1
Pyotr
(PYOH-TR)
The man at my feet groans through broken teeth. I wipe his blood from my knuckles with a rag I’ll burn later.
The job was supposed to be quick: Break a mid-level accountant skimming from Kozlov shipments and make sure he understands that stealing from Dmitri Kozlov has consequences.
Routine work. Contained. Forgettable.
And it was. I don’t drag things out. Some of the men I work with enjoy the begging, crying, and drawn-out suffering.
I don’t.
The theatrics are ego.
“The next time someone offers you money to cook the books,” I tell the whimpering man, “remember this conversation.”
He nods frantically as blood and snot drip down his chin.
He’ll remember. They always do.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I step over his prone body and head for the door. I pull it out and find a text from Dmitri. Not one of his lieutenants. Not Boris. The Kozlov pakhan.
New assignment. Come to Moscow. Now. Details to follow.
I glance back at the accountant, who has curled into a fetal position on the warehouse floor. He’ll probably live. The broken ribs will heal in a few weeks, and his employer’s insurance should cover the dental work.
Not my problem.
I catch the next train to Moscow and spend the three-hour journey staring out the window at the Russian countryside sliding past. Snow blankets everything this time of year, which transforms the landscape into an endless stretch of white, broken only by skeletal trees and the occasional farmhouse.
My phone goes off again, this time with a file transfer from Dmitri’s secure server. I download the documents and start reading.
The name at the top of the file gives me pause.
Daria Kozlov.
Family, or close enough. She’s Dmitri’s cousin through his father’s younger brother—a man who died more than a decade ago and left behind two daughters. Daria is the younger one. Twenty-nine years old, single mother, living in St. Petersburg with her five-year-old daughter, Kira.
According to this file, she’s been leaking information to federal investigators.
I scroll through the evidence that Tony Volkov compiled. Phone records show multiple calls from blocked numbers, and there’s security footage of visitors arriving at odd hours.
Financial transactions have been traced to accounts bearing her name, accounts that moved money for organizations actively working against Kozlov interests.
The file includes photographs of Daria meeting men at service entrances. Daria glancing over her shoulder with fear on her face. Daria rushing back inside her apartment building like she’s running from something.
I’m still reviewing everything when my phone rings with Dmitri’s number.
“You received the file,” he presumes as soon as I answer.
“I’m reading it now.”
“Good. Here’s what you need to know. Federal investigators have flagged several accounts connected to our operations. The common thread is Daria’s name on transaction records.”
“Has she been questioned?”
