Chapter Twenty - Diana #2
I take his hand, feeling the calluses on his palm, the warmth of skin against mine, the shift in our dynamic that this handshake represents. “Partners.”
He pulls me up and into his arms without releasing my hand, the embrace less about passion and more about anchoring us both after the devastation of earlier.
“I meant what I said in the living room,” I whisper against his chest. “I don’t know how to love someone capable of what you did. But I’m afraid I already do.”
His arms tighten around me. “I know. And I’m sorry that loving me costs you this much.”
We stand together in his office, wrapped around each other, the tablet with Ethan’s networks still clutched in my free hand. Nothing is resolved. The betrayal still burns. The grief still sits heavy in my chest.
But we’re facing the same direction now instead of circling each other warily.
That has to count for something.
***
The shift becomes visible over the following days. Felix starts including me in strategic conversations—not full operational briefings, but discussions about political positioning, senator vulnerabilities, the pressure points Sartore is exploiting.
I contribute insights from Ethan’s investigation, connections he’d identified that Felix’s people missed, questions that highlight gaps in current intelligence.
Our conversations turn strategic instead of combative.
We still argue—about methodology, about risk tolerance, about how much I should know versus what stays restricted—but the arguments are productive rather than defensive.
We’re building something together instead of protecting territory from each other.
I spend hours with the tablet Felix provided, cross-referencing Ethan’s notes with Bratva files that reveal how money actually moves through the systems my brother was investigating.
Shell corporations aren’t just theoretical entities hiding assets—they’re specific LLCs with documented officers, filing histories, bank accounts that route donations through precise channels designed to obscure origin points.
Senator Harlow received $340,000 in campaign contributions last cycle.
On paper, it came from seventeen different donors representing diverse interests.
In reality, twelve of those donors are shell corporations controlled by three holding companies.
Two tied to Rudenko logistics, one to Sartore maritime operations.
Ethan suspected this. I can prove it now.
The knowledge settles with uncomfortable weight. I’m not just understanding the corruption Ethan died exposing—I’m benefiting from it as Felix’s wife, protected by the same networks that killed my brother.
The complicity Felix warned about isn’t abstract anymore. It’s documented across spreadsheets I’m analyzing with the kind of clinical focus he brings to operational planning.
By Thursday, Felix invites me to sit in on a security briefing. The conference room in the estate’s lower level holds eight other people—Pavel, Oleg, two men I don’t recognize who handle enforcement logistics, and two financial analysts who look uncomfortable with my presence.
Felix doesn’t explain why I’m there. He just gestures to the chair beside his and continues the briefing.
“Sartore surveillance has intensified around the east perimeter,” Oleg reports, pulling up camera feeds on the central monitor. “Three separate vehicles over the past week, different plates but similar observation patterns. They’re mapping guard rotations and identifying potential breach points.”
“Recommendations?” Felix’s tone stays neutral.
“Increase perimeter patrols during shift changes. Install additional cameras covering blind spots they’ve been exploiting. Consider relocating the east gate entirely to force them to reestablish observation patterns.”
I lean forward slightly, studying the camera feeds. “The east gate services deliveries, right? Household supplies, maintenance equipment?”
Oleg glances at Felix before answering. “Yes.”
“Relocating it creates logistical complications that outweigh security benefits.” I tap the screen showing the current gate position.
“If you stagger delivery schedules randomly instead of maintaining the Tuesday-Thursday pattern, surveillance becomes less useful. They can’t predict windows of vulnerability if the timing shifts unpredictably. ”
The room goes quiet. Pavel’s expression sharpens with something that might be respect or calculation. The financial analysts exchange glances suggesting they’re reassessing my role here.
Felix doesn’t react visibly, but his hand finds mine beneath the table and squeezes once—acknowledgment that I just contributed strategically rather than observing passively.
“Implement random delivery scheduling,” he tells Oleg. “Coordinate with household staff to ensure supplies arrive as needed without creating predictable patterns.”
The briefing continues for another forty minutes. I contribute twice more—once about political exposure risks if certain senators distance themselves publicly, once about financial restructuring that could insulate Rudenko interests from Sartore pressure.
Each contribution shifts the dynamic slightly. I’m not a protected civilian being briefed for awareness. I’m participating in strategic planning with insights that matter.
By the time the meeting ends, I’ve stopped feeling like an outsider observing Felix’s world.
I’m inside it now.