38. Chapter 38
38
Konstantin
T he private lounge is thick with cigar smoke and quiet tension. Manhattan glints through floor-to-ceiling windows behind me, its skyline cold and jagged in the evening dark, like a city built from scalpels. We’re thirty-five floors up at The Apex, a place where men like Richard Alcott pretend they still matter.
He signs. Tries not to look shaken. Fails.
“Just like that? One-point-three billion?” Marcus Whitley’s voice carries the affected casualness of old money. He taps his Mont Blanc pen against the contract’s final page while his eyes scan the zeroes.
“Just like that,” I confirm, my tone flat.
Whitley is fifty-something, spray-tanned to the color of weak coffee, with a hairline that’s been surgically dragged back into position. The desperation in his eyes costs nothing—it’s the free gift that comes with making bad decisions.
“Fuck,” he exhales, signing with a flourish. “Never thought I’d be this happy to admit defeat. Your father taught you well.”
I don’t bother correcting him. Anatoly Belov taught me precisely three things: how to take a punch, how to throw one harder, and how the coffin looks when it closes on someone who crosses you. The rest I learned despite him.
Arseny exhales slowly beside me, slouched with calculated ease, a glass of Talisker in one hand and a glint of something mean in his eye. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, tattoos curling over his forearms like stories that end badly.
“To new beginnings,” Whitley says, raising his glass. “And the end of Parker Group.”
“The end was inevitable. You just finally saw it coming.”
Whitley pours himself two fingers of Dalmore 25 and slides the bottle in my direction.
I don’t touch it.
He clears his throat. “So… everything’s going well, huh.”
There it is. That carefully engineered dig. The fake warmth wrapped in legacy politics.
Whitley lifts his glass. “And your father? Still running things from the shadows, or has he passed the torch?”
For a second, the room chills. Not because I say anything—but because I don’t.
I keep my face still. Controlled. But Timur shifts his stance. Arseny stops swirling his drink.
Alcott doesn’t realize what he’s done until the silence stretches too long.
He thinks this is casual. That he can toss my father’s name around like it doesn’t carry weight. Like it’s not dangerous.
I lean forward. “You don’t speak of Anatoly Belov unless you’ve earned the right.”
That shuts him up.
Timur slides a sleek titanium case toward me. I unlock it with my thumbprint. Inside is the cold wallet—unbranded, matte black, ordinary to the untrained eye. To me, it holds ghosts, war chests, leverage. He’s been typing one-handed on his phone since the signing began, pausing only to slide documents my way.
“Transfers are ready,” he says, the first words he’s spoken in twenty minutes. “Routing through Cayman first, then splitting between Singapore and Zurich. Paperwork shows legitimate acquisition.”
Whitley’s smile tightens. “And my… personal compensation?”
“Already done.” Timur nods once. “Check your Binance account.”
The relief on Whitley’s face is pathetic. I can read it like billboard text. He’s already spent that money in his head.
“Heard you got married,” Whitley says, trying to steer toward casual conversation now that his financial future is secured. “Quite the whirlwind, from what I hear. Russian tradition or just… impatience?” His laugh is too loud for the room.
I don’t smile. “The right decision doesn’t need time.”
“She’s beautiful,” he continues, pulling out his phone. “My daughter showed me the photos from the charity summit. She’s what—26? Or 27?”
“She’s 29,” I correct, though I owe him nothing. “And far too intelligent to be discussed in a room full of men who should know better.”
Whitley shifts, discomfort rolling off him in waves. “Of course. Meant no disrespect.”
“Yes, you did,” I say evenly. “You just didn’t expect to be called on it.”
Arseny makes a sound that might be a laugh or a scoff. Either way, it breaks the tension.
“Now, the settlement details,” I continue, nodding to Timur.
Timur slides an iPad across the table. “The company remains intact through Q3. By Q4, we rebrand and restructure. Current executive team receives severance per the standard package.”
“Standard package being…?” Whitley asks, lighting his cigar.
“Two months’ salary, non-disparagement agreement, and no industry work for eighteen months,” Timur recites.
“Jesus. That’s brutal.”
“That’s business,” I correct. “The board gets less.”
Whitley exhales smoke, appraising me with new respect. “You really don’t give a fuck, do you?”
I check my watch. Meeting done. “I give very specific fucks about very specific things. Parker Group’s executive comfort isn’t one of them.”
Timur’s phone vibrates. He checks it, then looks at me with a minuscule nod. The blockchain confirmations are starting to register. One-point-three billion dissolving into digital fragments, flowing through the financial system’s dark channels before reconstituting in places where it’s invisible to everyone but me.
“I don’t keep assets where governments can touch them,” I tell Whitley, standing to signal the end of our business. “Only six people know where the cold wallet keys are.”
“Six?” Whitley raises an eyebrow, trying to appear knowledgeable.
“Me,” I count off, “Arseny, Timur, my attorney, the man who programmed the security, and the man who killed him after.”
Whitley’s cigar freezes halfway to his mouth. He can’t tell if I’m joking.
I’m not.
Arseny stands, retrieving his jacket with fluid grace. “Always a pleasure watching you work, boss.”
Whitley rises too quickly, nearly knocking over his drink. “Listen, I’m heading to Severin’s place uptown. Having a little celebration tonight. You should come.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “The man throws legendary parties. Models, actresses, all very discreet. No strings, no photos.”
I study him for a brief moment. A year ago, I would have gone. Vodka, women, cocaine cut with whatever pharmaceutical heightened sensation without dulling performance. The holy trinity of post-deal celebration.
Now, all I feel is impatience. The thought of wasting hours with strangers whose names I’ll never remember makes my skin itch.
“I have a plane to catch,” I say, buttoning my suit jacket.
“Come on,” Whitley persists. “One drink. I guarantee you’ll find something to your taste.”
Arseny watches this exchange with amusement, already knowing my answer.
“I’m married,” I say finally.
Whitley laughs like I’ve told a particularly good joke. “Right, right. And I’m faithful to my wife during tax season.”
The room temperature seems to drop ten degrees. Timur silently gathers his tablet and backs away from the blast radius.
“Whitley,” I say, voice quiet enough that he has to lean in to hear me. “I’m only going to say this once . My marriage is not your punchline.”
He blinks, realizing too late that he’s crossed a line. “Of course. My apologies.”
I’ve killed men for less. Men with cleaner suits, better instincts, and quieter mouths. If it weren’t for the surveillance and the optics, he’d already be bleeding into the rug.
I turn to leave, Arseny and Timur falling into step behind me.
“Congratulations again on the acquisition,” Whitley calls after us, desperation creeping into his voice. “And the marriage.”
The door closes behind us, and we step into the private elevator that will take us back to street level.
“Fucking amateur,” Arseny mutters, lighting a cigarette despite the no-smoking sign. “You’d think a man with that much money would know when to shut up.”
“He doesn’t have much money anymore,” Timur notes, still typing on his phone. “And he’s about to have considerably less.”
I check the time. Just past four-thirty.
She should be with her siblings now.
Timur clears his throat, eyes still on his phone. “Boss, I dug deeper into the Mikhailov situation.”
I tilt my head.
“Irina’s family is circling the drain. Three failed ventures in two years. Moscow holdings defaulted. And the yacht? Seized. Last month.”
Arseny’s eyebrows lift. “Mikhailov? Broke? That’s like saying Siberia’s cozy.”
“Not bankrupt,” Timur says. “But not liquid. He’s desperate.”
Alexei Mikhailov. The man who handed me his daughter like a treaty and then blamed me when she vanished. I didn’t look for her. Didn’t ask questions.
But now?
Now he’s bleeding money and circling the drain.
And Irina—after nine years of silence—just happens to resurface?
No such thing as coincidence. Not in this world.
“What are the odds that Irina shows up just as her father’s empire starts to collapse?” I ask, more to myself than anyone else.
Arseny exhales smoke. “Odds don’t matter. Motive does.”
The elevator dings. We step into the lobby, glass doors reflecting the convoy outside.
My phone buzzes.
Viktor.
Update: Mrs. Belov’s not at the estate. Café in downtown Carmel. She’s with Elena Miller. No tail. Security’s on standby.
Of course she is.
Elena Miller—Bella’s emotional support system in a crop top. I had her file pulled the second the ink dried on the marriage license.
Blood type: O negative. Preferred activities: hot yoga and men with boundary issues. Recent Amazon orders: lavender body oil, a rose quartz yoni wand, and a three-pack of edible underwear.
Julian’s school ID scans at 3:12 every day. Lila’s TikTok settings are private, but not her group chat screenshots. Bella’s world? Logged. Indexed. Tagged.
She thinks I don’t know her.
She thinks this is freedom.
My screen lights up again.
Unknown number. One missed call. No voicemail. No ID.
Not spam.
One ping. No bounce. No trace.
A burner.
Someone just reached for my wife.