I watched him carefully.
Not for reaction. But for truth.
His gaze drifted — unfocused — like his mind had been dragged back to that night in Greece.
I saw it.
The subtle tremor in his good hand.
The way his throat moved as he swallowed.
The tightening around his eyes.
He was replaying it.
Re-examining it.
Not as a man convinced of guilt — but as someone forced to reconsider.
“Don’t let revenge blind you so completely that you refuse to see the possibility of error,” I said quietly.
My voice had lost its sharp edge.
It was steadier now.
More dangerous.
“Ask yourself something, Ruslan.”
I held his gaze.
“You knew Elena.”
The word “knew” lingered.
“You worked with her for years. You trusted her with operations. You allowed her close to your sister.”
I leaned slightly forward.
“Did she ever strike you as someone capable of cold-blooded murder for sport?”
Silence.
“Did she ever behave like a woman who would slice open a pregnant woman just to watch her die?”
My eyes locked onto his.
“Be honest with yourself.”
My voice lowered further.
“For once.”
The torches flickered.
The pool reflected fractured light across both of us — like the shattered truth hanging between accusation and reality.
Ruslan didn’t answer immediately.
