The evening ends. Anya is taken upstairs by Elizabeth, who promises the morning chocolate and a new chapter ofCharlotte’s Web. Mikhail clears his throat. Alexei straightens in his chair. The domestic performance is over. The professional one begins.
We move toward the office.
“Most of the hotels are done,” Alexei says, settling into the leather chair across from my desk. He places a tablet on the surface between us. “Nine properties hit simultaneously, two more within the hour. The remaining four sustained enough damage to render them nonoperational for months.”
“Casualties?”
“Minimal on our side. Three injuries, none critical. His people weren’t expecting coordinated strikes. Most of the buildings were lightly staffed at that hour.”
“And his laundering pipeline?”
“Severed.” Alexei allows himself the faintest trace of satisfaction. “Conservative estimates put his revenue loss at several million per month. The cash processing infrastructure alone will take him the better part of a year to rebuild, and that’s assuming he can secure new locations without us flagging them.”
I lean back. The news should feel like progress, and strategically, it is. But I’ve known men like Dushku long enough to understand that crippling his wallet won’t cripple his resolve. If anything, it will sharpen it.
“His response?” I ask.
Alexei and Mikhail exchange a glance.
“That’s the concern,” Mikhail says. He speaks from thecorner where he stands, arms folded. “We’ve sent three separate proposals through back channels since the strikes. All rejected. He’s not interested in terms.”
“He wants this war,” Alexei adds. Quieter now. “This just made it worse. We destroyed his revenue, yes. But we also humiliated him. Nine buildings in one night. That’s not a military operation, that’s a statement. And Dushku doesn’t absorb statements. He answers them.”
“Marku wants blood. Dushku won’t stop until he gets his revenge,” Mikhail says. The name lands in the room with its full weight.
The killing wasn’t a professional insult. It was a blood offense. Albanian blood codes are old and rigid. He won’t negotiate.
“So, we’ve cut off his money and made him angrier,” I say.
“Essentially,” Mikhail replies.
“Good.” I reach for the vodka in the bottom drawer. Pour one glass. “An angry man with a shrinking bankroll makes mistakes. A funded, patient Dushku is dangerous. A broke, furious Dushku is predictable.”
“Or desperate,” Alexei counters. “Desperate men stop following rules. He hit a civilian target on Halsted when he still had resources. Without them?—”
“Then we fortify everything worth protecting and make the cost of every incursion higher than the last.” I set the glass on the table. “He wants to bleed for this? Fine. We make every drop expensive. We make it unsustainable. And when his people start calculating whether loyalty to a dead man is worth what it’s costing them — that’s when the cracks appear.”
Mikhail unfolds his arms. “And if the cracks don’t appear?”
“They always do.” I hold his gaze. “Blood codes hold families together. They don’t hold mercenaries. And the Albanians he called in from New York aren’t family. They’re contractors. They want money. When the flow stops, they go home.”
Silence. Alexei nods slowly. Mikhail absorbs the logic, turns it over, finds no flaw he’s willing to voice.
“One other matter,” I say. “Miss Calloway has been granted leave this Sunday. She’ll be off the property for the day.”
The room shifts. Alexei’s eyebrows rise. Mikhail’s arms refold.
“You’re letting her out,” Alexei says. Not a question.
“She’ll be accompanied.”
“By whom?”
“By me.”
Silence.
“Rolan.” Mikhail’s voice is careful. Measured. “Dushku has been watching the estate. Leaving the perimeter with a civilian?—”
