31
Polina
Dmitri goes white before the rage hits, and by the time he reaches the third page of the file, I know neither of us will leave this room the same.
He’s standing behind his desk with the folder open in both hands, reading so closely he seems to forget I’m in front of him. I sit across from him with my fingers locked together and watch every page land. First comes disbelief. Then fury. Grief arrives last, and that one does the most damage because for one awful second, he looks like the boy who stood beside me at my parents’ funeral and not the pakhan he’s become.
“Where did you get this?” he asks without looking up.
“Tony gave it to me.”
That gets his attention. His eyes lift fast. “Tony handed you this file?”
“Yes. I suspect he knew what it was, and he knew I deserved to see it before anyone started managing me.”
Dmitri stares at me for half a second before dropping his gaze back to the page. He keeps reading. I already know what he’s seeing. That makes it easier to watch my cousin get there too.
He turns another page, and his mouth pulls tight. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
I don’t respond. There isn’t anything useful to add.
He reads for another minute, then sets the file on the desk. “If this is real, then Vadim Morozov ordered the hit. And… Lev knew.”
That one takes a second to push past the burn in my throat. “Yes.”
Dmitri doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at me as if he wants me to contradict myself, save him the trouble of believing it, and tell him this doesn’t end with blood and betrayal and every old wound torn open again.
I can’t do that for him. I couldn’t do it for myself, either.
“He knew,” I confirm again. “He hid it.”
Dmitri turns away from the desk and starts pacing. That’s worse than shouting. Quiet Dmitri is dangerous. Dmitri pacing means his mind is doing ten things at once, and at least half of them end with someone dead.
“I’ll kill him,” he growls.
I let out a sigh, because as much as I hate to remind him of the obvious, I have to. “You need him.”
He lets out a grunt then drops into the chair across from me and opens the file again. He taps one page with his finger.
“This part,” he says. “The cross-reference.”
I already know where he is. I wish I didn’t.
“Tell me I’m reading it wrong.”
“You’re not. It means someone on the Kozlov side may have known. Or even approved it. Or maybe they just learned what happened after and helped bury it.”
The silence that follows feels heavy enough to bruise.
Dmitri leans back slowly, and for a second, he looks at nothing. “No one else has seen this?”
“Not from me.”
“Good.” He closes the folder and rests both hands on top of it. “I’m going to verify every page. I’m going to trace where it came from, who touched it, and whether anyone on our side knew what Vadim Morozov did. If someone in this family had a hand in your parents’ murder, I’ll find out. And if someone covered it up, I’ll find that out too.”
The promise should feel like solid ground. It doesn’t. All I want is to hear from the man who made sure I’d never trust him again.
Dmitri studies my face for a long moment, and something in him softens.
