21. LEO #6
Sal doesn't know it, but his family is alive.
Or something like that. He must think they were killed, but Dante kept his promise to protect them, in his own way.
They received a generous sum of money, new identities, and a one-way flight to some forgotten place in the Midwest. They made a silent agreement: if they return or say anything about the past, they truly disappear.
Dmitry told me this one day. I asked out of clinical curiosity.
Meanwhile, Sal gave us everything he had to give for now.
He no longer fights, and we don't need extensive blackmail or threats.
Deep down, I think Dmitry enjoys his petty, justified revenge.
He talks about Sal's children in detail—how he would ruin their lives, hunt them down, dig up every living relative.
And he does this knowing exactly where they are: crying for Sal, yes, but wiping their tears with money inside a hot tub in a mansion in the Midwest.
For today, Luca took Sal away from here.
A shame. I even like looking at his fucked-up wrists—it's a reminder of the last time Dante really spoke to me.
But we're on practical matters and, according to Luca, Dante would prefer Sal to be kept in the dark.
According to Luca . Everything according to Luca, or according to Dmitry, or according to Svetlana, because Dante is still just a presence in my head, though in constant contact with his list of pillars… which doesn't include me.
The video call with Dmitry is almost over. We finalize the details of the first information leak that will pit Ivan against Alexei. The work is ready to be executed.
"Are we done for today, then?" I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.
" Yes. Good job, Nyx ," Dmitry says. " Dante will like to see these results. "
Dante will like it . Of course he will. Except he's not here to see it. He hasn't been here at any point.
Well, he's done this before. He keeps me when he wants. But now it's different. I'm not a pet—he promoted me for this.
The last time I saw him was in that basement.
After he shot Sal's hands. I touched him.
I saw the way he looked at me, afterward.
There was hunger, but there was something else.
Shame? Disgust? Maybe the kiss in the warehouse, in front of Luca, was a mistake.
A misstep. Maybe my reaction in the basement disgusted him.
I shouldn't have enjoyed watching that. It was inappropriate to ask him to fuck me after he blew off the hands of someone he trusted.
But does he care about that? He wanted me there.
I don't remember provoking him, this time. Not on purpose.
I force my voice out. A casual question.
"Out of curiosity, Dmitry... why doesn't Dante participate in these meetings? He's the boss."
Dmitry gives me the corporate answer. " Dante defines the overall strategy. We execute the details. He doesn't need to be on every call. He has other fronts to take care of. The dirtier part. "
A waste of time. "You don't need to explain the hierarchy to me. Is he avoiding me?"
The direct question catches him off guard. Dmitry sighs, and the answer he gives isn't that of the Volkov executive. It's that of the brother.
" That's not the word I would use ." He pauses. " Dante… chooses when to be present. When he's not, it's because he thinks he shouldn't be. "
He treats me with a cordiality that borders on that of a brother-in-law trying to get along with his brother's problematic boyfriend. Of the three Volkovs, Dmitry is, by far, the most... welcoming .
I accept his non-answer. I understand it's the most he'll give me.
"Alright," I say. "About the plan against Alexei... the bait is ready. Sal has given me everything I need. When do we launch?"
Dmitry takes a moment to reply. Maybe he expected more questions, more drama.
" Svetlana is finalizing the leak package. The evidence is perfect. Sal really outdid himself under your... tutelage ," he says, with a hint of irony. " We launch tomorrow at noon. By then, the stock markets will be closed for the weekend. It will minimize collateral damage to our holdings ."
"Efficient."
" We try to be ." I hear the smile in his voice. " Rest, Nyx. Tomorrow, you'll need a clear head to monitor the chaos we're going to create. And for me to convince you to accept our base salary as operations leaders. "
Obscene salary. I roll my eyes.
"Fuck you, Dmitry."
He laughs. If it were Svetlana, she'd come here and shoot me in the head.
Then, a hiss and he hangs up.
Silence is back.
Rest, Nyx . As if that were possible.
I slide my chair to my old laptop. The scratched plastic casing, the sticker of an indie band I don't even listen to anymore. A fossil.
I connect it to the network. The Volkov triple firewall greets me. But I'm the new head of security, and every good architect knows the service passages. I create a temporary, untraceable tunnel.
With the information I extracted from Sal, Alexei's secret financial network is no longer so secret. Dozens of accounts, contingency funds, crypto wallets... a labyrinth designed to hide money.
It's automatic, like breathing. Money starts to flow. Thirty transactions.
Seven thousand eight hundred dollars from here, from a "travel expenses" account in the Cayman Islands.
Twelve thousand three hundred from another, disguised as a "consulting fee" in Luxembourg.
Five thousand two hundred from a Bitcoin wallet.
Four thousand from another. Broken numbers, disguised as operational expenses, bank fees, rounding errors.
Noise. It would take weeks, months, for a very good forensic accountant to piece together all these small bleedings and realize they'd been stolen. And by then... it will be too late.
I aggregate everything into a single anonymous wallet. The total comes to just over two hundred thousand. The money passes through three cryptocurrency tumblers, is converted, divided, recombined, and bounces off servers in five countries in less than ten seconds. Clean. Anonymous. Undetectable.
Now, my old company's HR system is still online, in the middle of the data migration I was supposed to oversee. It takes twelve seconds. A quick query to the payroll database, using the administrator credentials Chad wrote on a post-it note under his keyboard.
I have everything. Full name, address, account number, branch.
I fill in Nicole's account details.
Transfer description box. I stare at it. She would think it was money from heaven. A divine miracle.
I hesitate. Why am I even doing this?
I click the description box.
I type the only thing that makes sense.
Thanks for taking care of the fern.
I press Enter.
Transfer completed.
I erase my tracks. The tunnel I created closes. The logs are clean.
I close the lid of my old laptop.
Leo Hays paid his last debt.
I lean back in the chair. It's too comfortable. My back doesn't even hurt. It must be a fortune. My fern, on the edge of the desk, is happy. I caress its leaves. I know, baby. Nicole didn't deserve to sink.
Dante would hate it if he knew. But he won't. He's not here. And I did it for myself.
I stare at the window. A dense forest. The feed from one of the thermal cameras shows heat signatures moving among the trees with assault rifles. Dante's invisible guards.
Dante .
If he leaves me alone for another week, I might think about transferring money to Chad too. That would be rock bottom.
The bed is too big for me.
I drag myself to it. The mattress is firm, the sheets are Egyptian cotton that must cost more than my old rent. I lie on one side. The other is untouched. Smooth. Empty. Saved for him.
I close my eyes. The darkness behind my eyelids is where I find him. Now, after the work is done, after closing the door to my old life, my body begins to remember.
My hand slides down, over the fabric of my sweatpants. It's hot. Heavy. Needy.
I see him. His hands, covered in blood, the way he destroyed that man for me. Out of possession. The image is so vivid I can smell blood and gunpowder in the air. I moan softly against the pillow.
My boy . His voice. The way he claimed me. The memory makes my dick throb harder. I move faster.
The friction of my hand is a pathetic comfort, a cheap imitation.
I don't want my hand. I want his , still stained with another man's blood.
Grabbing my hair hard enough to make my eyes water.
Squeezing my throat until the world blacks out.
I want him holding me, immobilizing me, using me as an object, just a tool for his pleasure, for his rage.
I want to be the receptacle of all his darkness.
The thought pushes me to the limit. The memory of him, fucking me against the shower wall, the hot water, the steam, the pain...
"Dante," the name escapes unintentionally.
My body convulses. It's a spasm that doesn't last long. What's left is worse than before.
It's not enough. It's never enough without him.
I wonder how much longer he'll make me wait.
Three monitors display a mosaic of information: encrypted communication feeds from the Malakovs, financial trackers, traffic cameras in Brighton Beach.
At 11:59, the room is in absolute silence.
At noon, I press Enter.
The "leak" package—the fabricated evidence, the fake emails, the transfer records—is anonymously delivered to Ivan Malakov's personal servers.
The first hour is silent. Ivan is reading. Processing. Believing.
Then, an alert on my financial monitor. One of Alexei's shell holdings suffers a hostile takeover attempt.