My fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the folder as I continue scanning. There are notes in the margins. Legal commentary. Historical transfers. Protective clauses my father must have put in place long before any of this began. Safeguards I never understood until now.
A system designed to outlive chaos.
And Anton is standing outside it.
Completely.
This is why he’s coming after me. I’ve understood that for a long time now—maybe longer than I’ve admitted to myself.
A small smile touches my lips. Not because anything is funny, but because somehow I’ve lost my nerves.
At the back of the page, there’s a list of contacts. Loyalists to my father. Petrov loyalists. Names I am not meant to use casually. Names that are meant to stay buried until the moment they are needed.
Now is the moment.
My fingers hover over my phone.
Then I pick it up.
My pulse is steady now.
I dial the first number. Artyom Pavlov. An old general.
It rings once. Twice.
Then a voice answers—low, older, cautious.
“Da?”
I inhale slowly.
“My name is Valeria Petrova,” I say clearly.
Silence hits the line immediately.
Long enough that I almost think he’s going to hang up.
Then, in a quieter voice: “…that’s not possible.”
“I’m alive,” I reply. “And I need you to listen carefully.”
Quiet.
Then—wariness.
“Valeria Petrova died,” he says. “That was confirmed days ago.”
“I am very much alive.” I tighten my grip on the phone slightly. “I can never die and let Anton win,” I say firmly. “And I haven’t.”
Silence again. This one different. He’s listening now.
“I’m calling because I’m taking back what belongs to my family,” I continue. “The Petrov empire. And I want to know who still remembers who they serve.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
When he speaks again, his voice has changed. Less doubt. More recognition.
“…if you are who you say you are,” he says slowly, “then Anton has been sitting in a house that was never his.”
