I end the call and slide the phone into my coat pocket.
Now I feel it—that familiar stare drilling into the side of my skull.
I look up at the rearview mirror.
Arseny doesn’t bother pretending. He’s watching me like I just walked in wearing a ring pop and announced I believe in soulmates.
He lets out a long, dramatic whistle. “Look at you. Personal requests. Custom furniture. Is that what this is now? Domestic warlord chic?”
“Shut up.”
“Can’t. I’m too busy processing the image of you picking out canopy beds. Did you test mattresses, too, or was that outsourced?”
He wouldn’t believe me if I said I cross-referenced three different console models because Bella mentioned her brother used to game after school to “blow off steam.” Or that I vetoedpink just in case Lila takes after her and hates anything that looks like effort.
“She’s been good with the kids,” I say instead. Flat. Simple.
Arseny scoffs. “Is this… nesting? Are we nesting now, boss?”
I look up. Meet his eyes in the mirror.
“Learn from Timur, will you?Mudak.”
Arseny grins like it’s a badge of honor. Smirk still on his face as he finally turns back to the road, but I can tell he’s not done. Just pacing himself.
Next to him, Timur might as well be running an international control tower from the front seat. Tablet open, phone pressed to his ear, another device buzzing against his thigh. He ends one call, types something with his left hand, answers another—barely blinking. Calm. Efficient. Inhuman.
“You get a report from Viktor?” I ask.
Timur doesn’t answer immediately.
He finishes typing, sets the tablet down with precision, then turns halfway in his seat.
“Tatiana’s been busy,” he says. “Victor tracked three brunches with Sidorov’s widow. A private dinner with the Morozov delegation. And last week, she hosted a fundraiser that just happened to include twoPakhancandidates from Kyiv and one from Bucharest.”
My jaw ticks. “She’s aligning.”
“She’s planning.”
Same thing.
Arseny exhales, arms crossed. “I hope you know the moment she thinks you’re distracted—she’ll strike.”
I glance down at the phone, thumb hovering over the screen. “Let her.”
Arseny chuckles again. “You’re awfully calm for a man walking into war.”
I finally look up, eyes locking with his through the mirror. “That’s because I already know how it ends.”
And it doesn’t end with negotiations.
It ends with leverage. With blood.
We’ve already collected enough to bring the axe down—wire transfers rerouted through fake charities Tatiana “sponsors,” unexplained shipments rerouted from Belov warehouses in Novorossiysk, a bribed customs official in Bucharest with a six-digit payout tied to Filipp’s shell account.
It’s not just betrayal.
It’s treason.
