He knows.
He’s here to see what I know. To gauge how much I’ve pieced together before Igor does.
Lev shifts his weight like he’s ready to mouth off again. Dima’s still a statue by the door, hand hovering too close to his weapon.
I don’t need to say a word. Just one look at both of them.
Not tonight.
Because this isn’t the hill I’m dying on.
I swallow it down—the rage, the proof, the urge to put a bullet where it belongs. Later.
For now, my men walk out of here alive.
Even if it means I choke on the silence.
The main warehouse door opens.
Two men enter first—broad-shouldered, silent, built like they’ve spent their lives carrying bodies instead of bags. One veers left, the other sweeps right, clearing the space with methodical precision.
MyPakhanwalks straight toward the table. He doesn’t wait for greetings. Doesn’t acknowledge me or my men.
He heads for the ledgers first.
That’s my cue.
I take a step forward. “We’ve secured everything. Evidence matches what Boris traced. The account movements start—”
He raises a hand. Just enough to shut me up. It’s not rude. It’s worse. It’s paternal. Like I’m the soldier being reminded of my rank.
Behind him, Timofey moves slowly, but makes sure to look around. Smirking. Clocking Lev. Clocking Dima. Clocking me.
Then he plants himself just off Igor’s shoulder; a fucking smile spreads across his face.
“Didn’t think I’d miss this little reunion, did you?” he says, voice smooth, like he’s walking into a party.
I step forward instead—measured, steady—placing myself between them and the table we set up by the old meat scale. The pages are still there. The evidence. The reason we’re all standing in this forgotten corner of Vegas tonight.
Igor taps the table once.
Then looks up at me. “Where is he?”
I hold his stare. “Back room. Dima’s with him.”
Igor stops beside the table, rests one leather-gloved hand near the edge. Doesn’t touch the evidence. Doesn’t ask.
So I make the move.
I step forward and pull the top sheet from the file—the printout showing the trail Boris traced. Simple. Clean. Unnamed transfers linking the stolen cash to a Cayman shell, then back into a holding company. One I know Igor’s heard of before.
Volkov Holdings LLC.
I hold it out—not too close.
But before it can reach Igor, Timofey moves.
Not fast. Just smooth enough to make it obvious.
