"Voronino," I say out loud. "Zimnyaya Shkola. Winter School."
Stephano bends low, so low I can feel his warm breath dancing across the shorter hairs by my ears. "Meaning?"
"Meaning your sainted Italian matriarch wasn’t just tough. She was engineered." I scroll, skim, and let names and dates line up in my head. "Voronin built a private army from his bastards. A stable. Margarita and Igor grew up inside it."
His jaw moves, thinking. "That’s good context," he says finally. "But it doesn’t put Nico on a map."
"No." I lean back, feel the chair catch the sore place in my side, and ride it out. "It doesn’t help with the Venezuelan Cell structure either. Still… it tells me why she played the long game like a religion."
"Revenge." He concludes it like a diagnosis.
"Revenge and design," I correct softly. "Women like her don’t forgive the men who turn them into knives. Theylearn to cut better." Or shoot. As Sergei Baranov found out in that church after he bragged that I would never get his spot as my father's enforcer. Unfortunately, he never had a chance to put that lesson to use.
He drags a hand through his hair, the kind of move that makes me want to seize his wrist and bite his palm. "But Igor is dead and Donna Margarita will soon be history too. If a bullet doesn't catch her, age will."
I tilt my head. "Motives replicate. Projects replicate. Winter School didn’t end because one raven fell." I tap the screen. "If Voronin scatteredfeathersand some of them survived, we could be tripping over legacies without knowing it. Including inside churches."
His eyes meet mine, quick and sharp. We’re thinking the same thing: hymns and numbers; oraciones; old systems wearing Sunday clothes. If some of those kids survived and had kids of their own who are loyal to a dead Bratva leader, it could spell trouble for Grigori. Something I'm sure Stephano won't care about. But I can't shake the suspicion that, together, Margarita and Igor had an agenda to bring down the Mafia and the Bratva. And that their legacy is ongoing.
My inbox pings again—same thread. Vasili works fast.
Addendum: One page mentions a secondary site near Tver—Okhotnichya Dacha—the Hunting Dacha. It's off-grid and still holds trainings on weekends. I'll notify your brother. I found a note in one of the old manifests: Igor V and Margarita V moved to Italy, 1969. Ifthis is Margarita’s window, she and Igor left winter ’69. From the looks of it, whoever ran the house never admitted to the two of them running away. They claimed they weretransported. I'll work on finding out what's true.
"Christ," I murmur, then angle the monitor so Stephano can read.
He exhales again, and my skin prickles underneath the slight brush. "All interesting, but none of it is a pin in Creel."
I smile without warmth. "You asked for intel. You got intel. Now it’s your turn to feed me."
Before he can answer, the desk phone on his side of the console buzzes. He glances at the display, goes a shade grimmer, and hits the speaker. "Yeah."
An unknown voice announces, "Boss, got a hymnbook and a headache. Cappella del Corvo bulletin ran a hymn sequence that encodes to a Batopilas airstrip coordinate plus a time. It matches the tail number ping Ana’s guy sent yesterday. There’s also a second drop hidden in Wednesday vespers, looks like a convoy plate switch near Guachochi."
My mouth curves. "Told you prayers move money."
Stephano’s already standing straighter. "Anything on-site?"
"Working it. Also—" A pause that makes the room lean. "We rattled a kiosk near Cappella del Corvo. Our watcher got hit, and someone just scrubbed the bulletin archive and toggled off cameras in a three-block radius. That’s not parish staff. That’s pro."
My blood sparks. "So we spooked a Cell."
"Yup," the man on the other end says. "And one more thing: The El Paso team can be in the air in two. Your call."
Stephano looks at me across the desk, the kind of look that asks for a decision and offers one at the same time. I close the window, hit power on the live OS, and watch the screen go midnight. No logs. No prints. No ghosts for his ghosts.
"Then let’s stop reading about ravens," I say, standing. "And start hunting lions."
"Shower. Pain meds. Ten minutes,"I tell her, thumb brushing the edge of the bandage I’m pretending not to notice. "You’ll need it if you want to come."
She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, then smirks instead. "Bossy looks good on you, Marito."
"I know." I jerk my chin toward the hall. "Roul will show you."
I watch her follow my guard out, long legs, steady spine, and the slightest hitch she won’t admit to. Even clutching her ripped blouse, she looks like a goddess. When she turns the corner, the air changes. That’s when Dre appears, already wearing a look that makes me want to start breaking furniture: sheepish, annoyed, almost intimidated, and quietly furious, all of it aimed at the space Ana just vacated.
"A word," he says.
I make sure the hall camera catches her turning left toward the guest wing, that Roul stays on her shoulder. Then I turn back to Dre. "Make it a good one."
