"That's above my pay grade, sweetheart." He gestures at the cash still clutched in my hand. "This buys you what I've told you. Anything else costs extra."
I add another hundred to the pile.
"If she’s not dead, not only can she prove that she is her father’s child now, she’s his real heir, she could have a claim if she could get the backing," the informant says.
The diner tilts. Or maybe I do. Hard to tell when your entire understanding of reality shifts sideways. I’m a risk to his empire. More than even I suspected. And worse, doubts about my death are starting to spread.
"Thanks for the information." I stand, leaving cash on the table for coffee I didn't drink. "Don't contact me again."
"Wasn't planning on it." He lights another cigarette. "But hey, whoever you are, be careful. The Pakhan doesn't lose. He just changes the game until winning looks like his idea."
I drive aimlessly for an hour. Phoenix blurs past my windows ; strip malls and fast food joints and palm trees struggling against a climate that never wanted them. My mind won't settle, won't stop spinning through implications.
Thomas was Volk's cousin. Father killed him. Probably made Volk do it, or watch. That's how Father operates, makes you complicit in the violence so you can't walk away clean.
Which means Volk has his own revenge to seek. His own blood debt to settle.
So why isn't he?
Why is he helping me instead? Why did he save me in the desert? Why is he protecting me now, risking everything to keep me alive when logic says he should want Father dead as much as I do?
Unless he does want Father dead. Unless that's the play.
The thought should make me angry. It should feel like manipulation, like being used , but instead it settles something in my chest. Makes sense of the things that didn't add up. The way he's always there, cleared my path to Igor, orchestrating events I thought were coincidence.
If we're both seeking revenge, if we're both working toward the same goal from different angles, then maybe— My phone rings. Aleksandr.
"Da?"
"I need you for a delivery tonight. Same place as last time."
Father's house. The mansion that holds too many ghosts and too much history.
"What am I delivering?"
"Product, the pharmaceutical kind." Code for drugs. The Pakhan has a craving. "A simple drop, in and out. Two grand for your trouble."
Two grand. Plus another chance to snoop.
"When?"
"Two hours. Car will pick you up at Lush."
He hangs up before I can agree or refuse. Doesn't matter. I'm going regardless.
The same mansion , same guards , same smell of old money and older sins seeping through expensive air.
They frisk me at the door, finding nothing because I'm carrying nothing except the package Aleksandr gave me—shrink-wrapped and innocent-looking. Could be anything. Probably heroin or cocaine.
Thor—my nickname for the blond mountain who escorted me last time—leads me through familiar halls, but instead of going to Father's study, we turn left. Toward the wing I used to live in. Toward rooms I haven't seen in ten years.
My breath catches, but I force it steady.
"Wait here," Thor says, gesturing to a sitting room I recognize. Cream walls, and abstract artMomochkahated. The chair she used to read in, probably replaced, occupies the same space like a ghost.
I wait. Count to one hundred, then stand and move toward the door. The hallway is empty. No cameras, I checked last time. The Bratva thinks they're invincible, that no one would dare infiltrate their stronghold. Arrogance makes people sloppy. I slip into the hall and head toward Father's office because that's where the real information lives. That's where he keeps the ledgers, the documents, the evidence of every crime he's built his empire on.
The office door is locked, but I've been practicing lockpicking for years, spending hours on YouTube tutorials and practice sets. My hands are steady and my breathing controlled.
