Iosif arrives first, composed as always, coat still buttoned despite the heat of the office. He carries himself calmly, but ready to break open the moment something tilts the wrong way. His gaze sweeps the room, lands on the files, narrowing.
Kiro slips in behind him, lighter on his feet, eyes darting to the screens Harper left open. He’s a nervous instrument—tense strings, precise when plucked, but always vibrating with some internal rhythm I can’t hear. He mutters a greeting, already halfway into the data.
“Anton is back,” I tell the two of them. If Iosif has a reaction, he doesn’t let it show. Kiro’s face remains as grim as it was when he walked in. “And he’s reviving Velvet Blade.”
That gets a reaction out of Kiro. Iosif? Not so much.
“We have to act now. I’m assigning European assets to you,” I tell Iosif, handing him the encrypted tablet. “Malta, Cyprus, the southern relay points. Everything east of Geneva.”
He doesn’t flinch as he replies, “You expect Anton’s network to shift offshore?”
“I expect him to leverage the accounts tied to the first-generation syndicate,” I answer. “Your experience abroad makes you the best match to cut them off.”
There’s the slightest shine of respect in his eyes, acknowledgment that the Ignatov family is once again being pulled toward old ghosts. It disappears in a minute.
Beside him, Kiro whistles under his breath. “These breach logs… this isn’t random noise. Someone internally opened the channel from the inside. Someone with access high enough to bypass your security layers.”
The statement hangs heavy, like the first crack in a dam.
“So we have a mole,” Iosif says. “Probably more than one.”
I nod, jaw tightening. Somewhere in this tightening web, Harper is the one holding the only key we have left.
I dismiss them with further instructions, but the weight in the room stays behind, thickening the air even after they leave.
When, hours later, Harper is back in my office, I stand behind her chair, hands on the edge of the desk, watching the data cascade across the screens.
Both of us are running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the brittle edge of dread. She works without looking up, fingers gliding across the keyboard with precision. There is now a single-minded focus in her spine that shakes me.
It’s strategic to keep her this close, I lie to myself for the nth time,nothing more. No strings attached.
But the taste of longing is stronger than ever in my mouth.
“Abilities like yours shouldn’t exist in a place like this,” I say quietly.
She huffs a tired laugh.
“Abilities like mine are the reason your house hasn’t already burned down.”
The retort is sharp, accurate, and it lands low in my chest. I deserve it.
“You’re not wrong,” I admit.
She pauses, surprised. I rarely offer honesty so plainly. The moment passes, but her eyes linger on mine for a heartbeat too long.
Kiro returns with updates sporadically, bringing Iosif with him. Three lieutenants have gone silent, disappearing in the span of seventy minutes. A coded message arrives minutes later, routed through abandoned channels last used by my father’s generation.
The message contains four words:“the inheritance of blood.”
Iosif leans against the edge of the table.
“He’s not just sabotaging operations. He’s digging up history.”
“Anton wants to expose the purge,” I mutter. “The elders, the takeover… everything.”
Harper stills beside me. She doesn’t know the details, but she understands enough. That incident is the greatest fracture line in the Ignatov dynasty. The kind of truth that could collapse our influence in a single blow.
“And the files are real?” she asks softly.
