“And if you’re wrong? If she played you? If this is the kind of manipulation she’s been trained to execute?”
The question lands in my gut like a fist. I could be wrong. I could be compromised. I could be making the same mistake I made in Syria, trusting someone who’s been playing me from the start.
But I don’t think I am.
“She doesn’t fit the profile of a conspirator coordinating with allies. My gut tells me she’s being controlled.”
“By whom?”
“If I had to guess? Her ex-husband, Bogdan Lebedev.”
The name settles in the space between us, and I hear Dmitri’s chair creak.
“Yevgeny Lebedev’s nephew?”
“The same.”
“That complicates things.”
“I know.”
“If we move against Bogdan without proof, we risk a war with the St. Petersburg organization.”
“Which is why I need more time to build a case. Something solid we can bring to Yevgeny. I don’t think the pakhan of the local Bratva would go along with something like this. Not against you and your family.”
I wait out his pause as he works through the implications. Starting a conflict with the St. Petersburg Bratva over a family matter would be messy, but if Bogdan has been using Daria to move money against Kozlov interests without his uncle’s knowledge, that changes the equation.
“All right, stick to the original timeline. You’ve got ten more days to get to the bottom of this. That’s all I can give you. The federal investigation is building momentum, and if Daria’s name remains attached to those accounts much longer, we’ll all be answering questions we’d rather avoid.”
“Understood.”
When the line goes dead, I hang up and pocket the phone before I leave the spare room. The apartment is quiet except for a sound drifting from the living room. Piano music, something slow and mournful.
I follow the music and find Daria seated with her back to me. Her fingers glide across the keys with the kind of ease that comes from decades of practice. She’s playing from memory, from somewhere deep inside herself that words can’t reach.
I recognize the piece. Chopin. One of the nocturnes. I heard my mother play it once, years ago, before she died and took all the music in our house with her.
Daria doesn’t acknowledge me in the doorway. Maybe she hasn’t noticed. Maybe she has and chooses to ignore my presence. I watch her play, her shoulders rising and falling with each passage, pouring something wordless and aching into the keys.
The piece builds to its peak and then slowly fades as the final notes dissolve into silence. She sits motionless with her hands resting on the keyboard and her head bowed.
“I know you’re there.” She doesn’t turn around.
“I know you know.”
“Did you need something?”
A professional would tell her they were passing through, that the music caught their attention, and that they didn’t mean to intrude. That’s what the man Dmitri sent here would say.
I’m tired of being that man.
“You know I was sent here to find evidence to confirm your guilt and give Dmitri what he needs to make a decision,” I say.
Her fingers twitch against the keys, but she doesn’t look at me. “And?”
“I found it.”
She stills.
