I turn back to my screens, mind racing. Alexei’s reaction confirms my suspicions—there’s something larger at play here, something my father doesn’t want me to discover.
The memory surfaces unbidden—Alexei and I as children, twelve and four, when he caught me reading our father’s private ledgers. Instead of reporting me, he’d closed the book gently and said, “Some things you’re better off not knowing, sestrenka.”
Later that night, I heard screams from the basement. The next morning, one of our guards was missing, and Alexei had a haunted look in his eyes that took weeks to fade.
Now, nearly twenty years later, I see that same look. Whatever he’s protecting me from, he believes it’s worse than our father’s anger.
But I’ve never heeded warnings about dangerous knowledge. Information is my element, my weapon, my shield.
I pull up my secure messaging system, fingers hovering over the keys. Should I reach out to Rafa? If anyone could help me trace these transactions further, it would be him.
But trust is a luxury I can’t afford, especially not with someone whose lips still burn against mine, whose touch triggered responses I’ve never experienced before.
I close the system without sending anything. Rafa might not be behind the thefts, but that doesn’t make him an ally. Not yet. Not until I know exactly what game he’s playing. I stand and cross to the window wall, pouring myself two fingers of vodka from the crystal decanter. The city spreads before me, a million lights in the darkness, each representing lives so much simpler than mine.
The vodka burns a clean path down my throat as I contemplate what lies ahead. Tomorrow’s midnight meetingwith Rafa. My father’s expectations. Alexei’s warning. The missing millions.
A name I won’t let myself say. Not yet. Not until I’m certain—and not until I understand what it would mean if I’m right.
I’ve never been one to pray, but I find myself whispering to the empty room: “Show me the path.”
The only answer is the hum of my computers and the distant sound of the city that never sleeps.
I’ve always prided myself on controlling variables, on seeing all possible outcomes before I make a move. But for the first time in years, I’m stepping into shadows without a clear map.
“The first rule of hacking is never entering a system you don’t know how to exit,” I murmur to myself.
I wonder if the same applies to whatever is developing between Rafa and me—a system neither of us designed but both seem unable to resist.
Some firewalls aren’t meant to be breached. Some codes aren’t meant to be broken. And some risks are worth taking anyway.
CHAPTER 11
Rafa
Vito’s officefeels like a fortress of quiet control—power that doesn’t need to announce itself. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, its low flames casting long shadows across the room. Deep leather couches face each other around a simple coffee table, worn from years of tense meetings. A stocked mini bar sits discreetly nearby, and behind the large executive desk—polished but unadorned—Vito’s chair waits like a throne. No excess, no distractions. Just the essentials for a man who makes decisions that end lives or build empires.
I stand at the window, waiting as my brother finishes a phone call in rapid-fire Italian. The conversation involves shipping containers and border inspections—details I deliberately tune out. The less I know about certain aspects of our family business, the better.
“Rafa,” Vito finally says, setting down his phone. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”
I turn, noting the unusual formality. Vito typically barks orders, not offers gratitude.
“What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait until morning?”
He gestures for me to sit, then opens a safe hidden behind one of the paintings. He extracts a leather-bound ledger—old school, completely analog. Smart in a digital age where everything leaves traces.
“The numbers are wrong,” he says, sliding the book across the desk to me.
I flip through pages of handwritten entries—amounts, dates, code words for various operations. The Rosso family’s actual financial record, the one that will never see a tax authority or banking system.
“What am I looking for?”
“Compare the last three months with our expected returns from the joint ventures with the Petrovs.” His jaw tightens. “We’re down nearly forty million.”
I whistle low. “That’s significant.”
“It’s fucking devastating,” he corrects, facade of calm slipping. “We’ve leveraged those expected returns for other operations. If this continues, we’ll have liquidity problems by spring.”
