I meet his stare without blinking. If I give him even a flicker of something he can use, I’m done.
Mary’s face flashes unbidden. Those hazel eyes, wide with fear when I saw her at her grandmother’s. The way her lips parted when she saw the blood. First time I’ve kept something this big from Igor. First time I’ve had something worth hiding.
“People say a lot of things,” I tell him. “Doesn’t make them true. What we know is that Viktor’s working with someone. Someone who knew exactly when to move that money—”
The door opens. No knock.
Timofey Volkov walks in like he owns the air we’re breathing. Hair slicked back, suit tailored so well it probably came with its own bodyguard. He goes straight to Igor, leans in, kisses both cheeks.
“Uncle.” Smooth, easy, like this is a family brunch and not a table full of men deciding who lives and dies this week.
He takes the empty seat on Igor’s left. Across from me. Winks like we’ve shared a joke I don’t remember telling. Doesn’t even look at Lev—might as well have stepped over him on the way in.
Igor’s smile fades as soon as Timofey’s settled. “Tell me, Anton—who could work with Viktor and move two million from under your nose without leaving a trace?”
Timofey smooths a cufflink, the sharp scent of his cologne drifting across the table. “Must be someone with inside knowledge,” he says, eyes locking on mine. “Someone who knows how things run here.” His mouth curves just enough to be a smile. “Someone who knows them… very well.”
Lev tips his chair back a fraction, elbow hooked over the backrest like he’s settling in for a show.
“If someone’s helping him, they’re good. Very good.”
Igor stubs out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray. “Or they’re sitting at this table.”
I laugh—short, sharp, humorless. Down my drink in one pull, let the burn settle before I set the glass back with enough force to make Yuri pause mid-pistachio.
“You want to know who’s helping Viktor?” I lean forward, eyes on Igor but making sure Timofey catches every word. “Look for someone with clean hands. Someone who keeps their distance from the dirty work. Someone who smiles at this table while their accounts get fat in the Caymans.”
Timofey’s smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.
“Careful, Anton,” he says, adjusting his watch—Patek Philippe, of course. “Paranoia’s an ugly look. Speaking of looks—” He shifts, addressing the room but keeping his eyes on me. “Valeriya’s birthday is next month. Big party. You should come, Anton. I’ll introduce you to some friends. Beautiful women. Educated. It’s not healthy, all this… solitude.”
“I’m good.”
“Are you?” He tilts his head, mock concern dripping from every syllable. “When’s the last time you had a real conversation with someone who wasn’t bleeding?”
Lev’s foot stops tapping.
“Enough.” Igor’s voice cuts through, but there’s something almost amused in his expression. Like watching his dogs snap at each other entertains him.
Timofey raises his hands in surrender, all innocence. “Just looking out for our best enforcer, Uncle. Can’t have him burning out.” He turns back to Igor, smooth as oil. “Speaking of looking out, I’ve arranged that meeting with Senator Morrison you wanted. Thursday. Private dinner at Caesars.”
Igor’s eyes sharpen. “Morrison agreed?”
“Money talks louder than votes.” Timofey straightens his tie. “He’s interested in our… campaign contributions. Very interested.”
“Good.” Igor nods, and I watch him swallow Timofey’s bullshit whole. The nephew playing the devoted heir while bleeding the kingdom dry. “This is how we evolve, Anton. Political connections. Legitimate channels.”
“Legitimate,” I repeat, flat.
Timofey’s eyes glitter. “Problem with progress, Anton?”
“No problem. Just noting that legitimate money doesn’t usually come in duffel bags at 3 AM.”
“Times change,” Timofey says. “Those who don’t change with them get left behind. Or buried.”
The threat hangs there, wrapped in designer cologne and white teeth.
Igor stands, signaling the meeting’s end. Everyone starts to rise except me.
