The truth? That I’ve spent two weeks thinking about Sasha Kozlov instead of investigating her brothers? That I saved her life tonight and blew my cover as a mild-mannered journalist in the process? That the only intelligence I’ve gathered is what her eyes look like when she’s suspicious?
None of that will satisfy Adrian’s demands.
There’s something obsessive about his interest in the Kozlov family. Something personal in the way he phrases questions about their operations. Twice now, he’s asked specifically about Sasha. Where she lives, what she does, and who she associates with in Moscow.
I wrote it off as thoroughness. He’s gathering intelligence on all family members to identify any potential weak points. But after saving her life and seeing the fear in her eyes turn to something else when she looked at me, those questions feel different.
They feel like a threat.
The smart play would be to give him something small. A detail about security rotations at Kozlov-owned businesses. Which establishments they use for meetings. Names of low-level associates who might be vulnerable to pressure.
But every piece of intelligence I provide is a weapon Adrian can use against the family. Against Dmitri and Alexei. Against their wives and associates.
Against Sasha.
And I don’t like the idea of that one fucking bit.
3
Sasha
Dmitri’s office smells like expensive leather and pricey cologne.
I stand in front of his desk while he reviews the security footage from the gallery on his laptop.
The video quality is grainy but clear enough to show Tony Haugh disabling three armed men in less than five seconds. My brother watches the clip three times without speaking.
“He moves like Spetsnaz,” Dmitri says at last.
“I know.”
“But he claims to be a journalist.”
“He does.”
Dmitri closes the laptop and settles back in his chair, tapping his chin with his index finger. At thirty-seven, he runs the Kozlov Bratva with the same ruthless control he uses on everything else in his life. Right now, all that focus is on me.
“Tell me again what happened.”
I’ve already told him twice, but Dmitri likes to hear things multiple times. He’s listening for inconsistencies or details I might have missed or misremembered.
So, I walk through it again.
The fake Fabergé egg. Tony appearing at the gallery. The attack. How he pulled a weapon from under his jacket and moved like someone with years of combat training.
“And then he got you out before the police arrived,” Dmitri finishes for me.
“Yes.”
My brother’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. “Smart man.”
“Smart or informed,” I counter. “He knows who we are, Dmitri. He’s been asking questions since Alexei’s wedding.”
“What kind of questions?”
I think back to that night two weeks ago. Tony approached me at the bar with a drink and a smile that probably worked on most women. It almost worked on me until he started asking about “legitimate business expansion strategies” and whether our family had considered diversifying into technology sectors.
“Questions about our business operations,” I tell Dmitri. “He made them sound like small talk, but they were specific. He wanted to know about our investments and partnerships, which industries we’re moving into.”
