Chapter 13 Pyotr
Pyotr
The coffee in my mug has gone cold, but I keep drinking it anyway.
I’ve been sitting at the kitchen table for two hours, staring at my laptop screen while Daria teaches a piano lesson in the next room. The sound of scales drifts through the thin walls, punctuated by her gentle corrections and the occasional frustrated sigh from her young student.
I have nine days left to prove what I know in my gut but can’t yet prove on paper.
Last night, after Daria told me about Bogdan, I called Tony and asked him to dig deeper into the blocked number that’s terrorized her for three years.
Most people assume blocked calls are untraceable, and for the average person with average resources, that’s true.
But Tony isn’t average, and neither are the Kozlov resources.
The trick is in the metadata. When a call connects, it leaves a digital footprint regardless of whether the number displays on the recipient’s screen.
Cell towers log the connection, network switches record the routing path, and if you know how to access those records—legally or otherwise—you can work backward from the destination to the source.
Tony has contacts with three different telecom companies. Men who owe favors or need money or have secrets they’d rather keep buried. It took him fewer than six hours to pull the data I needed.
My laptop pings with an incoming file. I click it open and review the contents, my eyes moving faster as the pieces fall into place.
The blocked number is traced to a burner phone registered under a shell company called Mylar Holdings.
On the surface, Mylar Holdings appears to be a legitimate import-export business operating out of Moscow.
Standard stuff. The kind of company that exists in the thousands across Russia, moving goods and generating paperwork that nobody bothers to examine too closely.
But dig a little deeper, and the threads unravel.
The company’s registered agent is a lawyer who specializes in hiding assets for clients who don’t want to be found.
I recognize his name from other investigations.
He’s a man who asks no questions as long as the payments clear.
The business address is a mail drop in a rundown industrial district.
No employees on record and no inventory, just a name on a piece of paper and a post office box that someone checks once a month.
And the sole shareholder, buried under three layers of corporate obfuscation, is Bogdan Lebedev.
I keep reading.
Tony has pulled financial records going back three years, since that’s how long Daria has been running. He’s cross-referenced account numbers, traced wire transfers, and mapped out a web of shell companies that spans half of Eastern Europe.
The picture that emerges turns my stomach.
Bogdan has been using Daria’s identity to move money for organizations that oppose Kozlov interests.
Her name appears on account applications, wire transfers, and incorporation documents for shell companies scattered across six countries.
On paper, she looks like the architect of an elaborate criminal enterprise.
A woman who’s been playing both sides, using her family connection to access information while funneling money to their enemies.
In reality, she’s been trapped in a cage.
I think about the shabby apartment, the secondhand furniture, the half-empty refrigerator, and the shoes with holes she couldn’t afford to replace. Millions of dollars have moved through accounts bearing her name, and she’s been stretching piano lessons to keep food on the table.
That’s not the profile of someone who knows about the money. That’s the profile of someone who’s being used.
I close the laptop and pull out my phone. Dmitri answers on the second ring.
“You have something?”
“The blocked number leads to a shell company owned by Bogdan Lebedev.”
“The ex-husband.”
“Tony pulled financial records going back three years. Bogdan has been using Daria’s identity to move money through accounts bearing her name. She’s not the source of the leak, Dmitri. She’s the cover for it.”
Silence on the other end. I picture him in his study, leaning back in his leather chair, processing everything I’ve said.
“How much money are we talking about?”
“Millions have been routed through shell companies to organizations that have been working against us. All of it is designed to make Daria look like the mastermind if anyone starts asking questions.”
“Which is what happened when the federal investigation flagged those accounts.”
“Exactly. Bogdan set her up to take the fall. He’s been building this for years, waiting for the moment when it would be useful to burn her. The federal investigation gave him the perfect opportunity. He thinks he can sit back and watch while we do his dirty work for him.”
Dmitri exhales. “This is good work, Pyotr. But it doesn’t completely clear her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her name is on those documents. Even if Bogdan orchestrated everything, a prosecutor could argue that she was complicit. That she knew what was happening and participated willingly.”
“She didn’t know.” I keep my voice level even as frustration coils in my chest. “If she knew about that money, she wouldn’t be living like this.”
“That’s circumstantial. Lawyers love circumstantial evidence because it can be spun in any direction. A good prosecutor would say she was living modestly to avoid suspicion. Keeping her head down while the money piled up somewhere offshore.”
“So, what are you saying? That we ignore what I’ve found and treat her like a suspect?”
“I’m saying we need enough to prove Bogdan acted alone.
Enough to redirect the federal investigation toward him and away from her.
I’m authorizing expanded surveillance on Bogdan.
I want to know every move he makes, everyone he talks to, and every account he touches.
If he’s coming to St. Petersburg next week like Daria says, I want us ready. ”
“And Daria?”
“Her status remains unchanged for now. Continue monitoring and gathering evidence. And remember that until we prove she wasn’t involved, she’s still potentially complicit.”
I open my mouth to argue on her behalf, but I realize that would only raise suspicion. So, I swallow hard and reply, “Understood.”
“I know this is difficult, Pyotr. I hear it in your voice. But I need you to stay objective. Can you do that?”
I think about the way Daria looked last night when she told me about her marriage. The tears she tried to hide when she talked about running with a two-year-old in the middle of the night.
I think about how she felt trembling beneath my hands on her kitchen floor. The trust in her eyes when she asked me to take over.
“I can do my job,” I tell him.
He doesn’t push. “Keep me updated. And Pyotr? Be careful. Bogdan Lebedev isn’t stupid. If he realizes we’re looking at him instead of Daria, he might accelerate whatever he’s planning.”
“I’ll handle it.”
The call ends, and I set the phone on the table. Through the wall, I hear Daria praising her student for nailing a difficult passage. Her voice is maternal and encouraging, so different from the haunted woman who sat across from me last night and confessed pieces of her nightmare.
I have nine days to build a case strong enough to save her.
I just hope it’s enough.
***
I’m lying in the narrow bed in the spare room when I hear a small voice, thin and frightened, calling out from down the hall.
“Pyotr!”
Not Mama. Pyotr.
I’m on my feet before I fully register moving. The hallway is dark, but I know the path. Fourteen steps from my door to Kira’s. I’ve counted them during my nightly checks, memorizing the layout the way I memorize every space I occupy.
Her door is cracked open. I push through and find her sitting up in bed, clutching Rex the T. Rex to her chest. Tears streak her cheeks, and her small body trembles in her dinosaur pajamas.
I keep my voice low as I cross to her bed. “Hey, I’m here. What happened?”
“Bad dream.” Her voice wobbles. “There was a monster, and it was chasing me, and I couldn’t run fast enough, and it had big teeth, and—”
Her words dissolve into hiccupping sobs. I lower myself onto the edge of her mattress, and she crawls into my lap, burying her face against my chest. Her small fingers clutch the fabric of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
I can’t remember the last time a child reached for me like this, or the last time anyone trusted me enough to seek comfort in my arms without expecting something in return.
Lana’s face flashes through my mind. Dark braids. Gap-toothed smile. The weight of her small body as I carried her through bombed-out buildings in Syria, promising her everything would be okay. Promising her she’d see her father again.
I shove the memory down and focus on the trembling girl in my lap.
“Monsters aren’t real.” I rub slow circles on her back. “You know that, right?”
She sniffles against my shirt. “But they felt real. They had yellow eyes, and they wanted to eat me.”
“That does sound scary.”
“It was really, really scary. The scariest thing ever.”
I adjust her weight so I can see her face. Tears still cling to her lashes, but the trembling has eased.
“Can I tell you a secret?” I ask.
She nods as her curiosity momentarily overrides her fear.
“When I was little, I had bad dreams, too. About wolves. Big, gray wolves with teeth like knives who chased me through the forest.”
“What did you do?”
“My mother told me a story. She said that not all wolves are bad. Some wolves are protectors. They watch over little girls and little boys while they sleep, keeping the bad things away.”
Kira furrows her brow and argues, “But wolves eat people. That’s what they do in all the stories.”
“Not the protector wolves. They only eat the monsters. That’s their job. To hunt the things that try to hurt the people they care about.”
She considers this for a long moment, turning Rex over in her hands while her small mind works through the logic.
“So, there’s a wolf protecting me?”
“There’s always a wolf protecting you. Even when you can’t see him. Even when you think you’re alone. He’s there, watching over you.”
“Is he watching right now?”
I glance toward the window, where the St. Petersburg night presses against the glass. “He’s very close right now, making sure no monsters get through.”
Kira follows my line of sight, then looks back at me with wonder on her tear-stained face. “Are you my wolf, Pyotr?”
The question punches straight through my ribs. I think about all the people I’ve failed to protect and all the promises I’ve broken. All the bodies I’ve buried, and the ghosts that follow me from city to city, from nightmare to nightmare.
But this small girl is looking at me like I’m good. Safe. Worth believing in.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m your wolf.”
She throws her arms around my neck and squeezes tightly. “I knew it. I knew you were special the first time I saw you.”
I hold her until her breathing evens out and her grip loosens. Gently, I lower her back onto the pillow and tuck the blanket around her shoulders. Rex gets positioned under her arm, standing guard against whatever dreams might come next.
“Will you stay until I fall asleep?” Her mumbles tell me that she’s already halfway there.
“I’ll stay.”
Her eyes drift closed, and she’s breathing deep and steady within minutes. I sit on the edge of her bed, watching her sleep, thinking about wolves and monsters and the lies we tell children to help them feel safe.
Sometimes, those lies are the only protection we can offer.
Daria is standing in the doorway when I look up.
Tears track silently down her cheeks. She stands there, watching us, with something broken and beautiful written across her face.
I don’t know how long she’s been there. Long enough to hear the story about wolves, judging by her reaction.
Neither of us speaks.
I hold her gaze across the darkness of her daughter’s room, and she holds mine.