I jolt, as do several others, all of us whipping around to gawk at Sasha.
The accusation rings clear.
We don’t talk to cops.
Ever.
That’s our first, most fundamental rule. Break that law, and everything else falls apart.
Sasha flinches before his eyes go wide and dart frantically around the room, seeking an ally. He finds none.
“No!” The word bursts from him, high and thin. “Never. I swear on my life.”
Interesting word choice, considering he’s lying.
I can read the truth in the pitch of his voice, the flush creeping up his neck, and the way his eyes won’t settle. The eager Sasha Pisarev, always striving to prove himself, always desperate for approval, has committed the one unforgivable sin.
Everyone else in this room realizes this too.
Including Igor, whose silence means his son is one wrong step from oblivion. Otherwise, he’d be speaking up on Sasha’s behalf.
Mikhail, reliable as sunrise, always sides with Roman. Even when weaker men would have folded under the pressures of family, money, or thirst for power, the elder brother consistently backs the younger.
Dressed in a sleek dark suit, Kolya looks like he might fit in at Hearst’s charity gala with Chicago’s socialites. Vanya’s suit is far more ostentatious, the stud in his ear flashing as his jaw clenches. Max is already starting to appear unpredictable, a fuse burning down to who knows what. Alexei just stares, his shoulders tight, a coin flipping between his fingers.
All four remain silent, as do I. No one can stop this.
Every eye settles on Roman, the axis around which our realities turn. Law, judgment, and sentence fused in one.
Our Pakhan doesn’t require theatrics or threats. He slides a glossy eight by ten across the desk, the photo gliding on polished wood. A silent hammer.
The paper whispers to a stop in front of Sasha.
I can’t see the details from where I stand, but I don’t have to. The guilt is written on Sasha’s face.
His complexion changes from white to green and back before he sags, the fight draining out of him in an instant.
Roman leans in. “You were saying?” He taps his desk, daring Sasha to reject the evidence laid out in front of us all.
I edge forward, drawn in by the need to see for myself.
In the picture, Sasha stands in a parking garage, hunched and tense, with his whole body angled toward a rumpled middle-aged man. The other man’s hand clamps on Sasha’s arm. Friendly? Perhaps threatening? You can’t tell from the image, but the outcome remains clear.
Sasha’s mouth hangs open. He’s talking without a hint of anger on his face, clearly not yelling at the man to take his hand off.
My blood goes cold, a sharp freeze that starts in my diaphragm and radiates outward.
I recognize that cop.
Detective Colvin.
“This is the same guy who came searching for Jordan Thorne. He showed up at the Hearst gala tonight.” My mind races through the implications.
Roman raises his eyebrow at that, though his attention remains locked on Sasha.
If Colvin talked to Sasha as well, he did so intentionally. It’s a pattern. A targeted investigation. And if he’s approached Jordan, Eleanor Hearst, and Sasha…who else has he reached out to? What does he know? What is he really after?
“I… It’s not… We didn’t…” Sasha’s voice breaks as he stares at his father’s rigid expression. “He was just asking about an old case! That’s all. I swear on Mama’s soul.”
