Chapter Four
Konstantin’s POV
Who could have thought?
Who could have fucking thought?!
What are the odds that a random guy I killed several years ago was now in my present in the form of Alina Sokolov?
I didn’t even remember the accusation she hit me with when I initially went to the guest room and had to leave to answer my brother’s call. It wasn’t until she mentioned it again that it made sense.
Being called a murderer wasn’t new to me; the term lost its effect on me over a decade ago. That was exactly why her accusing me of killing some guy shouldn’t have made me feel anything. But what I felt wasn’t nothing.
As I ignored Sergei’s questions and left the hallway, I wondered—in a rather annoyed manner—why I felt disturbed by the new revelation.
Aware of Sergei following me at a safe distance, I crossed the sitting room and walked out of the house.
I was in my study in another ten minutes. Unable to sit or stand still, I paced like a caged animal.
I hated being unsettled—and it took just one conversation with her to make me like this. It made me feel like she had the upper hand in a fight I didn’t even understand.
Of all the people Vitya could date in the world, why did it have to be her?
The pain and hatred beneath her anger were palpable as she talked about him. At first, I wondered who she was talking about; I had met a number of Sirocs in my lifetime. But as I held her gaze, I immediately remembered the exact warehouse raid she was talking about.
I couldn’t think of anything to say as I left the room.
The issue wasn’t how she hated me for something I did; I had a job to deliver on.
But everything about this job feels wrong.
However, while there were a few things I didn’t know or understand about Alina, there was something I was sure of.
She wasn’t some na?ve civilian who would hold on to a false hope of getting out of what she was entangled in by deceit or false information.
She knew how things worked in the Bratva world.
She was self-possessed, trained, and most importantly, used to powerful men.
I remembered Roman telling me she wasn’t just a competent nurse but one who had spent the majority of her life around Bratva men; the reports my men gathered showed the same thing.
She didn’t look like someone who was lying or hiding anything. I saw that much.
Viktor’s orders echoed in my head as I paced.
“Make her talk or kill her.”
Since she had nothing to say, the latter option should naturally be the next course of action.
Why do I feel uneasy about the idea, then?
“Boss,” Sergei called from the other side of the door.
“Come in.”
He stood by the door and cleared his throat loudly.
“I heard your conversation with her,” he disclosed. “I think she might actually be clean, boss. She seems to be telling the truth.”
I pivoted, facing him.
“Appearances don’t matter. Leaks get plugged.”
Even as I said the words, I was unsettled.
“Agreed, boss. But she knows that you know her. She worked in Sir Roman’s house for a year; if she hasn’t met Sir Viktor, she has definitely heard about him. She knows better—”
“What if the fact that she was once under Lobanov employment is what she’s banking on as a reason we won’t actually kill her?” I interrupted.
“If that were the case, she wouldn’t have tried to run at all. If she were banking on their protection, she wouldn’t have resisted.”
He had a point, I knew he did. But Sergei wasn’t the one who received two options from Viktor; he didn’t know it was either one or the other. He thought it was the ordinary system where I could free her for not knowing anything. He didn’t know how complicated Vitya’s betrayal was.
“I’m to either get info from her or kill her,” I clarified, walking towards my desk.
“That’s… harsh.”
“Hmm.”
I didn’t know if it made me feel better or worse that Sergei wasn’t fond of the idea of killing her either.
“There’ll be a way,” he remarked, nodding with a certainty that seemed to mock my confusion.
“You can leave.”
“Okay, boss,” he answered, turning around to leave before he turned to face me again. “Boss, the virtual meeting with Mr. Yousef and the other man, we shifted it to tonight since we had to go to St. Petersburg earlier today. It’s 2 am. Should I postpone them?”
I glanced at the clock on the west wall.
1:48 a.m.
“No need. Connect them to me once they call.”
“Alright, boss.”
Just as he turned the knob, I called, “Sergei.”
“Boss,” he replied, turning around again.
“Make sure she has food and water. Or whichever essentials she needs.”
“Okay, boss.”
I paced the distance between the numerous bookshelves as Sergei left my study.
The anger she unleashed a few moments ago made me understand why she looked at me with such hatred back at the clinic. It wasn’t about Vitya at all; it was the sad history I’d created.
Could she be lying about not knowing about Vitya’s actions?
I thought back to the times I’d seen her with Liza. She was always tending to her with genuine concern, never seeking favor from anyone. She didn’t suck up to either Roman or Liza herself; I remembered her calmly insistence on what should be done even when the couple didn’t want it.
As much as I tried to tamp down the memory, it surfaced.
I recalled the same warm brown eyes dilating as she screamed at me not to kill him.
I could still remember the image of her younger self, her pale skin, her copper brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.
I remembered how she ran like she’d seen the devil himself when I turned to face her after shooting Siroc.
I had no idea who he was to her, but I knew she wouldn’t have wanted him dead.
But it was just work and the guy had brought it upon himself.
Nevertheless, in retrospect, I found myself wishing, for a second, that I hadn’t done it just so the hatred and anger in her eyes wouldn’t be there. I internally shoved down the feeling of guilt.
It’s just work; it’s not about Alina.
If she really didn’t know anything, what the hell would I do? What she thought of me shouldn’t matter, but I found myself thinking of the best possible outcome that wouldn’t further prove I was the monster she already saw me as.
My phone vibrated.
Sergei.
I went to the chair behind the desk and sat as I took the call.
“Put him on,” I instructed as I flipped my MacBook open.
I sat back and, in a minute, Yousef’s face, highlighted by his red hair, filled the screen. I didn’t bother with earphones.
“Konstantin Lobanov!” he greeted, grinning. “I would have said you’ve been a hard man to track down lately, but when have you been anything but?”
A low chuckle left my lips.
Yousef was one of my longest-standing clients; I also partnered with him on really large deals sometimes. He was primarily based in Russia, but we didn’t see each other often, especially when I was traveling from place to place.
“I’ve been busy, Yousef,” I told him. “Out and about, as always.”
“Right,” he commented, nodding. “It’s confidential, can I speak freely?”
“Of course. We wouldn’t be having this call otherwise.”
“I had to ask, man. I was on the phone with Juan the other day when this chick suddenly jumped into the conversation. Turned it into a social event.”
“Interesting.”
“Needless to say, she found her way to my warehouse. I fucked her.”
“Like you said, you didn’t need to say it.”
He laughed. “It was good to remember. I’ll probably call her later in the morning.”
Despite how astute he was, Yousef’s tendency to digress made communicating with him quite burdensome.
“Yousef, what did you want to discuss?”
“You must have heard about the human traffickers who now use the Mexican route,” he uttered.
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Of course, you have,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “They are practically dominating the route, you know. I’ve found a way for us to stop them.”
“Stop them,” I repeated. “When did I start working for the government? Interpol and the others see them pass every now and then, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do. But this isn’t for the government, Konstantin.
It’s for ourselves, for our business. It won’t be too long before our clients hear about these traffickers using the same route.
And when they do, they begin to grumble about their goods passing the same route, since these guys could make a misstep and attract public or even international eyes on the route.
They wouldn’t want their cargo to be caught in that kind of crossfire; it would cause problems for us and for them.
Before we know it, they’ll start to cancel deals passing through that route, forcing us to use the other route—and that means smaller cargo and more scrutiny, you know.
Same thing that happened to the Carusos with the Baja route. ”
“So your idea is to…?” I prompted after a few silent seconds.
“We make a move. A contained one, at that. Doesn’t get to the public or media but effectively stops them,” he disclosed.
I nodded at him, and he continued.
“We bomb their trucks and threaten to expose them if they pass the route again. They would assume we’re one of these private humanitarian societies. Traffickers fear these guys because of their media power—we’ll use that.”
“When you say ‘bomb their trucks,’ do you mean destroy the truck with the human cargo?”
“No, not at all,” he clarified. “Our guys will attach themselves to the trucks and, just when they’re on the route, they blow the doors open. All the doors holding the people they’re trafficking in.”
“That causes an uproar. They’ll have to stop moving to control it.”
“Yes. And then, they see the message the guys have left them. We let them think we’d go to the media if we caught sight of them again. They get it across to their boss. He asks them to be more discreet, and they change routes. Mission accomplished.”
“You seem so sure it’ll be that simple,” I pointed out.