We all understand the basics. Roman called a meeting of mafia families that ended in bloodshed and tragedy. His wife Lilia and nine-year-old daughter Anika died. But the details have remained shrouded in silence and secrecy.
Now, pressed by the unexpected connection to Chloe, Roman’s control slips. Just a fraction.
Just enough.
“It was supposed to be a new beginning. A meeting of all families to establish new territories, new alliances. I chose the island for its neutrality and privacy.” His thick fingers trace an invisible pattern on the table. “The tropical storm changed course suddenly. It wasn’t expected. Neither were the fires.”
Alexei’s coin stills between his fingers. “Fires. Plural?”
Roman nods, staring at nothing. “At the Alibi Club first. The main restaurant and bar on the resort property. Then the cottages. One after another, like dominoes. The wind from the storm spread it faster than anyone could control.”
“Some said it was arson.” Igor’s shoulders shift under his tailored suit, his large hands clasped together at his waist. “Others blamed faulty wiring in the old buildings. We never knew for certain.”
“And in the chaos,” Roman gets quieter with every word, “people died. People disappeared. The survivors fled on whatever boats the storm hadn’t destroyed.”
“And Lilia and Anika?” Vanya’s usual flippancy is absent.
We all tense. Those names are not to be mentioned in front of the Pakhan.
Roman’s face shutters, masking the pain. “Caught in the fire at the Alibi Club. Their bodies were never recovered.”
The room falls silent again. I note the strain in Roman’s jaw and the slight tremor in his usually steady hands. This is more than he’s ever shared about that night. More than most of us have heard.
“While we lost loved ones who can never be replaced, I was able to recover something.”
I pull open the bag. The diamonds catch the light, throwing prisms across the wood-paneled walls.
With a trembling hand, Roman gathers up a handful of diamonds and lets them cascade through his fingers. Igor nudges his shoulder and passes him a jeweler’s loupe without being asked.
Silence ensues as Roman inspects a handful of diamonds one by one.
“These are…” He swallows and starts again. “These are the same diamonds I lost on the island.”
Kirill hunches forward. “What do you mean, ‘the same’?”
Roman’s fingers close around the stones, knuckles whitening. “These exact diamonds. I’d know them anywhere. The cut, the clarity… With no serial numbers. Making them perfect untraceable currency.” He glances up with fierce intensity. “At the summit, I received these as payment from the Gambino family. But then the fires started, the storm hit, and everything went to hell.”
“And now they show up in the possession of a witness from that night?” Vanya connects the dots aloud. “That’s one hell of a coincidence.”
“Chloe said the globe bar they were hidden in came with an anonymous note, supposedly from a parent who wanted to give their kid’s teacher a nice gift for her classroom.” I hold Roman’s gaze as I describe the globe bar, the broken latch, the wire, and how we managed to open it.
“Someone is fucking with me. Dredging up the past, using these diamonds as a message.” Roman’s fury fades to confusion. “There’s something here.”
I nod. “We found more than the gems in the resin block. I told Chloe to put everything in the bag. We came right here after finding it, so we didn’t have time to really check it out.”
Roman upends the bag, revealing a small note folded around an object. He carefully unfolds the paper.
Inside is a tarnished, old-fashioned hotel room key. The metal is corroded from water damage, but the tag attached by a brittle string is still legible. On one side of the tag, written in neat handwriting, is the name,Alistair Thorne.
On the reverse side, scrawled in a different, more urgent hand, it says,InsuranceandSafety-237.
In our world, “insurance” refers to an evidence package. Documents, recordings, photographs that can burn your enemies if released. The file you prepare to protect yourself, to be released in the event of your death.
Insurance against betrayal.
Max grimaces at Igor. “Safety-237?”
“Safety deposit box, maybe. Or perhaps a safe in Room 237 at the Alibi Club. Alistair Thorne.” Igor hovers over Roman’s shoulder to read the name again. “Bozhe moy.”
