Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Sergei
The family dinner was set for Christmas night at the old mansion on the Upper East Side. Same as always. The butler had been preparing since afternoon—candles, pine branches, silver flatware—trying to coax some holiday cheer into that gloomy Gothic pile.
"Excuse me, pakhan." Bogdan appeared in the study doorway.
"Miss Collins and Dmitri," he set the report on my desk, "no private contact whatsoever. Phone, texts, emails—we checked everything. Clean. Only two documented interactions—once at a company gathering, once at the Christmas party."
I said nothing.
"That night at the party," Bogdan continued, "she was in the stairwell for about fifteen minutes. Came out with a red mark on her right cheek."
"She was hit."
"Yes."
I closed the report and set it on the corner of the desk.
No private contact.
I turned that conclusion over in my mind, then replayed the timeline from this past week—her sick leave, the radio silence.
I'd planned to go see her, but Viktor made his move at the exact same time.
The dock shipment seizure, mediation between two family elders, some mess on the Moscow line that needed handling in person.
Nothing major on its own, but stacked together, they'd blocked every hour of my week solid.
Looking back now, the timing was too perfect.
"Viktor," I said. "Everything that came up this week, was it deliberate?"
Bogdan paused. The pause was answer enough.
"The dock seizure happened the day after she called in sick," he said. "Everything else clustered around the same week."
"He knew I wanted to see her," I said flatly. "So he manufactured enough problems to keep me pinned down."
"That's the likely scenario."
I stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
Viktor.
The man had served my father for thirty years. His roots in the family ran deeper than anyone's. He knew this game better than I did—knew exactly when to move, where to strike, how much pressure to apply. Just enough to keep you scrambling, never quite enough to cross the line.
And now he'd turned his attention to Ella.
"One more thing," Bogdan said. "That internal post."
I turned around.
"You found them?"
"External account. Foreign IP, multiple layers of protection.
We traced it to somewhere in South Africa, but can't pin down the exact location or user.
" He paused. "Based on the angle and timing, someone was lying in wait.
Brianna Smith from the Architecture Department discovered it first. Screenshots spread through the company immediately after. "
I nodded slightly.
I'd suspected the account would be untraceable. Not surprised.
Whoever orchestrated this wouldn't leave such an obvious loose end for me to pull.
But the mastermind behind it all...
I thought back to yesterday, to Dmitri's sudden visit. I had my suspicions.
As for Brianna Smith...
Whether she was actually in league with Dmitri or not, she'd crossed my line too many times. She couldn't stay.
I returned to my desk, picked up a pen, wrote a few words on a sticky note, and pushed it toward Bogdan.
"Brianna Smith," I said. "Fire her."
Bogdan glanced at it, nodded, and pocketed the note.
"Dmitri will be at dinner tonight," he said. "Viktor too."
"I know."
I returned to the window, watching the street below.
Today was Christmas.
The dining room in the Upper East Side mansion held a table that seated twenty. Most of the chairs were already filled. Candlelight bathed every face in warmth, but it was fake warmth—like gold thread on a costume, stitched as finely as you like, but the fabric underneath still cheap.
I sat at the head. Pavel on my right, empty seat on my left.
Viktor sat several seats down on the opposite side, wearing a dark suit tonight, hair slicked back more carefully than usual.
Like he'd dressed up for the occasion. He sat there in profile, murmuring to someone beside him, the corner of his mouth curved in an easy smile.
Too easy.
I lifted my wine glass but didn't drink. Just held it, watching him.
Dmitri was near the door. He'd arrived after Viktor, swept a glance my way when he entered, then took his assigned seat without coming over to greet me.
The two of them were playing this very tight tonight.
The first half of dinner proceeded normally. Conversation flowed around the table—new family investments, year-end distributions, plans for next year. I said what needed saying, nodded where I should, vetoed what needed vetoing.
When the main course arrived, Viktor finally addressed me directly.
"Nephew," he raised his glass, tone casual, conversational, "I hear the Architecture Department turned up a promising young talent this quarter. New project's doing quite well, yes?"
A few heads lifted around the table.
"Architecture has many capable people," I said evenly. "Which one do you mean?"
"Oh," he smiled, set down his glass, "that red-headed girl, Collins, right? I hear she's been making quite a splash lately." He paused. "Of course, there've been some other rumors too—you know how it is. Companies always breed gossip."
I looked at him.
"Personnel matters are my concern," I said. "The family doesn't need to worry about them."
"Of course, of course," he spread his hands. "Just making conversation. After all..." He glanced at Dmitri beside him, that familiar knowing smile on his lips. "Family can't help but take an interest in the pakhan's private affairs."
Dmitri kept his head down, fiddling with his fork, pretending not to hear.
Brief silence settled over the table.
Pavel leaned back. Several older councilors shifted their gazes elsewhere. Someone lifted a wine glass, someone else cut into their meat—everyone found a reason not to look this way.
I set my knife and fork on the plate rim, lifted my wine glass, took a calm sip, then set it down. I scanned the faces around the table before letting my gaze settle on Viktor.
"I remember when I was young," I said, tone as casual as discussing the weather, "you never spoke to my father in that tone."
Viktor's smile didn't change, but something in it tightened.
"The pakhan's position and how it's earned—you know that better than I do," I said. "So you should also know that my private affairs, my company, my people—they're not up for family discussion."
The only sound was candles burning.
Viktor raised his glass, gestured toward me, smiled. "Of course. You're right. I overstepped."
He drank, turned away, and started talking to someone else about something different.
Just like that.
But I knew this wasn't over.
Dinner ended at ten. Guests began leaving.
I stood in the corridor outside the mansion's side door, lit a cigarette. The snow was heavier than during the day, weighing down the ivy by the entrance. The streetlights turned each snowflake gold before it fell into darkness and disappeared.
Footsteps approached from behind. Dress shoes on stone pavement. Not Bogdan's gait.
"Uncle," Dmitri's voice came from behind me. "Getting some air?"
"Yeah."
He stopped beside me, looked out at the snow, and lit his own cigarette. His movements and manner seemed perfectly natural.
"Thanks for tonight's hospitality, uncle," he said casually.
I didn't respond.
He fell silent, then changed direction.
"Ella," he said, her name soft and tender in his mouth, like a whisper in a lover's ear. "Thanks for looking after her these past months."
I turned to face him.
Snow-light spilled into the corridor, falling across his profile, rendering that young face nearly transparent pale. His mouth curved in a smile, but it was thin, painted on, ready to be wiped away.
"What did you call her?" I asked.
"Ella." He enunciated both syllables deliberately. "After all, we—"
"Dmitri."
He stopped.
"Say her name one more time," I said, voice low but each word landing solid, "and I'll teach you what regret means."
He looked at me. His eyes held calculation, weighing, testing. He was probably wondering how far I'd go, here at the family dinner entrance, with guests who hadn't yet left.
He wanted to know if I had a weak spot.
He wanted to know if that red-headed woman was my weak spot.
"Uncle," he said, switching to a lighter tone, as if the previous comment had been a joke, "I was just talking. Don't take it seriously. But..."
He pulled a small box from his coat's inner pocket. Deep blue velvet, tied with silver-gray ribbon. Looked like jewelry.
"This is Ella's Christmas present," he said, thumb stroking the ribbon. "She used to love blue. You know, the color of her eyes. Every Christmas, I'd give her something—scarves, earrings, bracelets. She'd always say she didn't like them, but she'd wear them every time."
He held the box up in front of me and gave it a little shake.
"I spent a while picking this one out. Unfortunately, never got the chance to give it to her. So... could you pass it along?"
I looked at the box.
He probably expected me to take it.
But my hands stayed in my pockets.
"She doesn't like blue," I said.
Dmitri's smile froze.
"She likes green," I said. "Deep green, like a forest. Her eyes aren't blue—they're blue-green. You can't even tell what color her eyes are, and you claim to know her."
He pulled the box back, the smile still on his face but the corners of his mouth sagging slightly.
"You seem to know her quite well."
"She won't accept your gift," I said. "Anything you send, she won't take."
"Really? So certain?"
"Dmitri," I looked at him. "Stop testing my limits."
His expression stiffened for a moment. He shoved the small box back in his pocket and brushed snow off his coat hem.
"You're reading too much into this," he said. "I'm just concerned about an ex-girlfriend."
"What you should be concerned about right now," I said, "isn't her."
I paused.
"Tell Viktor—that shipment from the dock, I want it back in my warehouse by tomorrow. Otherwise, he'll learn what consequences mean."
The smile finally disappeared completely from Dmitri's face.
He didn't speak, just stood there looking at me.
I stepped down from the platform into the corridor snow and didn't look back.
Bogdan sat in the driver's seat, engine already running, white exhaust quickly dissipating in the cold air. I pulled open the rear door and got in. Heat blasted my face.
"Back to the apartment," I said.
The car pulled out of the mansion's driveway onto the Upper East Side main road. Christmas night streetlights were dimmer than usual—probably the city saving electricity, dialing down the brightness. Halos spread through the falling snow like blurred, warm-orange fog.
I leaned back in the rear seat and closed my eyes.
She doesn't like blue.
She likes green.
Deep green, like a forest.
She'd never told me. I'd noticed on my own. Most of the clothes hanging in her closet were shades of green—dark green, army green, moss green. Her favorite scarf was deep olive green. The mug on her desk was mint green.
She said it was the color outside the orphanage where she grew up.
"Looking out the window, there was a little grove," she'd said once during a late night when we were the only ones left in the office, standing by the floor-to-ceiling window with coffee in hand.
"Bright green in spring, dark green in summer, golden-green in autumn, and when snow fell in winter, the branches were still green. That green made you feel alive."
When she said that, outside the window was Manhattan's nightscape—no grove, no green, just dense lights and the black water of the Hudson River in the distance.
But in her eyes was that green.
I'd remembered ever since.
"Boss."
Bogdan's voice came from the driver's seat, tone different than usual—faster, heavier, like a string suddenly pulled taut.
I opened my eyes.
"Miss Collins," he said. "We've lost contact with the detail."
My body reacted before my brain.
"When was it discovered?"
"Three minutes ago. Routine check-in got no response. Both their phones are going unanswered." He paused. "GPS shows they're still near Miss Collins' apartment, but the signals aren't moving."
"How long to get there?"
"Normally twenty minutes. Right now—"
"Drive fast."
The car whipped around the next corner, tires sliding on snow for a moment. Bogdan steadied the wheel and floored it. The engine's roar tore through the empty Christmas night street.
I pulled out my phone and dialed her number.
No answer.
My hand tightened, knuckles white. The phone case creaked under the pressure. I took a deep breath, leaned back, and closed my eyes.
Outside the window, Manhattan glowed on Christmas Eve—brilliant, chaotic, same as every year.
Ella, nothing better have happened to you...
"Faster!" I said.