“Now,” I set down the tablet, “update on Tatiana.”
The atmosphere shifts subtly. My stepmother’s name has that effect.
Timur stands, replacing the map with surveillance photos. “She met with your father at the seaside villa last night. Meeting lasted two hours. No audio, but body language suggested tension.”
Photos flip across the screen—my father and Tatiana on the veranda. Her posture too stiff. His expression hardening. The look of a man delivering bad news.
“He told her,” I conclude.
Timur nods. “We believe so. That you becomePakhan, not Filipp.”
“And her reaction?”
“Outwardly calm. Too calm,” Timur says, advancing to the next photo. “But this was taken as she was leaving.”
Tatiana’s face, captured in a grainy still, jaw clenched, eyes dark. The look of a woman plotting.
“Three hours later,” Timur continues, “she was here.”
The Borzoi Club. Volkov territory—old money, old blood, longtime rivals to the Belov empire.
“Meeting with Mikhail Volkov himself,” I observe. “She didn’t waste time.”
Timur’s fingers fly over the tablet, pulling up another feed. Surveillance footage from the Borzoi Club. Tatiana and Mikhail Volkov, side by side at the bar, heads tilted close. Her face is serene, a porcelain mask, but her grip on her glass is tight enough to crack it.
“She’s running scared,” Arseny mutters, lighting another cigarette. “Knows she’s losing power once you take over.”
“She’s not just scared,” I say. “She’s desperate. And desperate people do stupid things.”
“Like bringing in Mikhail Volkov,” Timur says. “That’s a man who never does anything for free.”
“Which means,” Arseny says, blowing out a long stream of smoke, “Tatiana’s made a deal. And it’s not just protection she’s after.”
“Or reaching out to ghosts,” Timur says softly.
My head snaps up. “Explain.”
Timur hesitates, then slides a final photo onto the table. The image is grainy, captured at night through a telephoto lens, but clear enough to recognize Tatiana exiting the Volkov family mausoleum.
“This was taken just hours after her meeting with Mikhail at the Borzoi Club,” he says. “She visited Pavel Volkov’s tomb.”
Pavel Volkov—Mikhail’s younger brother, killed during the territory disputes fifteen years ago. A death many believe my father orchestrated.
He taps the corner of the image, where Tatiana is placing a small object near the entrance.
“A phone,” I recognize, squinting at the blurry image. “Untraceable?”
“Completely. Our team managed to retrieve it after she left, but it was wiped clean. Factory reset.”
“She’s opening old wounds,” I say quietly. “Reminding Mikhail why he hates our family.”
“And establishing a communication channel. One we can’t monitor,” Arseny adds.
Silence falls over the room as we all consider the implications.
“What’s her play?” Oleg finally asks. “Meeting with Volkov is one thing, but this…”
“We don’t know yet,” I admit, studying the image. “But whatever she’s planning, she needs the Volkovs’ help.”
