36. Confession in Blood
Confession in Blood
Vera
The room smells like damp concrete and something older.
Something that doesn’t wash out.
I sit in a metal chair, wrists bound, ankles tied, the faint echo of dripping water somewhere behind me marking time I can’t measure.
No windows.
No clocks.
Just silence and the weight of being watched.
Orlov doesn’t rush.
Of course he doesn’t.
He steps into the room like he owns it—like this is just another office, another negotiation, another carefully arranged outcome.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
I don’t answer.
My throat is dry, but my voice would be steady if I chose to use it.
I don’t give him that yet.
He circles slowly.
Measured.
Observing.
“You’ve adapted well,” he says. “Most people scream by now.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” he agrees softly. “You’re far more useful.”
I lift my gaze to his.
“You think this ends well for you?”
His smile deepens slightly.
“I think this ends exactly as I planned.”
“Roman will find you.”
“Roman,” he repeats, almost fondly. “Is already losing.”
The words settle into the room like poison.
“He’s closing the city,” Orlov continues. “Strangling movement. Freezing accounts.”
“You sound impressed.”
“I taught him,” he replies.
My stomach tightens.
Because that tracks.
Because it makes sense.
“He’ll tear everything down to get to me,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And you think you survive that?”
“I don’t need to survive him,” Orlov says. “I just need to outlast the collapse.”
I watch him carefully.
Every word.
Every shift.
Looking for cracks.
“You’re not just after Roman,” I say.
“No.”
“You’re after both houses.”
His smile sharpens.
“Finally.”
The word lands like confirmation.
“You think this city belongs to you,” I continue. “That if you remove the right pieces, everything falls into place.”
“It already is falling,” he says calmly. “Roman destabilizes Koval from within. Bellini scrambles to defend what he doesn’t understand.”
“And me?”
“You,” he says softly, stepping closer, “are the spark.”
My pulse kicks once.
I keep my face still.
“Roman marries you,” Orlov continues. “Bellini blood inside Koval walls. Suspicion spreads. Then you disappear.”
His eyes flick briefly to my bound hands.
“Taken from inside his fortress,” he adds. “From a breach he can’t explain.”
“And that destroys him,” I say.
“It fractures him,” Orlov corrects. “Enough to make him predictable.”
“And Bellini?”
“Blamed,” he says simply. “Of course.”
The pieces click together.
Clean.
Terrible.
“You’re burning both families down,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And stepping in after.”
He inclines his head slightly.
“Order follows chaos.”
My fingers shift subtly against the binding at my wrist.
The tape beneath my sleeve presses lightly against my skin.
Still there.
Still intact.
Still recording.
Good.
“Why Luka,” I ask quietly.
That makes him pause.
Not long.
But enough.
“Luka was idealistic,” Orlov says. “Soft in the wrong ways. He wanted reform.”
“He trusted you.”
“Yes.”
The word is almost… amused.
“You fed him the intel,” I say.
“Of course.”
“And then leaked it.”
“To the right people,” Orlov confirms.
My chest tightens.
“He begged your father to stop,” I say, remembering the message Roman received.
Orlov’s smile widens slightly.
“Yes.”
“And you made sure he couldn’t.”
“Yes.”
The room feels colder.
Sharper.
“Then you blamed Bellini,” I say.
“It was convenient,” he replies.
“And effective.”
“Very.”
My hands clench slightly against the bindings.
Not from fear.
From fury.
Because Roman built his war on this.
Because Luka died for this.
Because everything traces back here.
To him.
“You’ve been inside both houses the entire time,” I say.
“Influence is more valuable than ownership,” Orlov replies.
“And Roman never saw it.”
“He saw what I allowed him to see.”
I tilt my head slightly.
Studying him.
“You’re proud of this.”
“I’m precise.”
“No,” I say softly. “You’re arrogant.”
The word lands.
His eyes narrow slightly.
Good.
Push.
“Roman trusted you,” I continue. “Built his empire with you.”
“And now I inherit it,” Orlov says calmly.
My fingers shift again—just enough to press the tape more securely against my skin.
Still recording.
Every word.
Every confession.
“You think he won’t kill you,” I say.
“I think he won’t get the chance.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Final.
I let it stretch.
Then—
“You’re wrong.”
His gaze sharpens.
I meet it.
Unflinching.
“Roman doesn’t lose,” I say.
Something flickers in his expression.
Not doubt.
Not yet.
But awareness.
Then his eyes drop.
Slowly.
To my wrist.
To the slight tension in my hand.
The unnatural stillness.
The placement.
The tape.
His smile fades.
Completely.
“What did you just do?”