16. Katerina #3
I flash him a smile and stop three paces from him, gesturing to the man standing on his opposite side. He turns then to see another general, one I can’t remember the name of at the moment, holding his award out for him to take.
To anyone in the crowd who recognizes me, I simply look like Ramil’s devoted daughter surprising him on stage in order to congratulate him on this moment, not a threat who needs to be removed immediately.
It’s the perfect cover and will keep everyone none the wiser the moment I step forward to take over.
My father has no choice but to allow me to stay up here with him. He would never risk inciting a scandal by having me pulled off stage in front of everyone. Especially with whatever excuse he’s made to explain away my absence.
The room falls silent as they fold themselves back into their seats and wait for my father’s speech to begin.
He fumbles while adjusting the microphone attached to the podium, making a loud thumping sound in the process. Such an uncharacteristic gesture that shows me just how rattled he is to see me. The hand holding his award shakes slightly. He quickly hides it from view, lowering it behind the podium.
He clears his throat before leaning forward to speak. “I would like to start by thanking the committee for hosting such a beautiful dinner.”
A soft smattering of claps answers him.
“This,” his throat bobs as he swallows. “This award means a lot to me… my career… it… I’ve been looking forward to it for a long time.”
It’s then that he glances over at me, his brows pulling together slightly.
When he turns back to the microphone, he shifts the award into his opposite hand and holds the other one up toward me. “My… beautiful daughter Katerina has flown in from Greece to celebrate with me.”
Applause erupts again, cutting him off. I take that moment to step closer to him, a wide smile stretching across my face when his eyes dart to me again.
My heart hammers against my ribs like a war drum, but I force my smile to stay in place, bright and unwavering.
Greece? Of all the lies he could spin, he picks that one?
Never in my life have I expressed wanting to lounge on a beach in the Mediterranean.
Though I suppose the truth to him has never been an important factor.
The irony burns in my throat, but I swallow it down.
As the applause fades once again, the room settles into that expectant hush again.
My father's hand lingers in the air, still gesturing toward me like he's presenting a prized possession. His eyes flicker with panic. Even if he doesn’t know why I'm here, it won’t take a genius to understand something bad is about to happen.
“Thank you,” I say softly, bowing slightly before leaning toward the podium mic as if I'm just adding a sweet, familial touch to his acceptance speech.
My voice carries clear and steady through the speakers, amplified for the entire ballroom.
“It's an honor to be here tonight with you, my dear father, and celebrate everything you've achieved through blood, sweat, and your own merit.”
The crowd murmurs approvingly, a few more claps rippling throughout it. Aleksandr's voice rumbles softly in my ear piece. “Digital presentation is up in five… four… three…”
My father clears his throat again, forcing a chuckle that sounds brittle even to my ears.
“Katerina has always been my greatest pride and joy.” His arm moves then, his hand coming down to cup the back of my neck in a tight, bruising hold that nearly makes me wince.
“Her support means everything to me on a night like this. With her, I feel the spirit of her mother looking down on us.”
My stomach turns.
During other events when he used to mention her, I would find it touching.
The way his voice would soften, the faint catch in his throat that made even hardened generals dab at their eyes.
Now all I feel is revulsion. How dare he invoke her memory like this, wrapping himself in the cloak of a grieving widower while simultaneously condemning the daughter she carried, raised, and loved?
The same daughter he sold without hesitation to cover his own shame.
Had my mother still been alive, she would be beside herself. She would have protected me. Instead, he stands here using her ghost as a prop, just like he’s always done to me.
“Digital presentation is up.”
I reach for the microphone again, turning it toward me before sweeping my arm toward the large screen behind us. “Actually, I also have a few things I'd like to add about your list of accomplishments.”
His eyes widen fractionally as his head snaps around to look at it.
His grip on my neck tightens for one vicious second before he forces his hand to drop.
He can’t yank me away now, not in front of the cameras, the generals, the donors, the press.
He’s trapped in the spotlight he’s spent decades preening under.
A low murmur ripples through the audience, confusion stirring like a breeze before a storm.
The first document appears on the screen—a ledger, crisp black ink on white background with timestamps and account numbers in neat rows.
Millions upon millions of taxpayer rubles funneled into offshore accounts, then siphoned out again in steady, ruinous withdrawals.
Casino wire transfers. Private jet charters to Monaco.
Hotel suites in Macau. Every losing streak meticulously documented, every desperate double-down tracked and presented.
I lean into the microphone. “Let’s talk about the real reason we’re here. It isn’t for the medals or the honors, but the money you’ve wasted from the taxpayers who fund your salary. Gambling all of it away for practically a net-zero loss.”
I recite the speech perfectly from memory, the words I’ve practiced in front of the mirror and Aleksandr’s unforgiving stare until they had become muscle memory. I barely hear the gasps from the crowd, my focus narrowing to the man standing beside me.
My father’s face twists as he turns back to look at me—fury like I’ve never seen before pinching his features into someone unrecognizable.
The mask of the patriot, the humble servant of the state, completely crumbles.
His hands flex at his sides like he wants to wrap them around my throat and squeeze until I pass out.
For the first time in my life, I see real, unfiltered hatred in his eyes.
The screen scrolls to the next slide—names of the bookies and fixers he used to keep the losses quiet and out of the public eye.
Another slide shows forged expense reports submitted to the Ministry of Defense, claiming “operational travel” for trips that ended in high-stakes poker rooms. The evidence is laid out so plainly that even the most loyal of his supporters would have to close their eyes to ignore it.
The murmurs swell into a quiet outrage. Someone in the front row stands, then another. Their phones are already out to record.
I smile and turn back to the microphone to go in for the kill. Suddenly, the screen flickers before going completely black.
My stomach drops.
Aleksandr's voice is sharp in my ear. “Fuck. The feed is getting jammed—”
Panic claws up my throat, but I shove it down just as quickly.
Improvise.
I have to improvise.
My knuckles turn white when I clutch the side of the podium. “Eventually, Ramil Borchin’s gambling debt finally caught up to him. In his final act of treachery, my father decided to settle the debts with his broker by offering me—”
My father steps forward, grabbing my arm and yanking me into what to the outside would look like a paternal embrace but feels like a vise grip meant to choke me into silence.
“Katerina. My poor girl…” He says it loud enough for the mic to pick it up.
“You've been through so much. Ladies and gentlemen, please forgive this interruption. My daughter has been the victim of a terrible ordeal. She’s been manipulated by a known criminal named Aleksandr Volkov whom we’ve been trying to apprehend for months.
She's not herself. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. ”
The lie explodes around the room. Cameras begin flashing as reporters surge forward from the crowd. I wrench myself free, spinning toward the crowd. “He's lying! The proof is—”
But my words are drowned out.
The AV system blares suddenly with static and a pre-recorded message about technical difficulties. Hands grab me from behind and pull me backward. Military police, with their uniforms crisp and faces impassive, haul me away.
I twist, kicking out, but there are too many. “Let go of me! He's the one—He sold me off!”
Aleksandr's voice roars in my ear with whatever he’s saying, frantic now.
But it's useless. The comms piece is knocked from my ear when one of the security officers drags me into his chest, crushing me into a bruising hold that nearly cuts off my oxygen when he lifts me off my feet.
The crowd blurs as I'm dragged behind the curtain, kicking uselessly in the air.
My father is speaking again, his tone the perfect mask of sorrowful regret as he addresses the crowd. “Please, everyone, remain calm. This is exactly why we must remain vigilant against threats. My daughter will get the help she needs to…”
I’m taken out one of the side doors into the bitter night air. Two black SUVs idle behind the building, their engines already humming. They force me into the back and close the door with a finality that makes my heart sink.
I frantically pull at the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. A wire cage separates me from the driver’s seat, trapping me in the back with no way out and nowhere left to go.
As the car peels away, I slam my fist against the tinted window, helpless.
I've failed.
Not just the plan, but everything. Aleksandr is exposed now, painted as the villain in Ramil’s twisted narrative.
What’s going to happen to him now?
And worse, what’s going to happen to me?