Page 59 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

Nice try, big guy. But you’re forgetting who my father is. And you're forgetting who raised me.

I wait until the sound of his SUV’s engine rumbles in the driveway and fades into the distance before I slip through the double doors of his study.

The room smells like tobacco, cold coffee, and the faint, dry scent of old paper. His massive mahogany desk is completely clear, save for a heavy, encrypted black laptop resting near the leather blotter. I sit in his chair, the leather still slightly warm from his body, and pull the screen open.

A high-security encryption prompt flashes on the glass, a single, blank line waiting for a password.

Come on, Ilya. You’re a control freak. You don't use random software-generated strings because you don't trust the cloud.

I lean my elbows on the desk, staring at the flashing cursor. I try his initials combined with his mother's death date. Incorrect. I try the coordinates of the northern docks. Incorrect. Two attempts remaining before permanent lockdown.

I look around the desk, my eyes scanning the dark wood. Near the brass pen holder is a small, slightly bent drawing Ekaterina did for him last month, a simple sketch of the garden with a tiny, neat signature in the corner: Ekaterina, age 16.

Ekaterina is his absolute weakness. She is the only thing in this world he loves without condition, the only person he built this entire fortress to protect. He wouldn't use his own name. He wouldn't use his father's.

I type her name, followed by her birthdate in the European format he prefers. Ekaterina18112008.

I hit enter.

The screen flickers, the red security bar turning a steady, bright green as the database unlocks, columns of encrypted financial sheets and logistics registries instantly filling the screen.

A dry, satisfied smile scratches at the corner of my mouth. Men are so predictable when they’re trying to be protective.

I spend the next twenty minutes scrolling through his offshore ledgers, my fingers moving fast across the trackpad. I don't need a tutorial. I grew up sitting on the floor of my father's study while his accountants argued about how to mask Baltic port fees as shipping container rentals. I know how to read a balance sheet better than most people with business degrees.

And as I look at Ilya’s plan for the five-million-dollar wire, I realize Dmitri was right. It’s a complete disaster.

He’s trying to push a lump-sum transaction through a Zurich bank that has been under federal surveillance since the Vostok shipping routes were audited. If that money hits my father’s courier, the treasury agents will freeze it before the ink on the digital receipt is even dry. It won't save my father. It will just lead the Feds and Mikhail straight to his front door.

I can fix this, I think, my mind racing as I pull up the Baltic maritime registry, my eyes tracking the Vostok cargo lanes. And I’m going to make sure he knows it.

I hear the heavy thud of the study doors swinging open behind me.

I don't look up from the screen. I keep my fingers on the keyboard, typing a quick series of offset values into his spreadsheet.

Ilya stops in the center of the rug, his tailored black coat dripping with rain, his leather gloves still on. He stares at me, his face turning into a flat, terrifying mask of anger as he sees me sitting in his chair, his private laptop wide open in front of me.

"Get away from the desk, Via," he growls, his voice carrying a low, dangerous vibration that usually makes his captains look at the floor.

I click the enter key, the screen flashing a successful simulation before I finally look up, leaning back in his leather chair and crossing my arms. "You thought I was just a pretty face, Ilya? I grew up in a laundering house. I was looking over my father’s offshore ledgers while you were still learning how to clean your first rifle."

He closes the distance between us in three long strides, his hand slamming flat onto the mahogany desk, leaning his weight over me. His dark eyes are wild, a frantic, angry heat radiating from his chest. "How did you get into this terminal?"

“I’m smart," I say, my voice smooth, refusing to flinch under his shadow. "It wasn't that hard to guess. But we have much bigger problems than my hacking skills, Ilya. Your plan to save my father is stupid. It’s brute-force, and it’s going to get him killed."

His jaw works rhythmically, his fingers digging into the dark wood of the desk. "I’m keeping him alive. Dmitri is already routing the cash."

"Dmitri is routing a giant red target straight to his head," I snap, pointing a finger at the screen. "Look at the Zurich transit logs. That bank has been under an international treasury audit since the Vostok routes were flagged last month. The second that five million hits the ledger, the federal agents will have a warrant for the courier's arrest. They won't even have to look for my father. They’ll just follow the money trail straight to his kitchen."

Ilya’s eyes flick to the screen, his brow furrowing as he scans the data I’ve pulled up. He doesn't say a word, but I can see the subtle shift in his shoulders, the way his jaw relaxes just a fraction as he realizes the reality of the numbers.

"Then what is your solution?" He looks back at me, his tone losing the angry snap, replaced by a quiet, intense curiosity. "We can't use the northern accounts. They’re flagged."

"We don't use cash at all," I say, leaning forward and tapping the glass of the screen. "We use maritime insurance."

Ilya tilts his head, his eyes tracking my finger. "Explain."

"The Vostok family owes my father three million in old logistics debt from the southern channel," I say, my voice steady, the business logic taking over the tension. "And they currently have four cargo ships insured through an underwriter in London—outside of the Russian treasury's jurisdiction. If we structure a 'cargo loss' claim for one of those ships in the western channel, the insurance payout goes directly to a third-party claim adjuster. That claim adjuster is a shell company my father registered in Panama ten years ago."