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Sokolov crossed to the computer and inserted the key into a recessed port on the front of the black tower. The old monitor woke, and a list of hundreds of folders appeared.

Kit drew an audible breath in my ear.

“We’re in,” she whispered.

I kept my face still.

“Copying now,” she continued. “Keep the key connected.”

Sokolov opened the current transfer file. Four status lines appeared beneath Levon’s nominee’s name.

Face—Pending

Voice—Pending

Palm—Pending

Trust Seal—Pending

A separate release column showed the Veles reserve waiting behind the connected key. The amount was enough to buy loyalty from every board member who had not already sold it, along with the customs officers and crews needed to enforce the change before the trustee intervened.

Levon put both hands on the desk. “Sign.”

“I haven’t approved the nominee’s removal terms,” I countered.

“We already discussed them,” he snarled.

“You discussed them. I listened.”

The nominee opened his mouth for the first time. “The appointment is temporary and revocable upon⁠—”

“Not by the current trustees,” I cut in. “By me. Directly.”

He began paging through his documents.

“Halfway there,” Kit murmured in my ear.

I needed more time.

I picked up the nominee agreement and read the same paragraph I had memorized that afternoon as though seeing it for the first time. Levon’s impatience thickened the room. Sokolov stared at the screen, one hand resting near the physical key. Then the main warehouse door opened.

Dmitry Volkov entered with two men behind him.

He had abandoned the beard and glasses from his border identity. The broken shape of his nose was visible beneath the cold warehouse lights, along with the faint ridge above his brow that he’d received from Nikolai in their fight. He looked directly at my bare left hand.

“Mrs. Morozov,” he said.

“I’m not Mrs. Morozov tonight.”

He smiled darkly, making my stomach churn. Then, Sokolov suddenly sucked in a breath and went still. His eyes narrowed at the monitor.

“Alessia, stall him,” Kit whispered in my ear.

Sokolov leaned closer to the screen. “What is this?”

No one answered. He touched the keyboard once, opened a small window, then looked directly at me.

“Someone is reading the archive,” he accused furiously.