I throw on a coat and head out without thinking twice.
Downtown’s dressed in fog, the streets wet and silver beneath the street lamps. Astoria Heights’ lobby is all marble and quiet opulence. The concierge desk is manned by a woman with a headset and perfect posture.
“I’m here to see Yuri Ivanov,” I say as I approach her.
She eyes me for half a second before dialing. I can’t hear what’s being said, but she nods. “He’s expecting you,” she says, and gestures to the far corner. “Private lift. It’ll take you straight up.”
“Thank you.”
I cross the lobby, pulse kicking harder with each step.
By the time I reach Yuri’s penthouse, the fog outside feels like it’s settled into my chest. My hand hovers over the doorbell for a moment before I press it. I’m not here to be polite. I’m here for answers.
The door swings open faster than I expected. He’s not in a suit but dark slacks and a button-down, sleeves rolled up halfway along his forearms. Casual. His eyes narrow the second he sees me.
“Astrid.”
I step past him into the penthouse without waiting for an invitation.
“I need to know the truth,” I say. “About my parents.”
He shuts the door behind me slowly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
I turn and face him fully. “Did your father have anything to do with their deaths?”
The question hangs in the air, taut as piano wire. His expression doesn’t change, but something in him stills.
“I know you know who I really am.”
“I think,” he says quietly, “you should sit down.”
I remain standing.
He watches me for a beat longer then exhales. “Wait here.”
I want to scream. To shake him. I bite down on the instinct and pace instead, eyes tracing the skyline through the glass. I’ve never felt so trapped in a room with this much space.
Footsteps sound, two sets. A man enters behind Yuri. He’s older, with snow-white hair and a briefcase tucked under one arm. He’s wearing a tailored pinstripe suit and wire-rimmed glasses over sharp eyes.
“This is Mikhail Levin,” Yuri says. “Family counsel. He’s here reviewing security protocols with me in case of… escalation. Nothing you need to worry about.”
I don’t ask about the escalation of what.
Mikhail nods. “Ms. Devereaux.”
Devereaux. He used my real name.
“Why did you bring him out here?” I ask, eyes locked on Yuri.
“Because I want there to be no doubt that what I’m about to tell you is true. This isn’t gossip. This is documented, witnessed, and long overdue.”
I say nothing. My throat is tight.
Yuri gestures to the sofa. “Please.”
This time, I sit. He doesn’t, not at first. He stands before me like he’s bracing himself against a current.
“According to what my father told me, your parents, Thierry and Melanie,” he begins, “were brilliant. Thierry especially; he was a gifted financial strategist. My father trusted him implicitly. They weren’t Bratva, not in the way people think. But they were part of our circle. Close friends. Loyal.”
