22. Ilya
ILYA
The glowing red tip of my cigarette is the only light in the corner of the office, the ash growing long and heavy before dropping silently onto the polished floorboards.
Dmitri stands by the leather chair, his coat damp from the rain outside, holding a tablet that casts a pale blue glare across his jaw as he slides the screen across the desk, the glass clattering against my empty coffee mug.
"The federal bank froze the Denisov logistics accounts at four this morning.
" Dmitri points a thick finger at the red flashing alert on the terminal.
"It’s not an administrative audit, Ilya.
A clean, anonymous drop went to the treasury department.
Every payroll sheet Petr used to bribe the Baltic Harbor Customs for the last six years was uploaded to a public server. "
I trace the digital columns of numbers with my thumb, my jaw clenching. "Petr’s offshore reserves?"
"Gone." Dmitri shifts his weight, his leather holster creaking in the quiet. "They locked the shell companies in Cyprus too. By noon, the old man won't be able to pay the electric bill on his safe house, let alone the security detail he has left."
I stand up, walking slowly to the window that overlooks the misty river. My chest feels tight, anger humming in my veins.
This has Mikhail written all over. It’s too neat, too quiet, and too devastating to be the work of the federal investigators.
He knows Petr has gone deep underground since the cathedral shootout.
He knows he can’t find the old man through standard surveillance, so he’s drying out his water hole.
He’s cutting off his oxygen until Petr has no choice but to crawl out into the open to look for cash.
And right now, Petr is weak. If his security detail abandons him because he can't pay their weekly retainer, he’s a sitting duck for whatever strike team Mikhail has waiting.
"We need to route some cash to his couriers," I grunt, not turning back from the glass. "Dmitri, use the Swiss account under the logistics shell. Send five million. Make it clean so the Feds don't flag the transfer."
Dmitri doesn't answer right away. I hear the quiet rustle of his coat as he crosses his arms, a slow, low chuckle vibrating in his chest. "Five million. For Petr Denisov."
I turn around, my eyes narrowing at him. "You have a problem with the math?"
"No, the math is fine," Dmitri says, a wide, knowing smirk spreading across his face.
"I’m just trying to remember if this is the same Petr Denisov you were ready to put a bullet through three weeks ago at the altar.
The same man you said was a parasite on the southern channel.
Now he gets a five-million-dollar lifeline because he might have to turn his heat off? "
Lev, who has been standing silently by the door, lets out a quiet snort, quickly covering his mouth with his hand when I look at him.
"If he dies, Via breaks," I growl, my voice dropping into a flat, dangerous register that instantly shuts Lev up. "I don't need a broken, miserable wife dragging down the mood in this house. It’s a smart decision."
"Smart." Dmitri’s smirk only grows wider as he taps his tablet, his thumb moving fast across the screen. "Right. The strategic defense of your wife’s father. Very business-minded, Boss. I’ll make sure the captains know we’re transferring millions to our worst enemy for 'logistical synergy'."
"Get out before I put you on the harbor patrol," I grunt, pointing a finger at the door.
Dmitri gives me a mock salute, still grinning as he and Lev back out of the office, the heavy oak doors clicking shut behind them.
Once they are gone, I let out a long, slow breath, my hand rubbing the back of my neck where the muscles are tight as steel cables.
It’s a mess. Petr Denisov is a proud, stubborn old idiot who has done nothing but cause me headaches since the day I met him.
We don't have an alliance. We don't even have a treaty.
We have an uneasy, highly tense truce that could shatter the next time he looks at me wrong.
But he is her father.
And after the way she clung to me in the kitchen last night, the way her body completely surrendered to mine in that bed... I can't let him suffer. I can't let her wake up one morning to find out her father was slaughtered in some empty warehouse because he couldn't pay his guard detail.
I head down to the dining room for dinner, my mind still spinning with the logistics of routing the money without tipping off the treasury agents.
The table is set, the silver gleaming under the low chandelier. Via is already sitting in her chair, her hair tied up in a loose bun, a simple grey sweater falling over her shoulders. She’s picking at her salad, her fork moving the lettuce around the plate in small, distracted circles.
I sit down across from her, my movements stiff. I reach for the water pitcher, my jaw locked.
I want to tell her. I want to tell her that her father’s world is currently being dismantled by the man she saw on the balcony, but I can't. I look at her face, the soft curve of her jaw, the relaxed slope of her shoulders.
She finally looks peaceful today. The dark purple mark I left on her neck is still visible, a quiet statement of who she belongs to, and I don't want to ruin that peace with another war.
She sets her fork down with a quiet clink against the porcelain. "Are you planning to eat that steak, or are you just going to stare at it until it confesses to a crime?"
I blink, looking down at my untouched plate, then back up at her. "I’m eating."
"You've been staring at the salt shaker for five minutes, Ilya." She leans back, her hazel eyes narrowing as she scans my face, tracing the tight line of my mouth. "Your jaw is so tight I’m worried you’re going to crack a tooth. What’s going on?"
"Nothing," I say, my voice flat as I pick up my knife. "Just logistics at the docks. Some cargo delays."
"I know what dock business looks like," she says, her tone dipping into that sharp, stubborn register I know so well. "This isn't dock business. You look like you’re trying to decide where to bury a body."
"I’m always deciding where to bury a body, Via," I say, a faint, dry attempt at humor that doesn't quite land. "Eat your dinner. It’s fine."
She stares at me for another long second, her eyes searching mine, but she slowly picks her fork back up, letting out a small, frustrated sigh. "You're a very bad liar, Kovalevskii."
"And you're a very nosy wife," I reply, my chest expanding as I take a slow breath, keeping my eyes on my plate.
She doesn't need to know. The thought is a solid, unyielding decision in my head. I will handle the bank. I will handle Sokolov, the investigator who signed the freeze order. I will pay Petr’s men, and I will keep her father breathing, but she is staying in the dark until the threat is in the ground.
I’ll play the cold, silent monster again if it means she gets to sleep through the night.
After dinner, I walk out into the foyer. Dmitri is already waiting by the door, his leather gloves on, his car idling in the wet driveway outside.
"Is the money cleared?" I ask, my voice losing every drop of the awkwardness from the dining room, turning back into the flat, lethal tone of the Pakhan.
"Five million is in the transit vault," Dmitri says, holding the door open. "Petr’s courier is on his way to collect the codes now."
"Good," I growl, pulling my Glock from its holster under my arm to check the chamber. "Now let’s go find this investigator, Sokolov. I want to have a very long, very quiet conversation with him about why he thought it was a good idea to touch Denisov assets."
Dmitri smirks, his boots clicking as we walk out into the pouring rain. "For a guy who hates his father-in-law, you’re a very generous benefactor, Boss."
"Shut up, Dmitri," I say, stepping into the back of the car.