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Something shifts inside me. I’m still here because he forced me, but the determination to do this job well belongs to me. Mikhail deserves that much. So does the frightened boy he’s trying to find.

That realization makes my breathing pick up even as the tension drains from the room. Defending a man accused of a crime is familiar ground. Caring whether his employer sleeps tonight is not. Yet here I am, in silk pajamas, wanting to take some of the weight off a killer’s shoulders.

For a long moment, neither of us says anything.

The silence feels different now. Less like a battlefield and more like two exhausted people standing in the wreckage after one.

I clear my throat. “Well. I’m quite awake now.”

One dark eyebrow lifts. “So I’ve noticed.”

“It would be a shame to waste the insomnia.”

A smile curves one side of those infuriating lips. “What are you proposing, Zvezda?” The question comes out in a low rumble that goes straight to my core, and I ignore it, gesturing toward the mountain of files colonizing every available surface.

“I need to understand Deep Waters at a deeper level.”

His expression sharpens immediately. “The legitimate company?”

“The whole thing.” I shrug. “I need to establish what Mikhail actually approved, and whether the records support his account of it. I need context.”

For the first time all night, Vasily looks genuinely pleased.

“Come here.”

He pulls another chair beside his own instead of across the desk. When I sit, it’s close enough that our shoulders almost touch. The office suddenly feels much smaller. He slides a blueprint in front of us.

“This lodge is one of twelve luxury developments we own outright.”

His large, veined hand moves across the paper, tracing roads, utility lines, property boundaries. Mine follows instinctively, comparing invoices to construction phases. Every so often our arms brush, neither of us acknowledging it. His sleeve is crisp beneath my forearm, warm from body heat instead of the cool night air outside.

He smells faintly of pine, coffee, and something clean I can’t identify, but keep leaning into. It’s deliciously distracting.

“The renovation budget doubled here,” I say, pointing to a section of the plans.

“Supply shortages.”

“Convenient.”

“It was true.”

“I’m sure it was.”

He chuckles quietly. “You question everything.”

“I bill by the hour for it.”

For the next hour or two, we dissect contracts, shell companies, lumber deliveries, payroll records, and property acquisitions. The empire begins to unfold into something unexpectedly sophisticated. It’s not just intimidation and dirty money.

It’s logistics. A lot of planning from half a dozen men under his command, including a Timur Borisov, who must be a relative. There’s an entire machine hidden beneath polished vacation rentals and luxury lakefront homes.

I hate how impressed I am.

Somewhere around the fifth spreadsheet, the numbers begin to blur. I blink hard and sit back.

The next blueprint swims slightly out of focus.

“You’re falling asleep,” Vasily says, sounding far away.