Page 32 of Ruined By Sin

"That lines up with what we already suspected," I say. "Dugan does the drive-by on you and Dracon, and then a few days later, they go after Rostik to cripple our fight card. They're hitting us from multiple angles." I swipe a hand down my face and sigh.

"It's coordinated. This isn't some hotheaded kid lashing out. Dugan pulled the trigger on me, sure, but someone told him to..." He sits up and winces as he does so but then says, "Mirov is coming for us, Bruh, and we gotta fight back."

He clicks through a few folders and opens a video file. The footage is shaky, shot from what looks like a parked car across the street from a restaurant. Through the window I can see a table with two men seated at it. One of them is Victor Mirov. He's unmistakable with that silver hair and angular frame. But the other takes me a second to place. When he turns his head toward the window, it clicks into place.

The image isn't as clear as Mirov's reflective head of hair, but there are enough details there for me to recognize the man. But I still can't see why Federov would be meeting with Mirov, anyway. He's never had a sit down with Roman like this, though, my brother never had to try to woo bettors in for the kill.

"When was this taken?" I ask.

"I shot it myself four days ago from the parking lot across the street."

I watch the footage play. Victor and Federov are eating dinner together, talking casually. At one point, Federov pulls out his phone and shows Victor something on the screen, and Victor nods slowly before reaching across the table to shake his hand.

"That doesn't look like casual," I grumble as it dawns on me what this means. Federov may be placing bets at Mirov's fights, but that's not our problem. The problem is that Kazimir's talent is waning. When Federov gets bored of the Kuzin ring, he'll move all his assets over to Mirov and others will follow.

"It's not. That's a deal being made."

I sit back and stare at the frozen frame on the screen. Federov is our highest-paying bettor. He's been with us for years, attending every invitational, placing six-figure bets that anchor the entire pool. If he's sitting across a table from Victor Mirov shaking hands, it means he's already gone.

But something about the video nags at me. The quality is grainier than what Morin usually produces, and the angle seems off, like the framing was adjusted after the fact. I lean closer to the screen and study the edges of the image, looking for anything that doesn't sit right. But while I'm the one Roman relies on for tech expertise, this isn't my forte. I can hack, and I can run security, but I can't necessarily spot a fake.

"The resolution on this is rough," I tell him, not really wanting to confess that I think he faked this video, but why would he fake anything? Why get us all worked up about Federov leaving if he's not? Morin's on our side.

"I was shooting through a car window at night across a four-lane road. It's not going to look like a Hollywood production, man." Morin shuts the laptop, effectively cutting my view off, but it doesn't stop my scrutiny.

"The color balance looked off too. Federov's jacket shifts between gray and blue depending on the frame."

Morin gives me a flat look. "Those were compression artifacts from the export. I had to shrink the file to send it to my own server. Tim, I was sitting in that parking lot for three hours waiting for them to show up. I shot this myself. You want me to describe the fucking appetizers?" He's starting to sound pissed at me, and I get it. If he didn’t believe what I told him when it was my work, I'd be pissed too.

Sort of how Kazimir keeps doubting me about Kira when I've told him I checked her out.

I hold up a hand. "Alright. I'm just being thorough."

"Be thorough about the Mirovs, not about my camera work."

He's irritated and I can see it in the way he purses his lips, but I let it go because he's not wrong. I'm nitpicking details when the big picture is staring me in the face. Victor Mirov is courting our biggest bettors.

"There's more." Morin reaches over to his end table and grabs a stack of papers, spreading them out on the table between us. "Federov has moved money three times in the past month to accounts I've traced back to Mirov-affiliated shell companies. The amounts are significant. We're talking mid-six figures total."

I scan the spreadsheets. The transfers are dated and the amounts are consistent with what Federov typically moves through our betting pools, which means he's not just diversifying. He's redirecting the bulk of his action away from us. If this is happening right under our noses, what is Mirov doing behind our backs? This isn't the type of shit he can keep hiding.

"Where did you get these?" I ask.

"I have contacts at two of the banks Federov uses. They owe me favors."

"These contacts are reliable?" I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. Roman isn't going to like this.

"I've used them before and they've never been wrong."

This is all bad. All of it. Victor Mirov is a cancer spreading through our organization and he has to be stopped. We have to go to Federov right away and find out what sort of deal the man has made with our enemy and why. And we need to put an end to these lazy, underhanded tactics to cut us out of our profits.

"When you're healthy," I say, and I meet his eyes to make sure he understands the weight of what I'm about to say, "I want you to shut the Mirovs down. Whatever it takes, however you have to do it. We can't afford to waste any more time. You have to end this now."

Morin doesn't smile at my orders, though I half expect him to, what with his thirst for blood most days. He nods and says, "I'll have a plan ready before the sling comes off."

"Just keep it clean..." I slowly stand.

"You have my word."