"Solid as concrete," Bogdan says. "Bank records, wire transfers, even video surveillance of him accessing the accounts after hours. He's been clever, but not clever enough."
I stare at Hannah's photograph, remembering the way she felt in my arms.
Did she know who I was? Was it really a coincidence she found me in that bar? I was second-guessing everything.
And that pissed me off.
"Maybe we should teach this thief a lesson about fucking with our family," Radimir says, his voice casual, conversational. He took a bite of his pickled herring. "Maybe we should mess with hisdochfirst. Show him what happens when you steal from the Sokolovs."
Daughter. Radimir wants to go after Hannah. The suggestion makes my blood turn to ice.
"That won't be necessary," I say quickly. "If the man is guilty, we deal with him directly."
"But where's the lesson in that?" Radimir asks. "He stole from us. Showed us no respect. Maybe he needs to watch his precious daughter suffer before we put him out of his misery."
The casual cruelty in his tone is nothing new. Radimir has always believed that fear is more effective than respect, that the best way to prevent betrayal is to make the consequences so horrific that no one dares risk them.
Usually, I agree with him.
But the thought of anyone touching Hannah, of using her to send a message, makes something violent and possessive rear up in my chest.
"I said it won't be necessary," I repeat, letting steel creep into my voice. "We handle this clean. No unnecessary complications."
Radimir's eyes narrow slightly, but he nods. "Your call, nephew. But the accountant dies. That much isn't negotiable."
"I understand."
And I do understand. The Bratva has rules, and those rules exist for a reason. Let one person steal without consequences, and suddenly everyone thinks they can help themselves to our money. Richard Quinn signed his own death warrant the moment he decided to embezzle from us.
But Hannah doesn't deserve to pay for her father's sins.
Unless she was in on it. Was she sent to kill me that night? Gather information?
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur of logistics and planning.
When we finally part ways, I’m feeling unsettled.
Later that evening, I call Alexei and ask him to come over. My brother in everything but blood. One of the very, very few people I trust in this world.
I pour three fingers of vodka from the bottle and hand him the glass before pouring one for myself. "We have a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"The kind that involves five million missing dollars and a dead accountant."
“Yeah?” He sips his drink, not showing any emotion.
"My uncle found the evidence. Says it's solid."
“Radimir.”
There's something in Alexei's tone; a note of skepticism that makes me look up.
"You have a problem with the investigation?"
He shrugs. It’s supposed to look casual, but I know him too well.
“Alexei.”
