CHAPTER 17
Rafa
Hours blurtogether in the blue glow of the monitors. The city outside has long since settled into the rhythm of late night—fewer cars, dimmer lights, the kind of quiet that belongs to insomniacs and criminals.
We’ve been at this for six straight hours, following the money trail through layers of obfuscation that would challenge even the most sophisticated financial investigators. Shell companies are nested within shell companies, accounts that exist only on paper, and digital breadcrumbs designed to lead nowhere.
But Durov made a mistake. People always do, eventually.
“There,” I say, highlighting a transaction buried deep in the maze. “Wire transfer authorization from account 7749-Delta-Sigma to Meridian Holdings, LLC. Fifty thousand, processed three days ago.”
Kira leans closer to examine the details, her shoulder brushing mine in a contact that’s become routine over the past hours. The familiarity of her presence beside me is both comforting and distracting.
“Meridian Holdings,” she murmurs, fingers flying across her keyboard. “Let me trace the corporate registration...”
I watch her work, noting the elegant efficiency of her movements and the way she navigates complex databases as if they were extensions of her own mind. Even when exhausted and focused on the mundane work of financial forensics, she’s mesmerizing.
“Got it,” she announces, pulling up the corporate filing. “Meridian Holdings, incorporated in Delaware two years ago. Standard shell company structure, minimal reporting requirements...”
Her voice trails off as she reaches the signature section of the filing.
“What is it?” I ask, though something in her sudden stillness makes my stomach clench.
“The registered agent,” she says quietly. “The person who signed the incorporation documents.”
I look at the screen, scanning the legal language until I find the relevant section. When I see the name, everything clicks into place with sickening clarity.
Alexei Petrov.
“Your brother,” I say, the words falling between us like stones into still water.
Kira doesn’t respond immediately. Her face has gone carefully blank, the expression she wears when processing information she doesn’t want to accept.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she says finally. “Alexei signs documents all the time. It’s part of managing our legitimate business interests.”
“Petrov—”
“It’s a coincidence.”
I pull up another screen, cross-referencing the account numbers with our timeline of thefts. “Three other shell companies,” I say, pointing to the data. “All registered by Alexei. All receiving funds from the diverted accounts.”
She’s still staring at the screen, but I see the moment the implications hit her—the slight tightening around her eyes, the barely perceptible intake of breath.
“Fifteen million dollars,” I continue, my voice gentle but relentless. “Channeled through companies your brother personally established. This isn’t a coincidence. This is coordination.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of something dangerous building beneath the surface.
“The evidence is in front of you.”
“The evidence shows Alexei’s signature on legal documents. That’s all.” She turns in her chair to face me, gray eyes flashing with barely controlled anger. “You’re making assumptions based on incomplete data.”
“I’m following the money trail exactly where it leads,” I counter. “Your brother is either complicit in this theft or being used as a front. Either way?—”
“Either way, what?” She stands abruptly, putting distance between us. “You think this proves something? You think this means I’ve been lying to you?”
The accusation hits closer to home than I care to admit. Because yes, part of me is wondering exactly that. The timing of her revelation about Durov, her reluctance to share information, and her family’s documented involvement in the thefts all add up to questions I don’t want to ask.
“I think it means we need to consider all possibilities,” I say carefully.
