Chapter 9 #2
I hold his stare. “Back room. Dima’s with him.”
Igor stops beside the table, rests one leather-gloved hand near the edge. Doesn’t touch the evidence. Doesn’t ask.
So I make the move.
I step forward and pull the top sheet from the file—the printout showing the trail Boris traced. Simple. Clean. Unnamed transfers linking the stolen cash to a Cayman shell, then back into a holding company. One I know Igor’s heard of before.
Volkov Holdings LLC.
I hold it out—not too close.
But before it can reach Igor, Timofey moves.
Not fast. Just smooth enough to make it obvious.
He plucks the page from my hand like it’s an afterthought, eyes barely skimming it before he lets out a low chuckle.
“Oh, this?” he says, turning toward Igor without looking at me. “I’ve already handled it. Spoke to our guy in the Caymans two days ago. Funds were routed through an old, dead-end account.”
He grins when he says it. Barely a curve, just enough teeth to remind me he thinks he’s already won.
Then he folds the printout once, then again, edges squared, creases clean, drops it on the corner like it’s trash.
Like this evidence isn’t the product of weeks of work.
Boris’s digging. My tracking. Mary’s risk.
Igor doesn’t look at me.
He stares at the table like the weight of his silence alone could decide which one of us walks out of here.
Lev shifts next to me, a sharp inhale. He wants to speak. Wants to call it out for what it is. I shut him down with one look. His jaw clicks shut.
Timofey fills the gap. Smooth. Easy. “Don’t worry, dyadya. My people already started tracing the funds back. Should be locked down by the end of the week. Viktor’s a mess, but he wasn’t hard to follow. We’re lucky he’s as dumb as he is greedy.”
Igor taps a finger once. Then asks, “Is that what happened?”
Fucker’s clever. He’s telling Igor exactly what Igor wants to hear: the money’s coming back. That’s all Igor ever cares about. Not loyalty. Not the body count. Just the cash flow. Timofey knows it, and he’s already feeding him the one answer that matters.
Timofey shrugs, casual as you please. “Yes. Two million already in motion. I’ll see it returned.
” He pulls a cigar from his coat pocket, clips the end with a silver cutter, and lights it with a casual flick before handing it to Igor.
Like he’s been doing it his whole life. Like he’s not just a nephew, but the heir apparent.
Igor sinks into the chair we set out, inhales slowly, lets the smoke curl upward before exhaling through his nose. His eyes cut toward me for the first time tonight.
“Bring me the traitor.”
That’s the order.
I keep my expression flat. My blood simmers slowly in my chest, but I don’t let it climb. Can’t. Not here. Not now.
The guards move before I can. They drag Viktor out of the holding room, half-carrying him by the arms. His shirt clings, damp with sweat, his face pale under the overhead lights. He stumbles twice before they shove him to his knees.
His eyes hit Igor first. Wide. Shining. Desperate. But then they slide sideways. Land on Timofey.
“I-I’m sorry…” he sobs.
That’s when the trembling starts. Not the twitchy shakes from exhaustion or pain. This is deeper. The marrow-deep kind you can’t fake. His whole body quivers like his bones are trying to escape him.
Timofey pulls another cigar from his pocket. He taps it against his palm three times, then slides it between his teeth.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he mutters, flicking the lighter. Flame pops. He takes a slow drag, exhales like he owns the oxygen in this room. “Look at you, Viktor. Knees on concrete. Shaking like a whore in winter. What happened to all that clever bookkeeping?”
Viktor’s throat works. “I-I didn’t…” His eyes dart to me, then back to Timofey. “I didn’t mean for—”
“Didn’t mean?” Timofey cuts him off, smoke curling from his mouth. He leans down, close enough that Viktor flinches. “You think intent matters, suka? You skim from family, you sign your own sentence. Doesn’t matter what you meant.”
“I was… I was told—” Viktor stammers, words falling apart.
“Told by who?” Igor’s voice cuts through, low and hard. He hasn’t moved from the chair. Just sitting. Watching. Waiting. “Who’s behind this?”
The silence stretches. Viktor’s lips shake. He looks at Igor, then at me. His mouth opens, closes. His shoulders fold like he’s caving in.
“Tell him what you told me,” I say. I need him to repeat it. The Cayman trail. The names. Put it in the air before Timofey guts the story.
But Viktor doesn’t speak. His eyes flick back to Timofey, and that’s the problem.
Timofey crouches down, resting his forearms on his knees like he’s just getting comfortable.
“He’s confused,” he says, voice smooth, dismissive. “Doesn’t know who to trust. Poor man thinks the Reaper might save him. Isn’t that right, Viktor?”
Viktor makes a sound that’s not quite a word. A wet choke. His shoulders shake.
Timofey pats his cheek, almost gentle. “You want to tell dyadya here the truth? Or you want to keep hiding behind Anton’s shadow?”
He stands again, takes a slow drag from his cigar, eyes flicking my way with the faintest smile. “My men tell me the accounts ran through a shell someone set up years ago,” he says, casual, smoke curling from his lips. “Old trick. Smart one. Who would ever question him, right?”
Lev lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. I turn just enough to catch his eye—a single look that says don’t. He shuts up.
Igor’s gaze lifts from the table—finally—settling on me.
Viktor swallows, eyes darting between us, panic clawing at his face. His mouth works like it’s full of gravel.
Finally, he rasps, “It wasn’t—”
And that’s when Timofey moves.
One clean shot. Right temple.
Viktor drops like the strings got cut, blood already spreading dark across the concrete. No gasp. No scream. Just gone.
Timofey lowers the pistol smoothly, like it weighs nothing. Like it’s a pen he just finished signing with.
“He was about to lie,” he says, voice flat.
Viktor’s body is still twitching when silence swallows the room. Smoke hangs low. The copper tang of blood mixes with the burn of Timofey’s cigar.
Igor doesn’t move at first. He just watches me, as if the corpse on the ground is nothing but background noise. Then he takes a long, unhurried drag from his cigar. Lets it out slow, smoke curling around his face like fog over stone.
Lev breaks it first. A dry scoff. “Wow,” he drawls, clapping twice, slow and mocking. “What a fucking show.”
The sound bounces off the walls. Dima doesn’t move, but his eyes cut sideways at him, warning.
I don’t give Lev a look. Don’t give anyone anything. My gaze stays on Igor.
Because this isn’t about Viktor anymore. It’s about what comes next.
Igor leans back in the chair, sets the cigar between his fingers. Then he speaks, voice quiet enough to make us all lean in.
“You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately,” he says. The words are calm. Patient. But the weight behind them is deliberate. “Maybe some rest. Step back from operations for now. Let others handle the transfers.”
Translation: My leash just got shorter. Timofey’s holding the chain.
Lev goes rigid against the wall. The mockery is gone now, replaced by something sharp. Dima’s jaw flexes once, tight as stone.
I don’t let anything show. Not anger. Not insult. Not the fact that Timofey just rewrote the story in front of us all, and Igor let him.
I keep my posture straight, shoulders squared, eyes on the man who made me.
Every muscle in my body wants to react—wants to move—but I don’t.
Not here. Not in front of them. Not when the wrong breath could be taken as defiance.
I swallow it down, the heat, the humiliation, the urge to put my fist through something, and make myself smaller. Colder.I nod once. Steady. Controlled.
“As you wish, Pakhan.”