I stare at the screen, trying to process the possibility that my mother came from a now-defunct bratva family based in St. Petersburg. But according to this file, Marina drowned at nineteen, a few years before I was born.
I scroll down, looking for more information. Most of it is heavily redacted with black bars covering operational details, names of associates, specifics about their criminal activities. But one line catches my attention:
At the bottom of the dossier, there’s a link to attached surveillance materials. The first image loads slowly. Black and white, grainy, taken from a distance with a telephoto lens. A man in an expensive coat stepping out of a black Mercedes, flanked by two enforcers. His face is brutal and cold.
The caption reads:Aleksandr Voronin, suspected leader, Voronin Syndicate.
My heart speeds up. If this is my mother’s family, this man would be my grandfather.
The second photo opens. Aleksandr Voronin at an outdoor gathering, maybe a wedding or major celebration. There’s a woman beside him in a wrap dress, elegant and composed. And next to her, a teenage girl with blonde hair, wearing a formal dress and looking profoundly miserable.
I zoom in on the girl’s face. Wide-set eyes, full lips, a straight nose—it’s the same face I see in the mirror every morning.
Tears spring to my eyes and fall freely. This is my mother. The woman she was before she became Sonya, before she married my father, before she had me.
I’m looking at my grandmother. My grandfather. People I’ll never know. The tears come harder. Relief that I’m not crazy, that the dreams led me to the right place. But there’s so much that doesn’t make sense.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes and try to remember what I know about my mother’s past. My fathertold me she came from a wealthy, well-connected family in St. Petersburg. That they disowned her when she refused to play the part of a rich girl, waiting for a husband.
She moved to Moscow on her own without a penny to her name, sang in a jazz club to make ends meet before she met and married Papa, a working-class boxing instructor. She never spoke to her family again.
Did she stage her death and run away? Was she fleeing from her family? Were they terrible? Violent?
Or maybe they helped her escape. Maybe they faked her death to protect her from something, the world of violence and danger she was born into.
I don’t know. There are too many possibilities, too many blanks I can’t fill in.
But I do know the Voronin Syndicate is no longer active. They must have dissolved without a clear successor, maybe absorbed or destroyed by rivals. I’ll need to cross-reference intelligence databases, pull archived surveillance reports, even hack into old FSB case files if I can find a way in.
I have my work cut out for me.
I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around myself. Why would the daughter of a powerful pakhan be trafficked? Was it punishment against her or her family? Revenge for something that went wrong between the Voronins and a rival? Worse, was it possible they were in on it all?
I close the laptop and sit in the growing dawn light.
Here’s what I know for certain: the Voronins and the Kupola Network are gone, but the Baronovs remain.
And Ruslan Baronov ran Velour, the club that auctioned off trafficked women, during the years my mother disappeared. He must know something, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get that information.
I push myself off the couch and head to the kitchen, filling the kettle. I have a shift at Velour tonight. Every night is a chance to learn something.
I need to stay focused. Keep my walls up. Remember why I’m here.
And stay the hell away from Kirill Baronov.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
KIRILL
The concrete iscold against my chest, even through the tactical vest. I’ve been lying on this warehouse rooftop for forty minutes, barely moving, the rifle steady against my shoulder. The scope gives me a perfect view of Pier 19. Every shipping container, every shadow, every angle where the Ghost might approach.
Two hundred meters to my left, Matvey’s positioned on another rooftop, weapon at the ready.
Below us, fifty soldiers are spread across the pier, hidden from sight.
The last few days have been intense. Planning everything in person with only a select few aware of the true mission. Most of the soldiers think this is a standard pickup with extra security because of recent attacks. Only my brothers, Elio, and his two captains know we’re setting a trap. It’s a gamble. If one of those fifty is compromised, the Ghost knows we’re here. But we can’t run an operation this size with just six people. Sometimes you have to roll the dice and hope your odds are better than the enemy’s.
