Tony
Forty-eight hours after Adrian Belmont’s body hits the warehouse floor, we’re cleared to return to Moscow.
Dmitri’s London contacts work overtime to ensure the cleanup goes smoothly. Bodies are disposed of through channels I don’t ask about.
Witness statements are coordinated. The warehouse itself burns to the ground in what the fire department will later classify as an electrical accident. By the time we board the private jet at Stansted, Adrian Belmont has officially ceased to exist in any way that matters.
Sasha sleeps against my shoulder for most of the flight. The bruises on her throat have faded from purple to a sickly yellow, and the cuts on her palm are healing cleanly. She looks peaceful in a way I haven’t seen since this whole nightmare began.
I spend the hours watching her breathe and thinking about how close I came to losing her.
Moscow greets us with gray skies and a bitter wind that cuts through my jacket the moment we step off the plane. Dmitri has arranged for cars to meet us on the tarmac, and within an hour we’re back at the family compound where the real work begins.
“Ivan Abaturov,” Dmitri announces to the assembled group. We’re gathered in his study, and the room feels crowded with Boris, Alexei, Katya, Mila, Sasha, and me all present. “Adrian confirmed what we already suspected. Ivan has been feeding information to our enemies for months.”
“Where is he now?” Alexei demands.
“Being held in the basement,” Boris replies with a deep-set frown. “He hasn’t stopped crying since they brought him in.”
“Has he talked?”
“Not yet. He’s been waiting for you.”
Dmitri nods and rises from behind his desk. “Then let’s not keep him waiting any longer.”
The basement of the Kozlov compound is everything you’d expect from a Bratva interrogation facility. Concrete walls. Drainage grates in the floor. A single chair bolted to the center of the room with heavy restraints attached to the arms and legs.
Ivan Abaturov sits in that chair, looking nothing like the composed accountant I saw in surveillance photos during my initial research for Adrian. His face is swollen from crying, and his expensive suit is stained with sweat. When he sees Dmitri descend the stairs, a fresh wave of sobs shakes his entire body.
“Please,” Ivan begs. “Please, I can explain. I didn’t have a choice.”
Dmitri pulls up a metal folding chair and sits in front of Ivan, close enough that their knees almost touch. His voice is calm when he speaks. Almost gentle.
“Tell me everything.”
The story that spills out of Ivan is pathetic in its predictability. Gambling debts that spiraled out of control. Loan sharks who threatened his family. And then Adrian Belmont appeared like an angel of mercy, offering to make all his problems disappear in exchange for a few harmless pieces of information.
“It started small,” Ivan whimpers. “Just financial reports. Schedules. Nothing that seemed dangerous. But then he wanted more.”
“And you gave him everything he asked for,” Dmitri states.
“I didn’t have a choice! He said he’d kill my wife. My children. He had photographs of them at school, at the grocery store, everywhere they went. I couldn’t let him hurt them.”
“So you betrayed the family that trusted you instead.”
Ivan’s head drops. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”
Dmitri leans back in his chair and studies Ivan for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice has lost any trace of gentleness.
“What else did Adrian have on you? Besides the gambling debts?”
Ivan’s face goes pale. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that a man like Adrian Belmont doesn’t rely on a single point of leverage. He would have built redundancies. Insurance policies. So I’ll ask you again. What else did he have?”
The silence that follows is broken only by Ivan’s ragged breathing. “There was a money laundering scheme,” he whispers. “Years ago, before I started working for you. Adrian had evidence that implicated me in moving funds for some very dangerous people.”
“What people?”
