He plucks the page from my hand like it’s an afterthought, eyes barely skimming it before he lets out a low chuckle.
“Oh, this?” he says, turning toward Igor without looking at me. “I’ve already handled it. Spoke to our guy in the Caymans two days ago. Funds were routed through an old, dead-end account.”
He grins when he says it. Barely a curve, just enough teeth to remind me he thinks he’s already won. Then he folds the printout once, then again, edges squared, creases clean, drops it on the corner like it’s trash. Like this evidence isn’t the product of weeks of work. Boris’s digging. My tracking. Mary’s risk.
Igor doesn’t look at me.
He stares at the table like the weight of his silence alone could decide which one of us walks out of here.
Lev shifts next to me, a sharp inhale. He wants to speak. Wants to call it out for what it is. I shut him down with one look. His jaw clicks shut.
Timofey fills the gap. Smooth. Easy. “Don’t worry,dyadya.My people already started tracing the funds back. Should be locked down by the end of the week. Viktor’s a mess, but he wasn’t hard to follow. We’re lucky he’s as dumb as he is greedy.”
Igor taps a finger once. Then asks, “Is that what happened?”
Fucker’s clever.He’s telling Igor exactly what Igor wants to hear: the money’s coming back. That’s all Igor ever cares about. Notloyalty. Not the body count. Just the cash flow. Timofey knows it, and he’s already feeding him the one answer that matters.
Timofey shrugs, casual as you please. “Yes. Two million already in motion. I’ll see it returned.” He pulls a cigar from his coat pocket, clips the end with a silver cutter, and lights it with a casual flick before handing it to Igor. Like he’s been doing it his whole life. Like he’s not just a nephew, but the heir apparent.
Igor sinks into the chair we set out, inhales slowly, lets the smoke curl upward before exhaling through his nose. His eyes cut toward me for the first time tonight.
“Bring me the traitor.”
That’s the order.
I keep my expression flat. My blood simmers slowly in my chest, but I don’t let it climb. Can’t. Not here. Not now.
The guards move before I can. They drag Viktor out of the holding room, half-carrying him by the arms. His shirt clings, damp with sweat, his face pale under the overhead lights. He stumbles twice before they shove him to his knees.
His eyes hit Igor first. Wide. Shining. Desperate. But then they slide sideways. Land on Timofey.
“I-I’m sorry…” he sobs.
That’s when the trembling starts. Not the twitchy shakes from exhaustion or pain. This is deeper. The marrow-deep kind youcan’t fake. His whole body quivers like his bones are trying to escape him.
Timofey pulls another cigar from his pocket. He taps it against his palm three times, then slides it between his teeth.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he mutters, flicking the lighter. Flame pops. He takes a slow drag, exhales like he owns the oxygen in this room. “Look at you, Viktor. Knees on concrete. Shaking like a whore in winter. What happened to all that clever bookkeeping?”
Viktor’s throat works. “I-I didn’t…” His eyes dart to me, then back to Timofey. “I didn’t mean for—”
“Didn’t mean?” Timofey cuts him off, smoke curling from his mouth. He leans down, close enough that Viktor flinches. “You think intent matters,suka? You skim from family, you sign your own sentence. Doesn’t matter what you meant.”
“I was… I was told—” Viktor stammers, words falling apart.
“Told by who?” Igor’s voice cuts through, low and hard. He hasn’t moved from the chair. Just sitting. Watching. Waiting. “Who’s behind this?”
The silence stretches. Viktor’s lips shake. He looks at Igor, then at me. His mouth opens, closes. His shoulders fold like he’s caving in.
“Tell him what you told me,” I say. I need him to repeat it. The Cayman trail. The names. Put it in the air before Timofey guts the story.
But Viktor doesn’t speak. His eyes flick back to Timofey, and that’s the problem.
Timofey crouches down, resting his forearms on his knees like he’s just getting comfortable.
“He’s confused,” he says, voice smooth, dismissive. “Doesn’t know who to trust. Poor man thinks the Reaper might save him. Isn’t that right, Viktor?”
Viktor makes a sound that’s not quite a word. A wet choke. His shoulders shake.
