Page 115 of His Stolen Bride

I let him sweat for a few seconds. “Sit,” I say.

He sits too fast, and I slide a paper across the desk. It’s a list of names, accounts, routes, and companies. The shell stack. Cyprus, Odessa, northern Italy, Vienna. His eyes widen. “You kept records,” I say.

He licks his lips nervously. “I had to.”

“You stole,” I correct.

He tries to deny it, but then he sees my face and stops.

“Tell me everything,” I say, “and you live.”

His breath shakes out. “And if I don’t?”

I don’t raise my voice. “Then you die and I find out anyway.”

He looks at Alina again, like he wants mercy from a woman.

Alina doesn’t give it. She tilts her head slightly. “Start with the route through Trieste,” she says calmly. “Vladimir used it when he was watching for me.”

The accountant stares.

I look at her. “You already know.”

“I know pieces,” Alina says. “He liked to talk.”

The accountant’s mouth opens, then closes.

Sofia mutters, half impressed, “Yeah, he did.”

I tap the desk once. “Trieste.”

The accountant talks.

He spills everything and names the Italian bank that liked “vague paperwork”. He names the lawyer who stamped contracts without asking questions. He names a man in Vienna who brokered introductions at charity galas and never got his hands dirty. He names the warehouse by the river where Vladimir kept weapons disguised as commercial stock.

He also names the problem I expected.

“Vladimir’s not the only one who put money down,” he says. “There were others who wanted her. Not her, but what she is. The clean face. The border access. The heir story.”

Alina’s fingers flex once at her side.

I keep my gaze on the accountant. “Names.”

He gives them.

Two are dead already, taken out by Vladimir years ago. One is alive.

One is Morin-adjacent.

That one matters.

Enzo steps back into the room at the wrong time and catches the last name.

His face goes tight. “That’s not possible.”

“It’s possible,” I say. “It’s just unpleasant.”

Alina’s voice is quiet. “Who?”