Chapter 20 Dimitri #2
“That’s him,” Vera whispers beside me. “That’s who I saw.”
I track the figure as he moves. He casually turns and walks toward the west wing. And as he walks, I notice something that makes my blood run cold.
He knows exactly where the cameras are.
He angles his body to minimize exposure and keeps his head down at precise moments. He takes routes that keep him in blind spots.
The pattern is too deliberate to be accidental. This person has studied the mall’s security layout and knows how to move through it without being fully captured.
Just like Alexei would have known how to do.
Alexei who knew the security of our family’s operations. Who learned camera placements and blind spots and surveillance patterns because of me.
No.
This is impossible. I’m seeing patterns because I’m looking for them because Vera planted the idea in my head. I track the figure all the way to the parking garage and watch him disappear into a blind spot near the east exit. Then he’s gone.
I sit back in my chair, my mind racing.
There are reasonable explanations for this, there has to be. Someone who looks like Alexei. A coincidence of build and coloring and the way shadows fall. Vera’s mind filling in details that weren’t really there.
But that movement pattern. That knowledge of camera placement.
That’s not a coincidence.
“Dimitri?” Vera’s voice is shaking. “That was him, wasn’t it? That was Alexei.”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly, my heart pounding. “But I’m going to find out.”
I pull up the case file on Alexei’s death. I spread the documents across my desk—autopsy report, crime scene photos, witness statements, forensics analysis.
And suddenly I’m seeing things I was too grief-stricken to see before.
The gunpowder burns on the body. The forensics report said they were consistent with close-range shots, execution style. But looking at the photos now, with fresh eyes, they don’t look right. The pattern is off. The concentration is wrong.
I pull up the ballistics report. The bullets were Volkov ammunition, but the trajectories don’t match what the coroner reported. The angles are wrong for someone standing over a kneeling victim.
And then there’s the timeline.
The Ashfords arrived at the warehouse at 9:40 p.m. Security footage confirms it. But the coroner estimated the time of death at 9:30 p.m., give or take ten minutes, but still.
It’s like a riddle that I’ve been mulling over for months—how do you ambush someone who’s already been dead for ten minutes?
The question has bothered me for weeks, but I dismissed it and assumed the time of death estimate was wrong. Coroners aren’t perfect.
But what if it wasn’t wrong?
What if the time of death was accurate, and everything else—the whole scenario—was staged?
Unless...
Unless the body wasn’t Alexei’s.
The thought hits me so hard I actually rock back in my chair.
What if someone staged Alexei’s death and used a body that looked like him, planted our ammunition, and made it look like an Ashford ambush? What if Alexei has been alive this whole time?
But why? Why would Alexei fake his own death? Why would he let me grieve him, bury him, and marry Vera to avenge him?
And who would help him do it?
I’m already pulling up my computer and calling my tech team. “I need you to pull everything on the body from the coroner. Dental records, DNA, fingerprints. I want it cross-referenced with Alexei’s actual records.”
“Sir?” The tech sounds confused. “We already did that. The body was identified as—”
“I know what it was identified as,” I snap, feeling my temper fray. “Do it again. Check for discrepancies. Any irregularities in the chain of custody. Anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hang up and make another call to financial forensics. “I need a full audit of all offshore accounts associated with Alexei Volkov. Look for any activity in the last three months. Anything. I don’t care how small.”
The person doesn’t even hesitate. “Right away, sir.”
I hang up and realize my hands are shaking from adrenaline or fear or rage, I don’t know.
Vera is watching me with wide eyes. “What are you thinking?”
I run a hand over my face. “I’m thinking that maybe you weren’t hallucinating,” I tell her.
The reports start coming in three hours later.
I’ve been pacing my office the entire time, drinking coffee and reviewing footage and trying to piece together a puzzle I didn’t even know existed until today.
Vera fell asleep on the couch around an hour ago, exhausted from the emotional toll. I draped a blanket over her and kept working.
The first email that comes through makes my blood run cold.
Dental records from deceased do not match Alexei Volkov’s dental records on file. Discrepancies in filling patterns and root canal work. Recommend DNA cross-reference.
I stare at the screen.
The body we buried wasn’t Alexei.
My brother is alive.
The realization hits me in waves. First is relief that is so overwhelming it makes my chest tight. Alexei isn’t dead. He’s alive. Somewhere out there, my little brother is breathing and walking and—
Then the relief curdles into something else entirely.
Because if Alexei is alive, then he faked his death. He let me grieve him, bury a stranger, and marry Vera to avenge him. He let me hunt for his killers while he was alive the whole fucking time.
Why?
And more importantly—how?
You don’t fake your own death alone. You need help. Resources. Someone with access to the coroner’s office, the morgue, and the crime scene. Someone who can make sure the right body is identified, the right reports are filed, and the right story is told without raising red flags.
Someone with authority. With power. With the family’s trust.
I lean back in my chair, my mind racing through the possibilities.
Who was first on scene after Alexei’s “death”? Who identified the body? Who handled the funeral arrangements, interfaced with the coroner, and made sure everything went smoothly?
Konstantin.
The thought makes my stomach drop.
Konstantin, who’s been dismissing my concerns about the inconsistencies in Alexei’s death for weeks. Who told me to “focus on the living” every time I brought up the timeline problems or the forensics that didn’t match. Who seemed almost annoyed that I kept investigating.
Konstantin, who’s been so pleased about me growing close to Vera. So satisfied about the baby. About the alliance.
Konstantin, who had the access and authority to pull off something like this.
No.
No, I’m being paranoid. Konstantin loved Alexei. He wouldn’t—
Except he would, wouldn’t he? If the price was right. If it meant power.
I dive for my fucking phone.
“I need a breakdown of all calls made from Konstantin Volkov’s phones in the last six months,” I tell the phone records department. “Personal and business. Every number.”
There’s a pause. “Sir, Mr. Konstantin is family. Are you sure—”
I scowl at the phone. “Do I sound unsure?” I nearly growl into the receiver.
The man audibly gulps. “N–No, sir,” he stammers. “I’ll have it to you within the hour.”
I hang up, my heart pounding.
The second email arrives ten minutes later.
Financial activity detected in offshore account #4782. Pattern matches Alexei Volkov’s typical spending habits. Activity dates: ongoing for the last nine weeks. Locations include Prague, Vienna, Berlin.
Alexei has been spending money. For the last nine weeks.
Which means Alexei has been alive for the last nine weeks.
The third email comes through just as I’m processing the second.
Phone records for Konstantin Volkov attached. Notable findings: 247 calls to burner phone (number ending in 8834) over the past three months. Duration of calls ranges from 2-45 minutes. Recommend trace on burner number.
Konstantin has been calling someone a lot. On a burner phone that can’t be easily traced.
“Trace it anyway,” I mutter, already typing out the response.
The tech team works fast and within twenty minutes, I have partial location data on the burner phone, including the places it pinged cell towers over the last almost three months.
I pull up security footage from various locations in the city and cross-reference dates and times.
And there he is.
Alexei. Walking through Prague’s Old Town Square. Caught on a street camera in Vienna. Leaving a café in Berlin.
Alive.
My brother is alive.
This should feel like a miracle, like a weight lifting off my chest after nearly three months of grief.
Instead, it feels like betrayal.
Because if Alexei is alive, then everything that’s happened has been orchestrated. Manipulated.
And Konstantin knew.
I pull up the phone records again and look at the pattern of calls. They intensify around key dates. Right before the peace meeting where we were ambushed. Right before the car bombing. Right after I married Vera.
And then I remember Konstantin’s recent visits. His comments about the baby. His satisfaction at seeing me grow attached to Vera.
“If you’ve developed genuine feelings for Vera, it only strengthens the alliance.”
“Focus on the living, nephew. Focus on Vera and the baby.”
“She’s the future of this family now.”
The pieces slot into place with horrifying clarity.
Konstantin wants power. Control. He’s always wanted it, but as Alexei’s uncle and my uncle, he could never take it directly. The family would never accept him over Alexei or me.
But what if he could control the next generation? What if he could position himself as the power behind the throne?
A baby. Vera’s baby. Alexei’s child, born into a marriage alliance that unites the Volkov and Ashford families.
With me married to Vera, raising Alexei’s child, and bound to her through legal and emotional ties. And Konstantin positioned as the trusted advisor. The regent. The one who really pulls the strings.
And if I became inconvenient? If I started asking too many questions or pushing back against his influence?
Well, accidents happen. Bombings. Ambushes. Tragic losses.
And then Konstantin would be all that stands between chaos and stability. The one person both families trust. The one person who can guide Vera and her child through their grief.
The perfect puppet master.
I’m the obstacle. I’ve always been the obstacle.
And Alexei—
My brother and my uncle have been working together. To kill me and take control of everything I’ve built.
They want to use Vera and her baby as pawns in whatever game they’re playing.
Over my dead body.