Sofia
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn Nelson.
He grins. “You know I have to tell him.”
“I’m still going.”
“I know. He hasn’t told us to keep you out of the office, but I have to tell him.”
He’s sending Sergei a text. He does that. Always informing him of my every move. It’s annoying.
And kind of comforting.
“Have you always done that?” I ask.
“What?”
“Text him updates about what I’m doing all day every day.”
He shrugs. “Unless he’s the one on you.”
“And just how often was he on me?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” he replies.
I roll my eyes. Sergei’s people are loyal. I respect that, but it can be a little annoying.
I pull out my phone and check the company email. I frown when I find one that doesn’t make sense. It’s the minutes from a meeting held this morning.
Baranov Enterprises Board of Directors. Seven members present. Four agenda items. And at the bottom, under attendees I read Yuri’s name.
“What the hell?”
“Everything okay?” Nelson asks.
“No.”
He sat in that room in my building, at my table. I made it clear he was not allowed.
And my order was ignored.
They honestly think I’m just going to step back and let it happen.
Like hell.
I open a new email and type the memo I sent once before. I copy all seven members, Allie and the building manager. I keep my language professional but there’s zero chance for misinterpretation.
That fucker is not allowed in my building.
I push into the building with Nelson on my heels. He’s muttering something about being careful. Slow down.
I don’t.
I storm into the office, anger radiating off me in powerful waves. I’ve played nice, but I’m done.
My name is not on the door of my office. My father's name is still there.
That changes today.
Allie scrambles into the office. “I’m sorry! I told them you wanted to be here.”
Allie doesn’t have any power here. “Call me next time.”
“You were in class.”
“I don’t care. Call me. And then call security and throw his ass out. Is. That. Clear.”
She bobs her head up and down. “Yes.”
Viktor strolls into my office with a grimace and an envelope.
He looks at Nelson. Nelson crosses his arms across in challenge.
“He’s with me,” I say.
"This came this morning." Viktor nods.
Personal delivery seems a little extra, which tells me it’s important.
I take it. Open it.
That prickly sensation at the base of my spine comes to life. I feel the danger from that one picture.
I flip it over and read the message.
“When did you get this?”
“This morning.”
“Who delivered it?”
Viktor’s eyes flash to Nelson and then back to me. “Courier.”
Both men are waiting for my reaction. Will I be the weak girl and crumble into a crying mess?
I take a deep breath, and slowly exhale.
Deep breathing. Focus. Control.
"Thank you, Viktor." I put the photograph on the desk. "Say nothing to anyone."
"Of course."
He leaves the office. Nelson is watching me. Waiting.
“You can make yourself comfortable in the chair outside my office,” I tell him.
He tilts his head to the side. “Should I call the boss?”
“Why?”
There’s a hint of a smile and then it vanishes. “I’ll be right outside.”
I sit down and turn on the computer. My gaze moves around the space and I decide I’m redoing it. I need it made very clear my father is out. This is mine.
I start where I always start: the numbers.
I go through my usual routine, checking and approving invoices for the construction arm of the business. Nothing exciting. I know what’s inflated.
Then I get to Baranov Medical Supply.
I stop.
Back to the top of the column and read the number again.
Then open the subsidiary detail and I look at the margin.
Medical supply is a low-margin business. Everyone in this industry knows it. The business has barely been a blip on my radar. Very little money. I know it’s all about moving product up and down the eastern seaboard. It’s not about the profit, it’s about the routes.
So it makes zero sense that the profit has nearly tripled.
That gut feeling I trust with my life is crawling up my spine.
Something is off.
I pull the transaction detail.
The line items are clean on the surface. Product codes, shipping references, client account numbers. Everything formatted correctly. Nothing that would catch in a standard audit.
But I've been trained by my father. He taught me that buried revenue looks like regular revenue until you ask what the product is.
So I ask.
I start cross-referencing the product codes against the actual supply catalog.
Some of them match. Standard items that are cheap and a cover. But there are codes that aren't in our catalog. They reference a sub-account I've never seen. Client numbers that don't correspond to any of the hospitals or clinics in our client database.
I pull the sub-account.
It's been accessed from a separate login. Not mine. Not my father's. Not anyone on the authorized user list I've seen.
I pick up my phone and call Lena in IT.
I tell her what I need and because I’m in a shit mood and trust none of the people that are supposed to be loyal, I make it clear I want it now. Not in five minutes. Not by end of day—now.
Clacking on the keyboard tells me she’s following my order. "Sending it."
The file appears in my inbox within a minute. I open the file and read it.
The shipping destinations aren’t hospitals or clinics. The codes route to off-book warehouses that shouldn’t exist.
I sit back in my chair and remember a conversation I overheard a year ago. Back when my father was still running things with his iron fist.
I convinced myself I misheard. Told myself my father would never be involved in trafficking humans.
But I know I’m looking at something that has been flying under my radar this last year.
Until Yuri showed up.
This is Yuri. He’s increasing production. More money. More power—for him.
I’m on my feet and moving. Nelson falls in step.
“You’re in a hurry,” he says.
“We’re going to Warehouse B,” I say.
“We’re not doing that.”
I slap my hand against the elevator button. “I am. I don’t give a shit if you tag along.”
“You know I can’t let you do that on your own.”
And I knew that. I won’t admit that I’m happy to have him with me because I know I’m walking into something.
The warehouse is in Greenpoint. Nothing unusual from the outside. There are two men at the door. I recognize them but I don’t know if they’re loyal to me—or Yuri.
“This might get messy,” I tell Nelson.
“Keep the car running,” Nelson tells the driver.
He reaches under his seat beside me in the back. The front passenger opens the glovebox. I watch Nelson check the chamber, the mag and then hand me the gun.
I take it, check the safety and put it in my purse.
Myself, Nelson and another guard climb out. The driver pulls the SUV a little closer to the door, ready for a fast escape if necessary.
The men look at me, then the Sokolov men.
“What’s this?” one asks.
“Inspection,” I reply and step past them. I pull open the door like I have every right to be here.
On the inside, I’m tamping down the terror. But I don’t let it show.
I get eight steps inside before I understand what I'm looking at, and then I stop.
The room is cold. There are industrial refrigeration units along the far wall.
Containers that look like ice chests. There are two hospital beds with lighting overhead and trays of instruments beside them.
It looks like a crude surgery room. Bile rises in my throat.
An antiseptic smell fills the space, tickling my nostrils.
I stand there for what is probably thirty seconds but feels much longer.
I was expecting to find cages of young women.
That’s not what I found.
I don’t know how to process what I know to be true.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes. The nausea is overpowering.
Nelson steps close, his hand grabbing my elbow. He would never touch me.
He knows I’m on the verge of losing my shit.
He says nothing as he guides me back to the door, pulling his hand back before we step out.
I don’t know how I do it, but we climb into the back seat.
My hand presses flat on my stomach like that can stop the churning.
Nelson gets in and says nothing.
I breathe. In, out. In, out.
My father's empire. My inheritance. The thing I have been preparing my whole adult life to run. Convinced myself the bad parts were victimless. Just standard business in the underworld.
There are people in those containers. Parts of them.
This has been running for years. This isn’t new. This isn’t Yuri.
My father.
I don't know why I'm surprised. I knew there were operations I didn't know about.
I had made a careful choice to believe they were tolerable.
I told myself the Baranov empire didn't run guns or traffic women and that made it acceptable.
I had decided there was a line, and we were on the right side of it.
The drive is quiet. No one talks. Nelson is texting. Sergei. Checking in as usual.
I find myself anxious to get home. I need him to hold me. Last night he chased away the ghosts. I need that from him. I’ve never needed anyone, but I need my husband.
He’ll know what to do.
Nelson walks me inside and then disappears like he always does. I leave my purse and backpack in the foyer, not bothering to take it to my room.
My legs are moving without me telling them to.
I see light coming from under the door of his office. Relief washes over me.
I knock softly.
"Come in."
He's at his desk. Jacket off, sleeves rolled and his eyes on his computer screen. He looks at me. I don’t know how much Nelson told him.
He gestures to the chair across from his.
I sit, my hands in my lap. I’ve managed to control the nausea, but I’m still trembling.
"Tell me what you know about Baranov Medical Supply," I say.
He doesn't look surprised.
He already knows.
“You know,” I whisper. Hurt. How could he not tell me? Did he think I knew? That I approved the vile practice of harvesting organs?
"Yuri mentioned the operation when he proposed an alliance," Sergei says. "He wanted to use my port infrastructure for the logistics. I declined."
"When."
"Before the wedding."
"And you didn't tell me."
"No."
I swallow. “Were you under the impression I knew about this?”
“No.”
The room is very quiet. I hear my own breathing. It’s fast, but I’m not running straight into a panic attack.
"Why didn’t you tell me?”
"Because you weren't in a position to act on it," he says. "You needed the marriage formalized. You needed to establish your position. If I'd told you then, you would have gone straight at it and Yuri would have used the exposure against you."
"That was not your call."
"It was a strategic decision."
"It’s my business." I don't soften the fury.
"It was my name on those operations. My inheritance.
My decision about what to do with the information.
" I stare at him and see the man that demanded I marry him. I don’t see the man that fucked me last night and then held me while I cried.
"You decided I wasn't ready. Without asking me. Without telling me. You made me trust you.”
"Yes," he says.
Just yes. No apology. Just acknowledgement, clean and cold.
I thought I was coming in here to talk to a confidante. I thought we'd become something. Partners. People who tell each other things. He made me feel like we could have a real marriage with trust.
But I see it clearly now.
He's been managing me.
I stand up.
"I need you to understand something," I say.
I keep my voice calm, which takes more effort than it should.
"I am not a piece on your board. You don't move me when you're ready and hold me back when you're not.
I am a person running an empire that I inherited.
The information about that empire belongs to me regardless of whether you think I can handle it. "
"You're right," he says.
"I know I'm right." The agreement doesn't help. If anything, it makes it worse. “I’ll be hiring my own security team. I need people loyal to me—not you.”
“I’ll vet them.”
“The hell you will.”
“Non-negotiable.”
He’s completely unbothered, and I feel like I’m being torn apart.
I’m not going to argue. I don’t have to ask for permission.
I’m Sofia Fucking Baranova. Fuck being Sokolov. I am the queen of the Baranov bratva.
I thought I knew who I could count on. The list has always been short. I've been fine with that.
It just got shorter.