“Then you shouldn’t have started it.” I step past them toward the boardroom doors. “Sergei, let him go.”
Sergei releases Buzz Cut with a shove that sends him stumbling. “Touch my wife again, you’ll lose more than your dignity.”
I push open the boardroom doors without knocking.
The scene inside would be comedic if it weren’t so infuriating. Uncle Matthew sits at the head of the conference table—my father’s seat—surrounded by board members in various states of discomfort. Cal Reznick lounges beside him, that oily smile plastered across his face. And at the far end, Wesley stands with his laptop open, looking like he’s been arguing for the past twenty minutes.
Every head turns as we enter.
“Isabelle.” Matthew’s voice drips false concern. “I’m afraid this is a closed meeting. Voting members only.”
“I’m a voting member.” I take the seat directly across from him, Sergei standing behind me like a lethal shadow. “Controlling shares, actually. Sixty-five percent, as per my father’s will.”
“Contested shares,” Cal interjects. “Given your failure to meet the marriage requirement?—”
“I’m married.” I lean back, crossing my legs. “Have been for weeks. All legal documentation filed with the state. Would you like to see the certificate?”
Matthew’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in those dark brown eyes. Rage, maybe. Or calculation.
“Your marriage to Mr. Orlov is—” He pauses, choosing words carefully, “—convenient. Some might say suspiciously convenient, given the timing.”
“Some might say you murdered my father to seize control of his company.” I smile, all teeth. “But we’re not here to trade accusations. We’re here to vote on your proposal to restructure company leadership.”
“The proposal is sound?—”
“The proposal is a coup.” I lean forward. “You want to transfer controlling interest to a ‘leadership committee’ that just happens to be stacked with your associates and yes-men. Strip me of decision-making power while maintaining the fiction that I’m still technically in charge.”
Silence.
One of the board members—Jackson Lawson, Dad’s old business partner—clears his throat. “Isabelle makes a valid point, Matthew. This proposal seems designed to circumvent Richard’s explicit wishes regarding succession.”
“Richard’s wishes were written before his daughter married a known criminal.” Matthew’s mask slips slightly. “Before she brought violence and danger into our corporate structure.”
“Known criminal.” Sergei’s voice is soft. Deadly. “Interesting accusation from a man who hired assassins to kill his own niece.”
The room temperature drops ten degrees.
Matthew stands slowly; his hands braced on the table. “That’s slander.”
“It’s truth.” I pull out my phone, queue up a file Wesley sent this morning. “Audio recording. You and Ivan Olegov discussing payment terms for my death. Dates, amounts, methods. All documented.”
I hit play.
Matthew’s voice fills the boardroom, tinny but unmistakable: “—need it clean. No connection to me. Make it look like the Russian’s work?—”
I stop the recording. “Want to hear more? I have twelve minutes of you planning my murder, Matthew. Plus financial records showing wire transfers to offshore accounts linked to Bratva enforcers.”
His face goes pale. Then red. “Where did you get that?”
“Does it matter?” I stand, meeting his gaze across the table. “You killed my father. Tried to kill me. Murdered Elena Orlov and framed Sergei. All to steal a company you have no legal right to control.”
“You have no proof?—”
“I have recordings, financial records, and witness testimony from three separate sources.” Wesley’s voice cuts through. “Plus evidence that you paid Ivan Olegov to sabotage Richard’s boat, using the same Bratva cleanup specialist you killed to silence Gerald Hartman, among others.”
Matthew’s hands curl into fists. “This is absurd?—”
“This will be over very soon,” I tell him. “It’s only a matter of time before the police process it and come to get you. Knowing Detective Fraser, he’ll turn it into a public and particularly humiliating affair.”
