“And that means trouble,” Arseny says, his voice grim. “The Volkovs don’t forgive, and they don’t forget.”
“Especially not Pavel,” Timur adds quietly.
I tap the image of the phone. “We need to know what was on this before it was wiped. And we need that mole in place immediately.”
Suka. If she didn’t have her claws so deep in my father’s balls, I would gladly put a bullet between that woman’s eyes myself. But even I have lines I won’t cross—Anatoly still believes in her, still sees her as the obedient young wife he molded out of desperation and paranoia. And as long as he draws breath, Tatiana’s untouchable.
For now.
I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the concrete floor. “Enough. We run through everything. Every detail.”
I stride to my briefcase and pull out the leather folio, spreading the contents across the table. Architectural plans for St. Nicholas Cathedral unfold—a Russian Orthodox church nestled in the hills of Big Sur, built in 1921 when my great-grandfather first established the family’s West Coast operations. Four generations ofPakhanhave taken their oaths beneath its modest copper dome, hidden from public view on private Belov land. In five days, I’ll be the fifth.
My fingers trace the reinforced walls on the blueprints, lingering over the private underground passage that connects to the family mausoleum—a Belov family secret not found on any official plans.
“The security protocols for the ceremony,” I say smoothly, covering my momentary lapse. “Where are we?”
Victor taps his tablet, bringing up enhanced versions of the cathedral plans. “Three perimeters, rotating shifts. Every guest vetted personally. The inner sanctum will have jammers for any unauthorized electronics, and we’ve secured the surrounding hills and access roads.”
Arseny leans forward, his eyes tracing the cathedral’s layout with the same focus he reserves for battle plans.
“Five generations,” he says. “Guess it’s tradition now.”
Timur’s jaw tightens, his gaze fixed on the map. “And old buildings mean old vulnerabilities.”
“The passage from the crypt,” I say, tapping the hidden corridor. “We keep it sealed. No one in or out without clearance.”
Arseny nods, but his eyes stay on the eastern wall. “And the stained glass? Thin, fragile. A sniper could—”
“Already reinforced,” I say, cutting him off. “Triple-paned ballistic glass installed last month. And the bell tower?”
Timur slides a new set of photos across the table—images of the tower’s interior, every angle captured, every potential blind spot noted.
“Cleared and secured. We have two teams stationed on the roof, snipers positioned for a full 360-view.”
Something’s not adding up. I can feel it gnawing at the back of my mind, a whisper that won’t shut up.
Arseny pushes back from the table.
“Everything’s too quiet,” he says finally, voicing the thought that’s been circling in my mind.
“Blyat. Unless she’s planning something for the succession ceremony,” Timur says, his voice tight. “Using Mikhail’s thirst for revenge.”
Arseny’s fingers drum against the table. “An assassination attempt would be bold, even for Tatiana.”
“Bold but effective,” I say. “Remove me, pave the way for Filipp to take my place. She gets exactly what she wants.”
“We don’t know for certain—” Timur begins.
“We don’t need certainty,” I cut him off. “We need to be prepared. Triple the security at the cathedral. No one enters without full verification.”
Viktor nods from his position near the door, already reaching for his secure phone to relay orders to the security teams. Arsenyshifts in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him as he leans forward.
“And… Irina?” he asks, the name hanging in the air like smoke.
He doesn’t finish, but we all feel the weight of the unspoken words. If Tatiana’s lining up her pieces, Irina’s the queen she’ll play. And if Irina’s still out there, she’s been biding her time for seven years.
Timur looks up, eyes dark and serious, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “That’s why you had the trackers installed, isn’t it? On the kids and Bella.”
