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Ivan placed a copy of the financial records on the table.

“We already know you were involved,” he said.

Mikhail glanced down, and a glimmer of recognition crossed his face. “Viktor kept more than I realized,” Mikhail mused.

“Explain,” Ivan pressed.

“I ordered every record destroyed once Yuri had been paid,” he said. “Apparently, Sokolov preferred to keep some insurance.”

“What did the payment buy?” I asked.

“Access to the northern Russia route your father controlled.”

My hands remained flat against the table. “Why did you need Yuri?”

“Your father refused to grant me access. No weapons moved through that region without his approval. No money crossed the territory without someone paying him. I offered him a partnership.”

“He refused you.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Distrust. Pride. Perhaps he simply disliked me.”

“He had good judgment.”

A faint smile touched Mikhail’s mouth. “He was also standing in the middle of a route worth millions every month.”

Ivan tapped the payment record. “So, you hired Yuri Volkov.”

“I reached an agreement with him.”

“What agreement?” I pressed.

Mikhail’s attention returned to me. “Yuri wanted your father’s territory. I wanted the route running through it.”

“And my father was standing in the way of both.”

Mikhail was silent for long enough that I could hear the fluorescent light buzzing above us. “I paid for the obstacle to be removed and guaranteed rights afterwards,” he finally answered.

My chair scraped against the floor before I stopped myself from moving.

“The obstacle,” I repeated flatly.

“That was the language of the agreement.”

“Say what you paid for,” I pushed, scowling.

Mikhail met my eyes.

“I paid Yuri to kill your father. I didn’t choose the car bomb. Yuri did that,” he continued.

“My mother died in the blast too.”

“She was not part of the agreement.”

The statement was so cold that, for one brief second, I tasted blood and smelled burnt rubber. I heard glass falling onto the Moscow street. I saw my mother reaching for a car door she never touched.