But for now, we wait. For my father’s sake. For appearance’s sake.
But make no mistake—they will pay.
First, for daring to touch what’s mine.
For Bella.
I lean back into the leather, eyes still on the road ahead, but my voice cuts through the quiet.
“Start with the museum.”
Timur doesn’t flinch. “You want it audited?”
“No. I want it defunded. Discredited. Then burned to the ground.”
A pause. Even Arseny glances over his shoulder.
Timur nods once, already typing. “Her name’s all over the donor records. Last month’s gala. Press coverage.”
“Exactly.”
Let her watch it turn to ash. Let her scramble for words when the Council starts asking questions.
I tap the armrest once.
“Filipp?”
Timur’s already ahead of me. “Still here. West Coast. Rented estate in Napa under a dummy LLC. No full security detail. Just two locals and a driver.”
I nod once.
“He thinks we’ve let it go,” Timur adds.
“Then don’t warn him otherwise.”
Another line typed. Another order moving silently into motion.
“Blackout van. Hood. Dump him under the Istanbul site,” I say. “Three days. No light. No noise. No questions.”
“And after?” Arseny asks.
“Let him walk.”
Arseny exhales, low and long. “You really are your father’s son.”
I glance at him once. “No.” Then back to the window. “That’s the difference. My father would’ve killed them.”
It’s almost dinner—less than an hour, judging by the smells coming in from the east wing. Roasted garlic, thyme, the buttery heat of something rich slow-cooking. The kind of food Alya will say is “too grown-up” before demanding ice cream.
“Sir,” Oleg steps beside me.
“The children?”
“With thePakhan. Miss Alya’s room.”
I nod once. Hand him my coat. “And my… wife?”
The slightest hesitation. “In her quarters, sir.”
