I restart his computer and watch the boot sequence carefully. When the login screen appears, I try a standard bypass: hitting ‘shift’ five times in rapid succession to trigger the accessibility menu. On older systems, this opens a backdoor to settings that don’t require authentication.
But it doesn’t work.
Okay. Plan B.
I reboot again, this time holding down a key combination that forces the laptop into recovery mode. The screen changes, offering diagnostic options that most users don’t know exist. From here, I can access the command prompt without needing a password.
Sweat beads at my hairline. The clock is ticking, but this might be my only chance to search Kirill’s computer, and I’ve already come this far.
I type in a series of administrator access protocols that let me create a new user account with full privileges. Thirty seconds of typing, and the system accepts the override.
I log in through the new account and I’m in.
It’s not ideal, and if someone checks the logs, they’ll see a new admin account was created. A chance I’ll have to take.
I navigate to his files, combing through folders as quickly as I can. Financial records, employee files, vendor contracts. Everything related to Velour as a legitimate business. Because, no surprise, that’s what it is on paper.
I drill further, looking for anything connected to Marina Voronina, to the Voronin name, to the Kupola Network, to trafficking operations from twenty years ago, but I find nothing.
My gut sinks, though I know it’s unlikely they’d keep records of the auctions digitally, or at all. Anything incriminating from twenty years ago would be buried deep or destroyed entirely.
Still, I open his email, skimming subject lines. Most of it’s mundane. Shipment schedules, meeting confirmations, invoices. Then I notice a recent thread with a subject line that reads: “The Ghost.”
I click it open and skim the message, but the language is coded and impossible to decipher.
I’m erasing the system logs when male voices filter in from the corridor. I freeze as the voices get closer—one of them is Kirill’s. I’d recognize that low, growly tone anywhere.
I slam the laptop shut and look around wildly for an excuse. Any excuse for being in here. The notepad next to the desk phone catches my attention. I grab it along with a pen, yanking the cap off as the door handle turns.
Kirill walks in mid-conversation, his attention on whoever’s in the hallway. “I don’t care if he’s been with us for ten years. Trust no one right now. Understood?”
Then he turns and sees me standing at his desk.
He stops mid-step, his pale blue gaze locking onto mine. For a fraction of a second, surprise flickers across his face before hardening into suspicion.
A broad-shouldered guard I don’t recognize peers around Kirill’s shoulder, hand already moving toward his weapon.
“It’s fine,” Kirill says without looking back. “Leave us.”
The guard retreats. Kirill and I stare at each other across the room. The pen is still in my hand, the notepad pressed against my chest like a useless shield.
“Evelina,” he says, his voice a rough abrasion. “What the hell are you doing in my office?”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
KIRILL
Evelina stands by my desk,her gaze wide and startled, and for a moment neither of us moves.
“What are you doing in my office?” I repeat. Because she sure as fuck shouldn’t be in here.
My first thought is that something’s wrong. That she came looking for me because she’s in trouble, or scared, or needs help. But the defiant tilt of her chin and the anger simmering in her eyes tell me that’s not it at all.
She squares her shoulders like she’s gearing up for a fight. The notepad crumples in her grip. “Why do you think I’m here, Kirill?”
I shake my head, scanning my office, but nothing is out of place. The laptop’s closed. The files are where I left them. No cameras in here. Privacy is what we sell, and my office is the one place in this entire building where I don’t have to worry about being watched. “I have no idea, Evelina.”
