“And what about the risk that comes with—”
“It’s a risk you’re willing to take. Who cares if he killed your girlfriend’s mother? You know how this works in the Bratva.”
The room goes very quiet.
Girlfriend’s mother.
I don’t move. Don’t speak. The words sit there, rearranging everything.
“What did you just say?”
“What?”
“Popov. Lauren’s mother. Say it again.”
Elias pauses. Then, with the casual delivery of a man reporting weather: “Oh you didn’t know? Popov dropped her. Or his men—same thing. I assumed you knew.”
“How the fuck would I know?” I drop my voice. Lauren is somewhere in the penthouse, and this conversation must not reach her. At least not yet. “How do you know this?”
“Resources.” He sighs. “Look, Niko. Do you want Aslanov dead or not?”
I press two fingers to my temple and breathe through it.
Jesus Christ.
Popov killed Lauren’s mother.
Lauren, who has spent years not knowing who was responsible. Lauren, who stopped looking for answers when Hannah was born because the search had already cost her too much. And I’m about to sit across from the man who did it and negotiate terms.
Pizdets!
I file it. I have to. It sits in my chest like coal—hot, heavy, something I'll have to carry carefully—but I can’t let it surface right now. There’s a hierarchy of problems, and Aslanov is still at the top of it.
“Talk,” I say.
Elias exhales. “The man I had inside Aslanov’s network—three days, no contact. Phone goes straight to voicemail. He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Come on, your English is better than mine. Gone. My best guess is that Aslanov found out he was feeding intel and took care of it.”
I lean back in the chair. The office is little more than a storage room—cramped, low ceilinged, a desk that wobbles if I put too much weight on it. I’ve worked from worse. I rub my eyes and let the information settle.
Aslanov is eliminating anyone he suspects. Which means he’s scared—or at least, he’s uncertain, which for a man like him amounts to the same thing.
“He’s tightening his circle?” I ask.
“Since you surfaced? He’s been purging. Anyone he can’t personally verify, he’s removing.”
I come forward, elbows on the desk.
That means the fucker’s scared. And scared is good. Scared means mistakes, means gaps, means he’s operating on instinct rather than strategy. But scared also means indiscriminate. Hewon’t wait for confirmation before he moves—he’ll move and let the consequences sort themselves out.
That makes him more dangerous, not less.
“The bounty?” I ask.
“On you?” Elias almost sounds amused. “My guess? He doesn’t want money involved. He’ll want to do it himself.”
