“As far as I’m aware, they have a few suspects of interest. Nothing solid so far, however.”
It’s true. Or at least true enough. The FSB always has suspects. They thrive on them. Names, faces, loosely connected narratives strung together with paranoia and half-baked intelligence. Solid evidence, though, that’s another matter entirely.
Nikolai nods slowly, as if filing the information away. “And you?”
The question is deceptively simple. I frown despite myself. “And me, what?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite into a smile but close enough to make my skin prickle with unease.
“Your opinion, Sasha,” he clarifies. “What is it?”
My lips part slightly, more from surprise than any real lack of words.
He almost never asks for my opinion outright. Not like this, at least. Not without already having his own conclusions firmly in place. When Nikolai solicits input, it’s usually to test alignment or to see who will contradict him and how boldly they’ll do it.
I feel the weight of Volkov’s attention sharpen from across the table. Kuznetsov’s gaze flicks between us, cautious and curious in equal measure.
I straighten subtly in my chair, choosing my words with care.
“My opinion,” I begin slowly, “is that whoever orchestrated these attacks knows the city well. They’re not acting blindly. The timing, the locations, the execution… it all points to someone who understands how to apply pressure without drawing too much attention all at once.”
I pause, just long enough to let that settle over them.
Then, I continue. “They want disruption, not collapse. Chaos creates opportunity, but only if it’s tightly controlled. Whoever this is seems to be testing boundaries, seeing how far they can push the narrative before someone else pushes back.”
My eyes meet Nikolai’s fully now. “And if that’s the case, then the question isn’t whether Moscow is coming under attack or not. It’s who benefits most from making it look that way.”
The silence that follows is immediate and dense.
Nikolai studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, his gaze sharp with interest rather than displeasure. I can’t tell whether I’ve given him exactly what he wanted orwalked straight into a trap he’s been setting since the first moment I sat down.
So, I wait.
It is something I learned how to do very young, how to sit still beneath scrutiny, how to keep my face neutral while men with far more power than me have decided to weigh my worth and decide whether I was useful or expendable. Waiting is a discipline. A weapon, even. It allows others to reveal themselves first.
So, I wait for the verdict.
When it doesn’t come, the silence stretches enough to become uncomfortable. The longer it drags on, the more effort it takes to keep my impulses leashed. Every instinct in me wants to press, to force the issue forward, to seize control of the narrative before it turns against me. But that would be a mistake, and I know it.
Only when Kuznetsov finally speaks do I allow myself to break eye contact with Nikolai.
“Who are the suspects?” he asks, his voice curious rather than accusatory.
It’s a reasonable question. A safe one. The kind meant to move the conversation along without lighting any fires.
I draw in a breath, ready to answer?—
But Nikolai cuts in smoothly before I can say a word.
“I believe one of them is Viktor Morozov.”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it, the muscle locking hard enough that I feel the faint ache of it travel up toward my temple.
Had I anticipated this turn? Yes. Absolutely. Nikolai has never hidden his distaste for Morozov, nor his irritation with my continued association with that family. From the moment Alina arrived under my roof, the tension has been there, simmering beneath the surface of every interaction, every carefully worded message passed through intermediaries.
But was I expecting him to place Morozov directly on the table like this? To name him openly this early in the discussion?
No. Not entirely.
