I told him about the authentication consultancy I’ve been dreaming about since my second year in London. Working with museums and private collectors on my own terms, building something that was entirely mine. I described the kind of clientsI’d want to work with, the specializations I’d focus on, the reputation I’d want to build.
He listened like my dreams mattered.
He asked thoughtful questions about how I’d structure the business, what kind of overhead I’d need to manage, whether I’d want to stay in Moscow or split my time between cities. The conversation went on for over an hour, and by the end, I felt seen in ways I hadn’t expected. Not as a Kozlov. Not as someone who needed protecting. Just as Sasha, a woman with ambitions that had nothing to do with the Bratva.
“Sasha.”
Dmitri’s voice pulls me back to the present.
“Sorry. What?”
“I asked if you’ve noticed anything unusual in Ivan’s behavior recently.”
I shake my head and try to focus. “Nothing obvious. He’s always been quiet, kept to himself. I wouldn’t have suspected him.”
“That’s what makes him effective,” Boris replies. “He’s been invisible all this time. The perfect mole.”
“What’s our play?” Tony asks. “Confront him or use him to feed Adrian false information?”
“The second option,” Dmitri decides. “If we tip Ivan off that we know, Adrian will just find another source. Better to control the information flow.”
The tactical discussion continues around me, but I’m only half-listening. Tony catches my eye across the table, and somethingpasses between us. An acknowledgment of last night, of the conversation that had nothing to do with any of this.
Boris assigns tasks and timelines. Dmitri approves the plan to use Ivan for counterintelligence. Alexei volunteers to oversee the modified documents. I nod along and take mental notes even though my thoughts keep circling back to that bench in the courtyard, to the way Tony’s voice sounded when he asked about my future like it was something worth planning for.
The meeting wraps up after another twenty minutes, and everyone starts gathering their materials. I stack the papers in front of me, trying to look like I was paying attention the entire time.
Tony approaches my side of the table while the others file out. He moves like he just wants to review something in the documents, but when he reaches past me to grab a folder, he slips a piece of paper into my hand.
“Read it later,” he whispers, so quietly that only I can hear.
Then he’s gone, following Boris and Alexei out of the room.
I pocket the paper and wait until I’m alone in the hallway before unfolding it.
My breath catches.
It’s a handwritten list of Moscow galleries and auction houses. At least a dozen names, each with notes beside them in Tony’s cramped handwriting.
Tretyakov Gallery—expanding authentication department, hiring consultants for special exhibitions.
Pushkin Museum—new director interested in provenance verification for recent acquisitions.
Volkov Private Collection—family looking for independent authenticator after dispute with previous expert.
Krasnov Auction House—growing reputation, might need consultant for Old Masters department.
The list goes on. Each entry includes details about the organization’s current needs, potential contacts, and how my background might appeal to them.
He spent the morning researching this. While I was sleeping off the exhaustion of our late-night conversation, he was compiling information about my dream instead of catching up on his own rest.
I fold the paper and hold it against my chest.
This is different from the apologies and the promises. Those gestures felt like penance, like he was trying to earn back trust he’d shattered.
But this? This is about my future. A future he’s already thinking about, already trying to help me build.
He’s not just trying to make up for the past. He’s investing in what comes next.
