshade’s eyes. Men like him didn’t beg for protection from ordinary greed. Whoever Saltykova really was, she had something darker driving her. Something that made killers and politicians alike fall in line.
He stared at the photo on the screen. A face to the monster. That should’ve made him feel like they were gaining ground. Instead, all he could think about was how many more bodies it would take before they finally cornered her.
Ross studied the frozen photo as well, his face grim. “All right. Action item. Keep digging. Quietly. If she’s Saltykova, wedon’t tip our hand until we know more.” He glanced down the table. “Meanwhile, Harrington’s conduits stay on the board. Joey, follow the money. Miranda, plan contingencies if we need eyes on Summit, Citadel, or elsewhere. Tank, Will—standby.”
Then his gaze shifted to Marshall. “I want you focused on Summit Capital. If Harrington’s running money through them, we need to know how deep it goes. So far, they’ve been under the radar, but if Joey thinks it is significant, it probably is.”
Marshall nodded once, his voice even. “Understood.”
Ross gave a final nod. “That’s it. Dismissed.”
Marshall stayed seated. The screen still glowed with Joey’s expanded Syndicate diagram, one line of text taunting him as his next assignment.Summit Capital.
He exhaled slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face. He didn’t want to care. Didn’t want the rush of protective instinct that came at the thought of Norah entangled in Harrington’s money laundering. Fifteen years was a lifetime. She wasn’t his to protect. Not anymore.
And yet...the thought of her anywhere near the Syndicate’s corruption twisted something inside him.
A prayer nearly rose to his lips, but he shoved it down. He hadn’t prayed in a long time—not really. And he wasn’t about to start now. Not for her. Not for himself. He couldn’t bring himself to say what he really meant, what his heart had already whispered without permission.Keep her safe.
The silence that followed felt heavier than any response.
Marshall shoved back from the table, shoulders squared, mask back in place. He had more important things to worry about than one little analyst at a massive investment firm. His ex-girlfriend would have to survive without him. She’d made that choice a long time ago.
CHAPTER 2
NORAH WINSLOW
The office was tooquiet at night. During the day, Summit Capital’s DC floor pulsed with ambition. Heels clicked on polished stone. Someone was always laughing too loudly at some joke from a fund-manager.
But after dark, the glass walls turned into mirrors, reflecting her own face back from every angle. The soundscape narrowed to the scratch of her pen and the melodic dissonance of the binaural beats she turned on to help her focus.
Norah Winslow didn’t mind the quiet. The solitude suited her. In the hush, the numbers stopped competing with the noise. They lined up cleanly in her head, neat columns stacking themselves into order, the way they always had. The distractions of the day finally faded, and she could just sink into the reassuring flow of her numbers.
