The list of people with war room access is short. The list of people who could have planted that bug without triggering alarms is shorter.
Sergei’s name sits on both.
“Katya.” I dial the encrypted line, and she answers before the second ring. “Run financials. Sergei. Last six months. Offshore accounts, crypto, cash deposits over five thousand American.”
“How deep?”
“Do kostey.” To the bone.
“Twenty minutes.”
The line goes dead.
I pour two fingers of whiskey and don’t drink it, just hold the glass and let the amber catch the light while I think about all the ways a man can convince himself betrayal is just business. Sergeihas three daughters—the oldest just got accepted to Moscow State’s chemistry program, and last summer, I remember her spilling grape juice on my boots. I remember telling her it was fine. I lied.
Dyadya Roman, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.
I set the glass down without drinking.
“Bring him back.”
* * *
Sergei sits in the chair across from me with his hands folded on the mahogany, fingers interlaced so tightly his knuckles have gone white. His wedding ring catches the light, and I don’t let myself think about his wife, don’t let myself think about three girls who are about to lose their father.
I think about Anya instead.
About the way she looked at me when I told her the truth, when everything I’d built between us crumbled into ash and betrayal. About the fact that she stayed anyway, that she’s downstairs right now creating something that could save lives. About how if Sergei told Vadim anything about her research—anything about the real antidotes she’s synthesizing—she becomes a liability my uncle will want eliminated.
Luka positions himself behind Sergei’s chair, making it clear that leaving isn’t an option unless I permit it.
“Tell me about the vent.”
Sergei’s face stays neutral with confusion worn so carefully I can see the effort behind it. “What vent, boss?”
Luka sets the bug beside the ledger.
Red light pulses once. Twice.
Sergei’s lips press together, going bloodless, his shoulders curling inward, his eyes dropping to the table and staying there.
“Blyad…” The word escapes him before he can stop it.
“Try again.”
His Adam’s apple jumps. “Boss, I swear I don’t—”
My phone buzzes.
Katya’s message glows:Cayman Islands. December 8. Wire transfer. $47,000 USD. Recipient: Sergei Dmitrovich Vetrovin.
I turn the phone so he can see.
The transformation happens in stages—lips parting, hands unclenching and pressing flat against the table, his whole body deflating inward with the posture of a man whose foundation just crumbled.
“I can explain—” His voice cracks on the second word.
“Then explain. Fast.”
