She absorbed this without flinching. Her face had that particular stillness I recognized from our conversations—the look she got when her brain was processing, filing, connecting dots I couldn't see yet.
"And the Deshnevs?"
"Old bratva. Moscow money. The kind of family that survives regime changes because they have enough leverage to make themselves useful to whoever's in power." I watched her eyes, looking for fear, finding only concentration. "They don't back failures. If they're funding Anton's return, they expect results."
Ghost shifted between us, readjusted, settled again. The movement drew her attention for a moment, broke the intensity. When she looked back at me, some of the wariness had softened into curiosity.
I laid it out for her like a battle plan.
Which, in a way, it was.
"Anton's operation runs through a network of galleries and intermediaries. At least twelve that we've identified, probably more." I kept my voice steady, professional, even as something in my chest ached with the awareness of what I was asking. "They use authentication to legitimize pieces that serve as vehicles for money movement. Clean paperwork makes dirty money look like investment returns."
She listened without interrupting. Her face had gone still again—that particular concentration I'd come to recognize, the expression she wore when her brain was running calculations faster than she could vocalize them.
"What I need," I continued, "is someone who can identify the inconsistencies. The tells that distinguish genuine provenance from manufactured fiction. Someone who can look at a gallery's inventory and determine which pieces are legitimate and which are pipeline."
"And you think I can do that."
"I know you can." I met her eyes. Held them. Let her see the certainty underneath. "I’m Victor Harmin.”
Her eyes widened.
“You caught the Repin when no one else would have,” I continued. “You've been navigating this world for a decade. You understand how authentication works from the inside—what's normal, what's suspicious, what's just good enough to pass scrutiny."
She was quiet for a long moment. I watched the thoughts move behind her eyes—fear, yes, but also something else. Something sharper. The particular spark of someone who refused to be passive in their own crisis.
"You're asking me to help you take down a criminal organization," she said slowly.
"Yes," I said simply.
"That's insane."
"Probably."
"People could die."
"No. People will die if we don’t do it. Anton's coming back to finish what he started. The question is whether we're prepared when he does." I leaned forward, closing some of the distance between us. "With enough evidence of money laundering, we can go after his support structure. Cut off the funding. Expose the intermediaries. Make it too expensive for the Deshnevs to keep backing him."
"You want to win a war with paperwork."
"I want to prevent a war with paperwork. The shooting happens either way—this is about whether it stays contained or spills into something that destroys everyone involved."
She absorbed this. Her fingers had started tapping again—that rhythm I recognized, the physical manifestation of her processing. Counting. Calculating. Running scenarios faster than I could track.
"I'm asking you to do what you're already brilliant at," I said quietly. "Nothing more. Nothing less."
Something shifted in her expression. The fear was still there, but it had been joined by something else. Resolve, maybe. Or the particular stubbornness of someone who had survived too much to be defeated by one more impossible thing.
"If I do this," she said, "I'm not just an asset."
My heart kicked against my ribs.
"I'm not going to sit in a safe house while you and your brothers make decisions about my life. I'm not going to be protected into uselessness." Her chin came up, defiant despite the exhaustion shadowing her eyes. "If I'm involved in this, I'm a partner. I work with you, not for you. No more secrets. No more Victor Harmins."
"No more secrets," I agreed immediately. No hesitation. No negotiation.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. Suspicious of how easily I'd capitulated.
