Chapter 38 Tony
Tony
Forty-eight hours after Adrian Belmont’s body hits the warehouse floor, we’re cleared to return to Moscow.
Dmitri’s London contacts work overtime to ensure the cleanup goes smoothly. Bodies are disposed of through channels I don’t ask about.
Witness statements are coordinated. The warehouse itself burns to the ground in what the fire department will later classify as an electrical accident. By the time we board the private jet at Stansted, Adrian Belmont has officially ceased to exist in any way that matters.
Sasha sleeps against my shoulder for most of the flight. The bruises on her throat have faded from purple to a sickly yellow, and the cuts on her palm are healing cleanly. She looks peaceful in a way I haven’t seen since this whole nightmare began.
I spend the hours watching her breathe and thinking about how close I came to losing her.
Moscow greets us with gray skies and a bitter wind that cuts through my jacket the moment we step off the plane. Dmitri has arranged for cars to meet us on the tarmac, and within an hour we’re back at the family compound where the real work begins.
“Ivan Abaturov,” Dmitri announces to the assembled group. We’re gathered in his study, and the room feels crowded with Boris, Alexei, Katya, Mila, Sasha, and me all present. “Adrian confirmed what we already suspected. Ivan has been feeding information to our enemies for months.”
“Where is he now?” Alexei demands.
“Being held in the basement,” Boris replies with a deep-set frown. “He hasn’t stopped crying since they brought him in.”
“Has he talked?”
“Not yet. He’s been waiting for you.”
Dmitri nods and rises from behind his desk. “Then let’s not keep him waiting any longer.”
The basement of the Kozlov compound is everything you’d expect from a Bratva interrogation facility. Concrete walls. Drainage grates in the floor. A single chair bolted to the center of the room with heavy restraints attached to the arms and legs.
Ivan Abaturov sits in that chair, looking nothing like the composed accountant I saw in surveillance photos during my initial research for Adrian.
His face is swollen from crying, and his expensive suit is stained with sweat.
When he sees Dmitri descend the stairs, a fresh wave of sobs shakes his entire body.
“Please,” Ivan begs. “Please, I can explain. I didn’t have a choice.”
Dmitri pulls up a metal folding chair and sits in front of Ivan, close enough that their knees almost touch. His voice is calm when he speaks. Almost gentle.
“Tell me everything.”
The story that spills out of Ivan is pathetic in its predictability.
Gambling debts that spiraled out of control.
Loan sharks who threatened his family. And then Adrian Belmont appeared like an angel of mercy, offering to make all his problems disappear in exchange for a few harmless pieces of information.
“It started small,” Ivan whimpers. “Just financial reports. Schedules. Nothing that seemed dangerous. But then he wanted more.”
“And you gave him everything he asked for,” Dmitri states.
“I didn’t have a choice! He said he’d kill my wife. My children. He had photographs of them at school, at the grocery store, everywhere they went. I couldn’t let him hurt them.”
“So you betrayed the family that trusted you instead.”
Ivan’s head drops. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”
Dmitri leans back in his chair and studies Ivan for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice has lost any trace of gentleness.
“What else did Adrian have on you? Besides the gambling debts?”
Ivan’s face goes pale. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that a man like Adrian Belmont doesn’t rely on a single point of leverage. He would have built redundancies. Insurance policies. So I’ll ask you again. What else did he have?”
The silence that follows is broken only by Ivan’s ragged breathing. “There was a money laundering scheme,” he whispers. “Years ago, before I started working for you. Adrian had evidence that implicated me in moving funds for some very dangerous people.”
“What people?”
“I don’t know their names. But the evidence...” Ivan swallows hard. “The evidence also implicated someone in your family.”
Dmitri goes very still. “Who?”
“Daria. Your cousin in St. Petersburg. The transactions went through accounts she controlled. I don’t know if she was involved willingly or if someone used her name without her knowledge, but the paper trail leads to her.”
I watch Dmitri’s face as this information lands. His composure doesn’t crack, but something hardens behind his eyes.
“Daria has a daughter,” Sasha states from beside me. “A little girl. She’s only six.”
“I know.” Dmitri rises from his chair and looks down at Ivan with an expression that makes my blood run cold. “Is there anything else you want to tell me before we conclude our business?”
Ivan starts crying again. “Please. I told you everything. I gave you everything Adrian had on me. Please don’t kill me. I have a family.”
“You should have thought about your family before you betrayed mine.”
Dmitri turns and walks toward the stairs without looking back. Boris steps forward with two of his men, and I guide Sasha up the stairs before she can witness what comes next.
We’re halfway across the compound when we hear the single gunshot echo from below.
That night, Dmitri calls a smaller meeting in his private office. Just him, Alexei, Sasha, and me.
“The situation with Daria requires careful handling,” he begins. “If she was knowingly involved in money laundering against our interests, that’s a betrayal that demands consequences. But if she was manipulated or used without her knowledge, punishing her would be unjust.”
“She has a daughter,” Sasha repeats. “Whatever Daria did or didn’t do, that little girl is innocent.”
“I’m aware.” Dmitri rubs his temples. “Which is why I’m not going to act until we know more. I’ll send someone to St. Petersburg to investigate. Someone who can get close to Daria without raising suspicion.”
“Who did you have in mind?” Alexei asks.
“I haven’t decided yet. It needs to be someone we trust implicitly.”
The conversation continues, but my mind is already moving in a different direction. The Daria situation is concerning, but it’s not my problem to solve. My focus needs to be on building a future with Sasha, not getting drawn into another family conspiracy.
When the meeting concludes, Dmitri asks me to stay behind.
“Close the door,” he instructs once the others have left.
I do as he asks and turn to face him. The Pakhan of the Kozlov Bratva eyes me before speaking.
“You saved my sister’s life. Multiple times.”
“I also put her in danger in the first place,” I counter. “If I’d never taken Adrian’s contract—”
“If you’d never taken Adrian’s contract, someone else would have. Someone who might not have developed feelings for Sasha. Someone who might have completed the mission instead of sabotaging it.” Dmitri pauses. “Your loyalty has been proven, Tony. Absolutely and without question.”
“I appreciate that.”
“The position I offered you before we went to London. Head of counterintelligence for the organization. The offer still stands. If you want it.”
I don’t need to think about my answer. “I want it.”
“Good.” Dmitri extends his hand across the desk. “Welcome to the family. Officially.”
I shake his hand, and something settles in my chest. A sense of belonging I haven’t felt since my team died in Chechnya. Maybe even longer.
“There’s one more thing,” I add before releasing his grip. “I asked Sasha to marry me. She said yes.”
Dmitri’s eyebrows rise. “Did she?”
“I probably should have asked your permission first.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Probably. But my sister has never needed my permission for anything. She makes her own choices.” The smile fades into something more serious.
“Don’t make me regret accepting you into this family, Tony.
Because if you hurt her, there won’t be anywhere on earth you can hide from me. ”
“Understood.”
The next day, Sasha and I spend an afternoon looking at apartments.
The Moscow real estate market is overwhelming enough on its own, and Sasha has specific requirements.
Close to Patriarch Ponds. Good security.
Space for a home office where she can build her authentication consultancy.
We tour six different units before finding the one that makes her stop in the doorway and catch her breath.
“Tony,” she whispers. “Look at this.”
The apartment is on the top floor of a renovated building from the early twentieth century.
High ceilings, original moldings, and a wall of windows that faces south, flooding the main room with natural lighting.
The kitchen is modern but warm, and the bedroom is large.
Large enough for the massive bed I’ve been fantasizing about making love to her on every night.
“It’s perfect,” I agree.
“It’s more than perfect.” Sasha walks through the space, trailing her fingers along the walls. “I could see us living here.”
We sign the purchase offer that afternoon.
The weeks that follow are the happiest of my life.
We fill the apartment with furniture chosen together. Argue about couch colors and bedding patterns that end in laughter and lovemaking.
Sasha hangs artwork on the walls, pieces she’s authenticated over the years that speak to her on a personal level. I install a security system that would make the CIA jealous and try not to laugh when Sasha rolls her eyes at my paranoia.
Routines emerge naturally. Morning coffee on the small balcony overlooking the street below, evenings curled together on the couch watching terrible Russian reality television, and dinners with her brothers and their wives at least once a week, where I slowly learn to navigate the complex dynamics of the Kozlov family.
My work with Dmitri is challenging but fulfilling. Rebuilding the organization’s counterintelligence apparatus from the ground up gives me purpose. The skills I honed during my CIA years finally serve something I believe in. Protecting this family. Protecting Sasha.
One evening, about a month after we move in, a knock at the door interrupts our dinner.
I check the security monitor and raise an eyebrow at what I see. “It’s Boris.”
Sasha looks equally surprised. “Boris? Here?”
I open the door to find the grizzled head of security standing in the hallway with a bottle of vodka in one hand. He looks deeply uncomfortable.
“Boris,” I greet him. “This is unexpected.”
“Can I come in?”
I step aside and gesture for him to enter. Sasha rises from the table and offers him a seat, which he declines.
“I won’t stay long,” Boris grumbles. “I just came to say something, and I’d rather get it over with.”
Sasha and I exchange a glance but remain silent.
Boris clears his throat. “I didn’t trust you when you first showed up. Thought you were trouble. Thought you’d get Sasha killed or break her heart or both.”
“That’s fair,” I acknowledge.
Boris sets the vodka on the counter with a thunk. “I’ve known Sasha since she was born. I taught her to throw a punch and watched her grow into a woman who deserves better than the life this family offers.”
Sasha’s face softens. “Boris...”
“I’m not good at this,” he interrupts, “so I’m just going to say it. You make her happy. Happier than I’ve seen her in years. Maybe ever.” He fixes me with a stare that could cut glass. “That matters. It matters more than where you came from or what you did before.”
I nod and reply, “Thank you, Boris. That means a lot.”
“Don’t thank me. Just don’t prove me wrong.” He heads for the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob. “The vodka is good stuff. Don’t waste it on mixing.”
Then he’s gone, leaving Sasha and me standing in our kitchen with matching expressions of disbelief.
“Did that just happen?” Sasha asks.
“I think it did.”
She picks up the vodka bottle and examines the label. “He’s right. This is the good stuff.”
I pull two glasses from the cabinet and set them on the counter. “Then let’s not waste it.”
We drink to our future, to the family we’re building, and to the battles we’ve already won.
The situation with Daria still needs resolution, my position within the organization still requires proving, and somewhere out there, enemies we haven’t yet identified are probably plotting against the people I’ve come to love.
But tonight, in this apartment that already feels like home, with this woman who chose me despite everything, I allow myself to simply be happy.
It’s a feeling I could get used to.