Chapter 19
YURI
Fluorescent lights hum above my head, cold and clinical, washing everything in shades of sterility.
I count the steps between the holding room and the interrogation chamber—thirteen. The floor is linoleum, pale and scuffed, smelling faintly of bleach and something sour.
The agents walk behind me like I might bolt. I don’t nor do I have any intention to.
The room is what I expect—no windows, no mirrors. They know better. I’d spot the two-way glass instantly, clock the angle of the light, the distortion at the edge of the frame. A table is bolted to the floor. Two chairs. The air is stale, as if no one’s breathed in the space for days.
My wrists aren’t cuffed. That’s not kindness—it’s part of the theatre, their illusion of cooperation.
They want me calm, off-balance. I’ve played this scene before.
I sit. I lean back. I note the tilt of the camera in the upper corner, the slight crack in the ceiling tile above the door. I file it all away.
This isn’t about tax discrepancies or shell corporations.
This feels personal.
The door creaks open and Spalding enters like he owns the damn building. There’s a folder in one hand, coffee in the other, smugness carved into the lines around his mouth. He doesn’t sit. He circles.
I say nothing.
“So,” he starts, flipping the folder open with practiced ease. “Offshore trusts, front companies, laundering through commodity swaps. Busy week, Yuri?”
I let the silence stretch. He’s not asking questions, he’s setting the scene.
He tosses a form on the table. “Here’s one. Registered in Cyprus. Owner? No one. Just a ghost. You’re good at that.”
“You brought me here to talk about paperwork?”
He finally sits. “Not just paperwork.”
He throws down a photograph. It’s Lev, exiting a building with two other men. Another one, this time of Alexei, engaging in conversation outside a restaurant. Both grainy surveillance photos taken from a distance.
“Your family is one hell of a liability,” he says, smirking like he just said something clever.
I don’t blink. “You’ve been watching us.”
His smile fades for a moment before flipping to another folder. He slides it across the table. It’s labeled: Jones, A.
My face doesn’t move, but something behind my ribs does. He opens the folder and fans glossy photos across the table.
Astrid.
One of her stepping out of a cab. Another entering a building with tinted windows and no signage. In the next she’s exiting, eyes down, arms crossed protectively over her middle.
“That’s a women’s health clinic,” Spalding informs me.
I say nothing but my heart skips a beat. And he sees it.
He leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Looks to me like she’s got a few secrets of her own.” His words are deliberate. Slow. He’s not after confirmation. He’s after blood.
I school my expression, but the ground has shifted beneath me. The timeline fits. Paris. The night she came to me, the way she’d refused the wine. The quiet tiredness. The need.
But it’s not for certain.
Spalding taps a photo. “Is it yours?”
I look up at him, my voice quiet and cool. “Be careful what you say next.”
He grins. “You threatening a federal agent, Ivanov?”
I lean back, voice calm and cool. “No. I’m warning a fool.”
His grin widens. “We can pull her in. One subpoena, and she’s ours.”
He doesn’t see the danger in that statement, but I do.
And God help him if he ever tries.
I think about the possibility of Astrid being pregnant with my child. My God. Has it been that obvious?
No. Wait. This could all be bullshit.
I narrow my eyes at the photos. Too convenient. A woman’s health clinic? That could be anything. A checkup. A prescription refill. Hell, a flu shot. The images don’t prove a thing and Spalding knows it.
He’s playing me.
I force myself to breathe evenly, but he’s watching me like a hawk, waiting for the fracture to spread.
“She’s not safe with you,” he says. “Or any of the Ivanov men. The bodies, the money, the things that happen behind those gilded gates at your mansion… she doesn’t belong in that world.”
He thinks he’s striking a nerve. Maybe he is. But not in the way he wants to.
My jaw tightens. My nostrils flare. I lean back. Hands steepled. Mask restored.
“You’re grasping at threads,” I say coolly. “You want a confession? You’ll have to do better than this.”
He slaps the folder shut with more force than necessary. “You think this is a game? You think we won’t burn it all down?”
“You’ve been trying,” I murmur. “All these years, yet we’re still here.”
Spalding glares at me. The temperature in the room seems to drop.
The rest of the interview is just noise. Paperwork. Empty posturing. A bluff with no cards left in hand.
Hours pass. The legal team must be pounding the walls by now. I can hear the distant hum of tension in the hallway, the shuffle of agents, the raised voices behind closed doors.
Eventually, they walk me out into a holding corridor. Luk is just ahead of me. He turns slightly, meeting my eyes and nods once.
Alexei follows. Calm and unreadable. His shoulders are set like stone.
There are no words. We don’t need them.
But inside my head the storm is gaining speed.
Astrid.
A baby.
If it’s real, if this isn’t one of Spalding’s sleights of hand…
Why hasn’t she told me?
That question loops on a reel, tightening like wire around my chest.
I picture her face—those wide, sharp eyes, the slight tremble she always tries to hide behind her fire. If she really is pregnant, if she’s alone right now, vulnerable and scared…
I exhale through my nose and force myself to stay upright.
No panic. Not yet.
But when I get out of here, I will have answers.