Sergei finally looks down.
His eyes scan the numbers with such speed that I know he's not just reading; he's verifying the structure, the pattern, the authenticity.
Silence stretches again, but it's a different kind of silence—not one of anticipation, but of deep calculation.
"He has been manufacturing conflict," I continue, pressing on while I have momentum. "The Italians were a convenient scapegoat. Missing shipments became 'Rosetti pressure.' Every loss was blamed outward while Boris bled you internally, positioning himself as the one holding the line."
I notice Sergei's jaw
tighten—a subtle tell that only I would catch.
"He tracked me with a GPS unit attached to my vehicle," I add. "He hacked the Tower's security protocols and sent twenty men to the cabin."
"And yet you survived," my father interjects.
"Because of him," I say, gesturing to Maksim.
Sergei's gaze shifts to Maksim again, now assessing him with colder clarity.
"The bodyguard is effective," Sergei notes.
"He is exceptional," I reply. "And he is not a weakness; he is the reason I am alive to present this to you."
Sergei's attention returns to the documents.
The room feels like it's holding its breath alongside me.
This is the pivotal moment I've been chasing since the restaurant—not just for my survival or to expose Boris, but to force Sergei to decide whether blood outweighs
stability, whether disgust outweighs betrayal.
Finally, Sergei gathers the papers, stacking them neatly, as if the tidiness of the pile can impose order on what he has just discovered.
"This is comprehensive," he says.
Relief threatens to rise in my chest, but I keep it hidden.
"You will remain here," Sergei states. "Both of you. Under guard."
"Father—"
"I need to verify," he interrupts, not looking up. "If your claims are accurate, there will be consequences."
He leaves the rest unsaid.
If they are not, there will be consequences of a different kind.
"They are accurate," I reply. "Every number."
"We will see," Sergei says, moving toward the door.
His hand rests on the handle.
Then he pauses.
Turning back, his gaze lingers on me for the first time, not like a judge, but as if he's an anatomist, intrigued by a specimen he did not expect to find.
"The footage," he begins. "The kiss."
