Chapter 33 Alina
ALINA
Pale morning light brightens as minutes become hours, and still nothing from Dimitri. I can hear muted voices from somewhere downstairs. The low rumble of male conversation, urgent and tense.
Something's wrong.
I can’t wait in this bedroom any longer. I need to find Dimitri and find out what’s going on.
I throw back the covers and reach for the silk robe draped over the chair, then go to the bathroom and take a quick shower and dress for the day.
The hallway is quiet as I make my way downstairs, my flat boots almost silent on the marble floors.
The voices grow louder as I approach the study, and I recognize Alexei's voice, sharp with frustration.
Then Borge's deeper rumble. And Dimitri, his tone controlled but with an edge that makes my stomach clench.
I pause outside the door, my hand on the handle. Part of me wants to respect their privacy, to let Dimitri handle whatever crisis has erupted. But I'm his wife now. His partner, as he told my mother last night. I have a right to know what's threatening our family.
I push open the door.
Six pairs of eyes turn toward me. Dimitri stands behind his desk, his hands braced on the polished wood surface.
His dark hair is disheveled, and exhaustion lines his face.
Alexei sits in the leather chair closest to the desk, his shoulder still bandaged.
Borge looms by the window, his massive frame blocking out the early morning sun.
Three other men I recognize from Dimitri's inner circle are scattered around the room.
They all look grim.
"Alina." Dimitri's voice is carefully neutral. "You should be resting."
I close the door behind me and move into the room. "What's going on?"
He exchanges a glance with Alexei, some silent communication passing between them. Then he sighs and gestures to the chair beside his desk. "Sit down."
The words send ice through my veins, but I do as he asks. My hands twist together in my lap as I wait for him to speak.
"The Kozlov family's remaining leadership was found dead last night," Dimitri says, his green eyes fixed on mine. "All of them. Executed in their homes within hours of each other."
I process this information slowly. The Kozlovs, the family that orchestrated the church attack with my father. The ones who kidnapped Katya. "That's… good, isn't it?"
"It would be," Alexei says, his voice tight, "if we'd done it."
Understanding dawns, cold and terrible. "But you didn't."
"No." Dimitri moves around the desk to stand beside me, his hand finding my shoulder.
The warmth of his touch grounds me. "But someone wants it to look like we did.
There's evidence. Witnesses who claim they saw Morozov soldiers in the area.
Shell casings that match weapons from our armory.
A paper trail linking the hits back to me. "
My mind races, trying to make sense of this. "Someone's framing you."
"Yes." He squeezes my shoulder gently. "And doing a damn good job of it. The other families are already calling for my head. They're saying I'm eliminating all opposition, consolidating power through murder."
I look up at him, seeing the tension in his jaw, the way his free hand has curled into a fist at his side. The dragon tattoo on the left side of his neck seems to pulse with each heartbeat. "What happens if they believe it?"
"War." The word comes from Borge, flat and certain. "The families will unite against us. We'll be outnumbered three to one, maybe worse."
I stand abruptly, needing to move, to think. I pace to the window, staring out at the manicured gardens without really seeing them. "Who benefits from this? Who wants the Bratva families to destroy each other?"
"That's what we've been trying to figure out.
" Dimitri joins me at the window, his reflection visible in the glass beside mine.
"This isn't the work of another Bratva family.
It's too sophisticated, too well-coordinated.
The timing, the evidence planting, the witnesses.
Someone knew exactly how to make this look real. "
I turn to face him, an idea forming. "Someone outside your world."
His green eyes sharpen. "What are you thinking?"
"You said it yourself. This is too sophisticated for a typical Bratva operation.
The families fight each other, yes, but they're direct about it.
This is manipulation. Strategy." I move back to the desk, my mind working through the possibilities.
"Someone wants you all to tear each other apart.
Someone who stands to gain from the chaos. "
Alexei leans forward in his chair. "She's right. This has the feel of an outside operation. But who? And why?"
"Real estate developers?" I suggest. "If the Bratva families go to war, property values drop. Businesses close. Someone could buy up half the city for pennies on the dollar."
Dimitri's expression shifts, something like pride flickering across his features.
"That's exactly the kind of thinking we need.
" He turns to his men. "Start pulling records.
Any major property transactions in Bratva territory over the past six months.
Look for patterns, shell companies, anything that doesn't fit. "
The men disperse immediately, pulling out phones and laptops. I watch them work, feeling oddly useful despite my lack of experience in this world. Dimitri's hand finds mine, his fingers threading through mine.
"Thank you," he says quietly, meant only for me.
"For what?"
"For not panicking. For thinking clearly." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "For being here."
I squeeze his hand. "Where else would I be?"
The hours that follow blur together. Dimitri makes calls while I sit beside him, listening to conversations in rapid Russian. Alexei coordinates with informants across the city. Borge handles security, doubling the guards around the estate and checking on Katya every hour.
I make myself useful where I can. I bring coffee, take notes, and ask questions when something doesn't make sense.
In between these errands, I check on Katya who is awake, but a bit withdrawn.
Dimitri includes me in every discussion, values my input even when I feel out of my depth.
It's strange and empowering all at once.
By afternoon, we have fragments of information but no clear picture. Several shell companies have been buying properties in Bratva-controlled areas. The purchases accelerated after the church attack, as if someone knew chaos was coming.
"Here." One of Dimitri's tech specialists pulls up a spreadsheet on his laptop. "I've been tracking the money. The shell companies all trace back to a holding corporation registered in the Cayman Islands."
Dimitri leans over the man’s shoulder, studying the screen. I move to his other side, trying to follow the complex web of financial transactions.
"Can you trace it further?" Dimitri asks.
"I'm trying, but whoever set this up knew what they were doing. Multiple layers of protection, offshore accounts, dummy corporations." His fingers fly across the keyboard. "But there's always a trail. Always someone who made a mistake."
We wait while he works, the tension in the room thick enough to cut. I find myself holding my breath, watching the screen as the guy navigates through databases and financial records.
"Got something," he says suddenly. "The holding corporation has a registered agent. Required by law, even for offshore entities." He clicks through several more screens. "The agent is a law firm in Miami. High-end, specializes in international clients."
"Can you get their client list?" Alexei asks.
"Not legally." He grins. "But when has that stopped us?"
It takes another hour, but he manages to hack into the law firm's database. The client list is extensive, full of corporations and wealthy individuals seeking privacy for their financial dealings.
But one name stands out.
The young man highlights it, and I watch Dimitri's face go pale. His hand tightens on the back of the chair until his knuckles turn white.
"Pakhan?" Alexei's voice is concerned. "What is it?"
Dimitri doesn't answer immediately. He's staring at the screen, at the name highlighted in yellow, and I see something in his expression I've never seen before.
Fear.
"Dimitri?" I touch his arm gently. "Who is it?"
He turns to look at me, and the haunted look in his green eyes makes my breath catch.
"Mikhail Volkov," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "A former Bratva boss. My mentor." He pauses, his jaw clenching. "He was supposedly killed in a prison riot five years ago."
The room goes silent. I can feel the shock radiating from every man present.
"That's impossible," Alexei says finally. "We saw the body. We attended the funeral."
"Did we?" Dimitri's voice is hard now, controlled. "Or did we see what we were meant to see?"
He moves to the bar cart and pours himself vodka, downing it in one swallow. When he turns back to us, the Pakhan is fully present, the vulnerable moment locked away.
"If Mikhail is alive," he says, his voice cold and certain, "then everything makes sense. The church attack. Viktor's betrayal. The frame job. It's all revenge."
"Revenge for what?" I ask.
Dimitri's eyes meet mine, and I see decades of history, of choices made and prices paid.
"For the testimony that sent him to prison," he says. "For choosing my principles over our friendship. For being the reason he supposedly died."
He sets down the glass with a sharp click.
"Mikhail Volkov is alive. And he's coming for everything I've built."