11. Sasha #4
I still don’t know why I did it. But what’s done is done and there is no going back.
The corners of Nikolai’s eyes crinkle slightly, narrowing the longer he studies me. Silence is one of his favorite weapons, and he wields it with surgical precision, letting it stretch until it becomes uncomfortable enough to draw out any deeply hidden confessional.
Finally, after what feels like an entire lifetime, he rolls his shoulders back and settles deeper into his seat. “I see.”
I don’t respond. I don’t nod or speak. I let the words sit between us unresolved because anything I say now risks tipping the balance in a direction I can’t predict. Nikolai is not finished yet. He rarely is when he grows quiet like this.
Volkov, on the other hand, has never possessed an ounce of that level of restraint in his life.
“So… what?” he says at last, irritation bleeding openly into his tone.
He leans forward, elbows braced against the table, his fingers lacing together as if that alone might keep his impatience contained.
“We’re supposed to sit around and wait for the FSB to figure it out?
Since when do we work on their timeline? ”
His gaze flicks briefly toward Nikolai, then back to me, sharp and accusatory.
“If Morozov is guilty, what exactly is the use of waiting for them to charge him formally? We don’t need indictments. We don’t need press conferences. We decide when a man becomes a liability and when he needs to go.”
Nikolai clears his throat softly. Every eye turns back to him immediately.
“Sasha is right, Aleksandr. We don’t make decisions based on rumors. We make them based on evidence.”
For the briefest moment, I can’t quite hide my reaction. My eyes widen just enough to betray surprise.
Volkov notices.
He scoffs out a sharp, disbelieving sound toward our leader. “You’re serious.”
Nikolai’s gaze shifts to him slowly, the full weight of his attention settling onto Volkov like a hand closing around a throat and squeezing. Whatever faint amusement had lingered there evaporates instantly.
“Of course I am,” Nikolai replies. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Volkov straightens immediately, his earlier bravado snapping into something much more careful. He clears his throat, visibly recalibrating, trying and failing to mask just how deeply unsettled he is by that attention.
“I wasn’t doubting you. I just… we usually don’t wait around for outside authorities to do our work for us,” he says quickly.
“And we aren’t,” Nikolai agrees calmly. “Did I say we are?”
The silence that follows is absolute.
It presses in on the room from all sides, thick and suffocating. No one moves. No one even breathes. Even Volkov seems to understand that pushing any further would be a fatal miscalculation.
I fight the smirk threatening to surface at the corner of my mouth.
For once, it is not me standing under Nikolai’s scrutiny, not my judgment being weighed and measured for weaknesses that would soon become the pressure points to twist me into an impossible position. Watching Volkov squirm beneath that gaze is… satisfying in a way I don’t often indulge.
“No,” Volkov answers at last, his voice noticeably subdued.
Nikolai inclines his head slightly, the matter apparently settled for now. And just like that, the conversation shifts. But I know better than to mistake this moment for a victory.
He may have sided with caution today, may have chosen evidence over impulse, but he has not abandoned his suspicions. If anything, he has simply filed them away to revisit later. Perhaps in a private meeting with just the two of us. Morozov remains on borrowed time, and by extension, so does Alina.
The moment Nikolai decides that Viktor’s guilt is no longer a question but a certainty, he will not hesitate to order me to get rid of both of them.
A father and daughter disappearing within the same breath would be framed as tragedy, collateral damage in the war against instability.
Regardless, the city would move on within weeks.
It always does.
I keep my expression neutral when Nikolai’s attention returns to me.
“See to it that you clear out your district. Figure out whoever is responsible and bring them here.”
His voice carries no anger. That, more than anything, is what makes it dangerous. When he raises his voice, you can predict the explosion and how bad it will be. When he speaks like this, the decision has already been made. There is no talking him down or renegotiating.
“If another bombing occurs before then, I will be sending my own men in to do it for you,” he adds.
My jaw tightens. I incline my head in acknowledgment. “Understood.”
I do not argue back. That would be suicide. Nikolai is not asking for my agreement. He is informing me of the consequences of failure. Sending his men into my territory would be more than an insult. It would be a public declaration that I am no longer capable of controlling my own domain.
And once that door opens, it will never close again.
I meet Nikolai’s gaze steadily. “I’ll handle it.”
“Good,” he says simply.
The meeting moves on after that, but my attention does not because I know exactly what this means. I am on borrowed time.
Every step I take from this moment forward will be scrutinized.
Every move I make will either reinforce Nikolai’s confidence in me or confirm his suspicion that I’ve become compromised.
If I fail to produce answers quickly enough, he won’t wait.
He’ll act. And when he does, he won’t give me the courtesy of choosing who dies.
He will make that choice for me.
I rise when the meeting adjourns, offer the appropriate nods, the necessary respect, and leave the room with my spine straight and my mask firmly in place.
But inside, the calculation has already begun. I will not hand Alina Morozova over to be erased like a misfiled document.
If Nikolai forces my hand, then he, and Moscow, will learn just how dangerous it is to corner a man who has already decided what he’s willing to burn to protect what’s his.