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“Alessia Caruso.”
“Show me the appointment documents,” I replied.
The nominee opened his folder.
Levon’s brows lifted slightly. “No pleasantries then?”
“I spent my entire adult life taking money from men while pretending their conversation interested me. I don’t do that for free.”
Levon didn’t show any sign of amusement. He just cocked his head as the nominee placed several pages on the desk. They described him as a temporary operating partner in the American Bellandi holdings, with authority over customs contracts, port scheduling, and vendor appointments. The false authorization Amy and Giulia had prepared in my name waited inside my bag, correct enough to survive a glance and wrong enough that nothing could ever become legal.
“If I appoint him,” I said, tapping the top page, “what do I receive?”
“Control of the American companies,” Levon replied. “Your father’s trustees step aside. The marital protection is removed, and you choose who serves beneath you.”
“Where’s Sokolov?” I continued.
“Here.”
The voice came from behind me.
Viktor Sokolov had entered through the warehouse door without anyone announcing him.
In person, he looked exactly like the photographs: late fifties, thinning gray hair, rimless glasses, and the forgettable face of a man who had spent decades moving fortunes while ensuring no waiter, driver, or customs officer remembered him afterward. He wore a dark overcoat over an ordinary navy suit and carried a small hard-sided case in one hand.
His gaze settled on me, then moved briefly toward my bare ring finger. I opened my bag and placed the false Bellandi authorization on the desk. The red wax trust seal sat beneath my signature line. Levon reached for it, but I covered the paper with my hand.
“I want the money first.”
“It releases when you appoint my nominee,” he countered.
“Then we have a problem.”
Sokolov removed his overcoat and folded it over the back of a chair. “No problem. It’s just the normal sequence.”
He unlocked the case in his hand. Inside, surrounded by fitted black foam, rested a small, matte-black device no longer than my thumb. A narrow silver strip ran along one edge.
It was a Veles key.
Whether it was Sokolov’s original or a clone did not matter. The same access had financed the bombing, the Volkov sedan used around Mila’s murder, Levon’s weapons, and Dmitry’s surveillance. The same Petrosyan-Volkov network surrounding the current operation had reached back eleven years to my mother’s murder.
It looked insultingly ordinary.
I looked at Levon. “Once the funds clear, I retain the power to remove the nominee.”
“Of course.”
I knew he was lying through his teeth.
I turned to Sokolov. “Who controls the money?”
“Whoever holds the key.”
Levon’s expression hardened. “I control the companies.”
“After she signs, you will,” Sokolov said.
I allowed a small smile. “This partnership seems healthy.”
