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“I said political marriage was a slow death.”
“You proposed to me during a political crisis.”
“And look how well it worked out,” he grinned.
Kit glanced at Ivan. “Ivan never said he wouldn’t marry. He simply broke into my apartment repeatedly and waited for me to figure out the situation for myself.”
“That is a deliberately hostile summary,” Ivan said.
“It is also accurate.”
Riley’s eyes returned to me. “You see? There’s hope for us all.”
“Not a fucking chance,” I replied.
Loving again just wasn’t in the cards for me.
The laughter came quickly, warm and familiar, but Maxim didn’t join in with them. His gaze met mine across the table, and for one quiet second, I knew he was remembering another woman. Another life. Another time when the empty chair hadn’t been empty. Then Riley touched his wrist, and the moment passed.
I didn’t say another word.
* * *
Forty-six minutes later, a few of us left Maxim’s estate and headed to the Iron Wolf Tavern. Ivan followed me into the back room carrying a black file beneath one arm.
The bar hadn’t opened for the evening yet, leaving the main room dark except for the amber lights behind the mahogany bar. Bottles of vodka glowed along the shelves like glass trophies. The place smelled of polished wood, old smoke, and the faint citrus cleanser the staff used every Sunday afternoon.
Ivan closed the private door behind us and set the file on the heavy round table.
“You found something,” I drawled.
“Kit found the first irregularity. I followed the trail after that.”
I looked at the folder, only to see it had my name written across the front.
“Have you shown the others?”
“No.”
“Why are you bringing it to me first?”
Ivan removed his glasses, cleaned them with the edge of his shirt, and replaced them before answering. It was a delaying habit he believed no one noticed, but I noticed everything.
“Because you should see it first,” he finally replied.
I opened the file and started to read.
The first page traced a payment through two dead accounts into a Volkov-controlled company six days before the bombing that killed our parents. This was the first evidence that someone else had paid for the first murders.
I turned the page and read on to see Mikhail Orlov’s name.
“Orlov money funded this?” I asked.
“The route begins inside an old Mikhail Orlov-controlled shell company. It’s not under his direct name, but the architecture matches three other entities Kit and I confirmed during the investigation into her brother’s death.”
“And the final company?”
“Tied to the Volkovs through beneficial ownership, property records, and payroll. It’s strong enough to be real, but not strong enough to survive court.”
