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“Not even a little one?”

“Nope.”

Her expression seemed to relax a bit. Her open defiance didn’t go away completely, but some of the tension beneath it did. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then the security panel near the pantry chimed twice, indicating recognized visitors at the rear entrance.

“It’s Ivan and Kit, apparently,” I observed.

Alessia looked toward the clock. “Before nine in the morning?”

“My family has no respect for normal hours,” I explained.

Ivan entered first through the back door directly into the kitchen, carrying a black case and two paper cups balanced in one hand. Kit followed close behind, her dark hair twisted into a loose knot with a pen shoved through it, a laptop bag hanging from one shoulder and a small clear evidence pouch pinched between two fingers.

She didn’t waste time removing her coat. Instead, she crossed the kitchen and dropped the pouch on the counter beside Alessia’s coffee. Then she looked at me.

The cartridge inside rolled once against the plastic.

“The dead company behind that ammunition shipment also moved money to a Volkov-controlled account six days before your parents were killed.”

I stared at the bullet.

There were better ways to deliver information. Softer ways, perhaps. Ivan would have built toward the point with timestamps, routing diagrams, and several careful warnings about what could and couldn’t be proven. Kit apparently preferred to dive right into the deep end, headfirst.

“What company?” I asked.

“On paper, it’s called Veles Maritime,” Ivan answered as he closed the door behind him. “It’s been dead for twelve years. Officially, anyway.”

Kit opened her laptop and turned it toward me. “Someone revived its credentials last month. Veles Maritime guaranteed a Serbian weapons broker who sold three lots of ammunition, suppressors, and compact pistols to a transport company controlled by Levon Petrosyan.”

“The ammunition from Nocturne,” I replied.

“And the man in the alley,” Kit replied. “Different gun. Same supply line.”

“Who brought Veles back?” I asked.

“We don’t know. The only thing we do know is that it wasn’t Mikhail,” Kit said. “He’s still in federal custody. Veles came back online after his indictment exposed the old shell network. Whoever revived it survived the collapse of his organization and still had access to the original credentials.”

Kit reached across the screen and opened another image.

Dmitry Volkov stared back at us. He had grown a full beard and put on dark glasses, but I still recognized him. His father Yuri had died six years ago. Dmitry inherited his territory, his people, and every grievance attached to the Volkov name.

“He entered Canada eleven days ago,” Ivan said. “He used a Serbian passport under the name Danilo Vuković. He crossed into New York with credentials belonging to a fight promoter.”

“Where is he now?”

“He was in Queens three nights ago,” Kit answered. “Manhattan yesterday morning. Then he disappeared.”

“How long have you known he entered the country?” I asked.

“Twenty-three minutes,” Ivan replied, his eyes flicking up towards mine.

“Call Maxim,” I ordered, closing Kit’s laptop.

Ivan studied my face. “Should we head to the Iron Wolf?”

“Yes. Now.”

Alessia folded her arms. “I assume this is the part where I’m sent to my room while the men discuss going to war.”