Sixty days to collect actionable evidence.
Sixty days to expose financial crimes, illegal operations, weapons trafficking — anything that would justify a federal indictment against Ruslan Baranov.
I didn’t have time to wait for coincidence.
Opportunity had to be forced.
My fingers slowly traced the seam.
The latch must be recessed somewhere along the edge.
I shifted slightly — scanning for a hidden panel release.
My hand reached toward the subtle indentation.
“Careful.”
I spun around so fast my hair whipped across my shoulder.
Ruslan stood at the mouth of the hallway like he had materialized from the shadows themselves.
He had changed clothes.
No longer the casual wear he’d been in earlier.
Now he wore a pristine white suit — tailored sharply to his frame, fabric flawless, shoulders structured, the jacket falling clean over his torso.
His shirt underneath was equally crisp, buttons undone at the collar, no tie restricting him.
Power dressed casually.
Control disguised as elegance.
The overhead light caught the silver strands at his temples and illuminated them like deliberate highlights. His eyes — usually dark and intense — looked almost colorless under the glare.
“Hey...” I quickly forced my face into neutral surprise. “I was just... looking around. Getting my bearings again.”
His gaze swept over me slowly — evaluating posture, breathing, micro-expressions.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he walked toward me.
Slow. Measured.
Hands clasped loosely behind his back like a king inspecting territory rather than a man encountering his estranged wife.
“That door,” he said calmly, stopping a few steps away, “leads to the underground bunker.”
My throat tightened.
I swallowed.
“Oh really?” I forced a light laugh that didn’t reach my eyes. “I didn’t realize.”
He watched me carefully — searching for cracks in the performance.
“Your sister has been here for the past few days,”
