Viktor meets me in my office exactly nine minutes later with a tablet loaded with everything we’ve found.
I scroll through it as my team briefs me, and with each piece of evidence, my rage climbs so high I’m surprised I don’t have a heart attack.
Financial records showing Konstantin making payments to offshore accounts—accounts that trace directly back to shell companies Alexei set up three months before his “death.” Millions of dollars funneled into those accounts. That was enough money to disappear and start over.
Phone records showing hundreds of calls between Konstantin and a burner phone that pings from every location Alexei has been spotted over the past six weeks. Prague. Vienna. Berlin. And three days ago—here. In the city.
Security footage from Konstantin’s home showing Alexei visiting just three days ago. He fuckingwalkedthrough the front door like he belonged there and sat in the study with our uncle, drinking scotch and laughing.
Laughing.
While I grieved him and married Vera to avenge him.
The forensic evidence is the most damning.
Konstantin personally oversaw Alexei’s autopsy. He personally signed off on the identification and suppressed any questions about the inconsistencies in the forensics report.
My uncle. The man who I trusted with everything betrayed me in the most elaborate, vicious way possible.
“Sir?” Viktor’s voice cuts through my roiling thoughts. “Your orders?”
I look up at my assembled team. Six men who’ve been with me for years and have proven their loyalty a hundred times over. They look at me now with expressions that are equal parts fury and anticipation.
They want blood. So do I.
“Full tactical gear,” I say. “We’re going to Konstantin’s estate.”
“How many men do you want?” Pavel asks.
“All of them. Every guard we have. This ends tonight.”
It’s two a.m. when we arrive at Konstantin’s estate.
The property is massive with a ten foot wall that surrounds the grounds. Konstantin’s security stops us at the gate. Two guards, both armed, both looking nervous at the convoy of black SUVs pulling up to the entrance.
“Mr. Volkov.” The older guard (Abram, I think his name is) steps forward. “It’s late. Does Mr. Konstantin know you’re?—”
“Open the gate.”
My voice is flat and cold, the tone I use when I’m about to do violence.
Abram hesitates, glancing at his partner. “Sir, I’m going to need to check with?—”
I step out of the SUV. The movement is casual and unhurried, but something in my expression makes both guards take a step back.
“I’m going to say this once,” I tell them coolly. “Open the fucking gate and stand aside, or I’ll drive through it. Your choice.”
They look at each other, then at me, then at the six vehicles behind me, each full of armed men.
The gate opens.
Smart.
We drive up the long curved driveway. More guards appear as we get closer to the main house—at least a dozen, all armed, all taking defensive positions.
Good. Let them try.
I’m out of the SUV before it fully stops, my men fanning out behind me in practiced formation. Sergei on my right, Viktor on my left. The others create a perimeter.
