20. First Crack in the Contract
First Crack in the Contract
Vera
The blood finally washes away.
Mostly.
I scrub my hands in Anya’s sink long after the red has already spiraled down the drain. Soap burns where my skin has split from too many hours in gloves.
Behind me, Roman stands in the hallway.
He hasn’t moved much since Anya spoke to him.
I noticed.
The way his shoulders locked.
The way silence hardened around him.
He’s thinking about something.
And I’m done being a passenger inside his war.
I dry my hands and step into the hallway.
“We need to talk.”
He looks at me immediately.
Not annoyed.
Alert.
“About the boy?” he asks.
“No.”
A pause.
“About Luka.”
The name changes his face.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
His eyes go colder.
“Why.”
“Because everything traces back to him,” I say quietly. “The sniper. The money trails. Your certainty about my father.”
He studies me carefully.
“You want details.”
“Yes.”
“You might not like them.”
“I already don’t like any of this.”
That almost earns a smile.
Almost.
He gestures toward a small conference room off the corridor.
Inside, the lights are dim, and the air smells faintly of antiseptic.
Roman closes the door behind us.
“Start talking,” I say.
He leans against the edge of the table.
“Luka died eighteen months ago,” he begins. “Warehouse meeting near the docks. Supposed to be private—three people on our side, two on the Bellini side.”
My chest tightens slightly.
“My father attended?”
“No.”
Relief flickers.
“His liaison did.”
“Who.”
“Father Angelo.”
Of course.
Roman continues.
“The meeting coordinates were encrypted. Limited access. Only a handful of people had the time and location.”
“Who.”
“My father,” he says. “Two Koval executives. Luka himself.”
“And Bellini’s liaison.”
“Yes.”
My mind starts building a map.
“What happened?”
“The coordinates leaked,” Roman says. “Ambush team arrived ten minutes before Luka.”
My stomach twists.
“He walked into it.”
“Yes.”
“How did you know the leak came through Bellini channels?”
Roman crosses his arms.
“Because the coordinates were transmitted from an encrypted relay tied to Bellini shipping infrastructure.”
“That’s not proof,” I say immediately.
“It’s strong evidence.”
“It’s a routing path.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“You understand networks.”
“My father runs half the city’s shipping lanes,” I reply. “I grew up hearing logistics conversations.”
Silence.
“Show me the timestamps,” I say.
Roman hesitates.
Then pulls out his phone.
Encrypted archive.
He places it on the table.
I scroll through the records.
Coordinates.
Transmission logs.
Relay pings.
My eyes move faster as patterns form.
“The meeting confirmation was sent here,” I murmur.
“Yes.”
“Three hours before the ambush.”
“Yes.”
“But this relay—” I tap the screen. “—it’s not exclusive to Bellini.”
Roman’s gaze sharpens.
“Explain.”
“This infrastructure services shared cargo routes,” I say. “Your shipping executives use the same relay network.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“Koval executives had access,” I continue.
“Yes.”
“And Bellini staff had access.”
“Yes.”
“And anyone with internal credentials could mask the transmission.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretches.
The pieces rearrange in my mind.
One detail catches.
“This timestamp,” I say slowly. “It aligns with a logistics schedule my father’s office uses.”
Roman stiffens.
“That confirms Bellini involvement.”
“No,” I say quietly.
“It confirms someone used our schedule.”
He watches me carefully now.
“You recognize it.”
“Yes.”
“Explain.”
I turn the screen toward him.
“This delivery window,” I say. “My father’s staff publishes it to coordinate port access.”
“And?”
“And Koval companies use the same port.”
His expression hardens.
“They do.”
“So, your executives would have seen the schedule too.”
Roman goes very still.
The silence grows heavier.
Because we both see it now.
Two houses.
Shared infrastructure.
Shared information channels.
Shared vulnerability.
“Your father’s schedule helped time the ambush,” Roman says slowly.
“Yes.”
“But Koval insiders could have accessed it.”
“Yes.”
The implication sits between us like a loaded weapon.
For the first time since this began, doubt spreads through his expression.
“You’re suggesting…”
“I’m suggesting,” I say carefully, “that someone used both houses.”
Roman’s jaw tightens.
I watch the moment the idea lands.
The moment his certainty cracks.
“What if it wasn’t my father?” I whisper.
Roman doesn’t answer immediately.
His gaze drifts to the table.
To the transmission logs.
To the timestamps.
When he finally speaks, his voice is lower than I’ve ever heard it.
“Then it was mine.”