“Fuck,” he exhales, signing with a flourish. “Never thought I’d be this happy to admit defeat. Your father taught you well.”
I don’t bother correcting him. Anatoly Belov taught me precisely three things: how to take a punch, how to throw one harder, and how the coffin looks when it closes on someone who crosses you. The rest I learned despite him.
Arseny exhales slowly beside me, slouched with calculated ease, a glass of Talisker in one hand and a glint of something mean in his eye. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, tattoos curling over his forearms like stories that end badly.
“To new beginnings,” Whitley says, raising his glass. “And the end of Parker Group.”
“The end was inevitable. You just finally saw it coming.”
Whitley pours himself two fingers of Dalmore 25 and slides the bottle in my direction.
I don’t touch it.
He clears his throat. “So… everything’s going well, huh.”
There it is. Thatcarefully engineereddig. The fake warmth wrapped in legacy politics.
Whitley lifts his glass. “And your father? Still running things from the shadows, or has he passed the torch?”
For a second, the room chills. Not because I say anything—but because I don’t.
I keep my face still. Controlled. But Timur shifts his stance. Arseny stops swirling his drink.
Alcott doesn’t realize what he’s done until the silence stretches too long.
He thinks this is casual. That he can toss my father’s name around like it doesn’t carry weight. Like it’s not dangerous.
I lean forward. “You don’t speak of Anatoly Belov unless you’ve earned the right.”
That shuts him up.
Timur slides a sleek titanium case toward me. I unlock it with my thumbprint. Inside is the cold wallet—unbranded, matte black, ordinary to the untrained eye. To me, it holds ghosts, war chests, leverage. He’s been typing one-handed on his phone since the signing began, pausing only to slide documents my way.
“Transfers are ready,” he says, the first words he’s spoken in twenty minutes. “Routing through Cayman first, then splitting between Singapore and Zurich. Paperwork shows legitimate acquisition.”
Whitley’s smile tightens. “And my… personal compensation?”
“Already done.” Timur nods once. “Check your Binance account.”
The relief on Whitley’s face is pathetic. I can read it like billboard text. He’s already spent that money in his head.
“Heard you got married,” Whitley says, trying to steer toward casual conversation now that his financial future is secured. “Quite the whirlwind, from what I hear. Russian tradition or just… impatience?” His laugh is too loud for the room.
I don’t smile. “The right decision doesn’t need time.”
“She’s beautiful,” he continues, pulling out his phone. “My daughter showed me the photos from the charity summit. She’s what—26? Or 27?”
“She’s 29,” I correct, though I owe him nothing. “And far too intelligent to be discussed in a room full of men who should know better.”
Whitley shifts, discomfort rolling off him in waves. “Of course. Meant no disrespect.”
“Yes, you did,” I say evenly. “You just didn’t expect to be called on it.”
Arseny makes a sound that might be a laugh or a scoff. Either way, it breaks the tension.
“Now, the settlement details,” I continue, nodding to Timur.
Timur slides an iPad across the table. “The company remains intact through Q3. By Q4, we rebrand and restructure. Current executive team receives severance per the standard package.”
