Next is Isabella. Effortlessly gorgeous, with soft brown waves and the kind of charm that makes you want to tell her everything.
“Alexei’s wife,” she says with a graceful nod.
A wine bottle is making its way around the group, and Isabella refills her glass with a practiced flick of her wrist.
“Sparkling water for me, thanks,” I say quickly when Maura offers.
Her green eyes meet mine, a flicker of curiosity then amusement in them. Then a sly little smile.
Oh.
Oh no.
She knows.Or at least suspects. The truth I’ve managed to keep tightly sealed feels fragile and exposed, like it’s pressing against my skin, begging to be let out.
The rain drums louder against the windowpanes. Isabella gestures to the plush sectional near the fireplace.
“Come sit,” she offers, her tone warm. “Relax.”
I try to smile, pretend I’m fine. But how does anyone relax when the room is this beautiful, the women this sharp, and your entire life is shifting under your feet?
I lower myself onto the couch and wonder how much longer I can keep this secret.
CHAPTER 19
YURI
Fluorescent lights hum above my head, cold and clinical, washing everything in shades of sterility.
I count the steps between the holding room and the interrogation chamber—thirteen. The floor is linoleum, pale and scuffed, smelling faintly of bleach and something sour.
The agents walk behind me like I might bolt. I don’t nor do I have any intention to.
The room is what I expect—no windows, no mirrors. They know better. I’d spot the two-way glass instantly, clock the angle of the light, the distortion at the edge of the frame. A table is bolted to the floor. Two chairs. The air is stale, as if no one’s breathed in the space for days.
My wrists aren’t cuffed. That’s not kindness—it’s part of the theatre, their illusion of cooperation. They want me calm, off-balance. I’ve played this scene before. I sit. I lean back. I note the tilt of the camera in the upper corner, the slight crack in the ceiling tile above the door. I file it all away.
This isn’t about tax discrepancies or shell corporations.
This feels personal.
The door creaks open and Spalding enters like he owns the damn building. There’s a folder in one hand, coffee in the other, smugness carved into the lines around his mouth. He doesn’t sit. He circles.
I say nothing.
“So,” he starts, flipping the folder open with practiced ease. “Offshore trusts, front companies, laundering through commodity swaps. Busy week, Yuri?”
I let the silence stretch. He’s not asking questions, he’s setting the scene.
He tosses a form on the table. “Here’s one. Registered in Cyprus. Owner? No one. Just a ghost. You’re good at that.”
“You brought me here to talk about paperwork?”
He finally sits. “Not just paperwork.”
He throws down a photograph. It’s Lev, exiting a building with two other men. Another one, this time of Alexei, engaging in conversation outside a restaurant. Both grainy surveillance photos taken from a distance.
“Your family is one hell of a liability,” he says, smirking like he just said something clever.
