“I’ve been busy,” I reply, settling into the leather chair across from him. “Working on the Durov problem.”
Now he does look up, his pale green eyes—so like our mother’s—studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. “And what have you discovered about our ghost?”
The casual way he asks the question sets off alarm bells in my mind. Too practiced, too prepared. As if he’s been expecting this conversation.
“You know, don’t you?” I say quietly. “You know about Alexei’s involvement. About the shell companies. About everything.”
Nicolai sets down his pen with deliberate precision, leaning back in his chair. For a long moment, we simply stare at each other across the space that suddenly feels vast despite the intimate office setting.
“Yes,” he says finally. “I know.”
The simple admission hits me like a physical blow. My brother… I thought we were close. Now he is keeping things from me.”How long?”
“Since the beginning. Since Father first decided to... accommodate Durov’s return.”
“Accommodate,” I repeat the word like it tastes bitter. “Is that what we’re calling extortion now?”
“Extortion implies we had a choice,” Nicolai replies with his characteristic calm. “The situation is more complex than that.”
“Then explain it to me.” I lean forward, anger building in my chest like pressure in a sealed container. “Explain why my entire family has been lying to me for months. Explain why I’ve been investigating something you all knew the truth about from the start.”
Nicolai stands, moving to the window that overlooks the darkening harbor. His reflection in the glass looks older than his thirty-one years, weighted down by knowledge I’m only beginning to understand.
“Durov didn’t just disappear when Father exiled him,” he says quietly. “He went underground, but he never stopped watching us. Learning our systems, our weaknesses, our dependencies.”
“So he’s been planning his revenge for five years.”
“Not revenge,” Nicolai corrects. “Leverage. Durov isn’t interested in destroying us—he’s interested in controlling us.”
“What kind of leverage?”
“Complete financial records of every transaction we’ve made since 2018. Documentation of every shell company, every money laundering operation, every connection between our legitimate businesses and our... other interests.” Nicolai’s voice remains steady, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. “Enough evidence to bring down not just our family, but half the Bratva operations on the East Coast.”
The scope of it takes my breath away. “How did he get access to that much information?”
“By being patient. By maintaining contacts within our organization even after his exile. By exploiting the systems he helped design when he worked for us.” Nicolai turns from the window to face me. “He contacted Father six months ago with a simple proposition: work with him, or watch everything we’ve built burn to the ground.”
“And Father agreed?”
“Father had no choice. Durov’s evidence would have destroyed us. Not just financially, criminally. We would have lost everything, and most of the family would have ended up in federal prison.”
I process this, my analytical mind working through the implications. “So the engagement?—”
“Was originally genuine. Father truly believed an alliance with the Rossos would benefit both families.” Nicolai returns to his desk, but doesn’t sit. “Durov’s involvement came later, when he realized the marriage could serve his purposes.”
“What purposes?”
“Access to Rosso operations. Intelligence about their systems, their weaknesses, their own vulnerabilities.” Nicolai’s expression is grim. “Durov wants to expand his leverage beyond just our family.”
“He wants to control the Rossos too.”
“He wants to control everyone. Position himself as the puppet master pulling strings for every major operation on the East Coast.”
The revelation sends ice through my veins. “And my role in all this?”
“To marry Rafael Rosso. To gain access to their systems. To provide intelligence that Durov can use to build his case against them.” Nicolai’s voice softens slightly. “Father never intended for you to become... emotionally involved.”
Heat floods my cheeks despite my efforts to maintain composure. “I’m not emotionally involved.”
