Chapter Twenty-Nine Vladimir
Alexandr’s office smells like leather, old cigars, and power that has soaked into the walls over decades.
He gestures me inside with a curt nod, already seated behind his massive desk.
Dominic stays in the hallway without being told, phone pressed to his ear as the door shuts behind me with a quiet finality.
I take two steps in before I notice Igor standing near the window, hands clasped behind his back like a loyal statue. For a brief second, my body registers him as a threat—old habits die hard—but then my focus shifts back to Alexandr. Igor fades into the background, for now.
“Sit,” Alexandr says.
I do, folding my hands loosely, posture relaxed but alert. He studies me the way men like him always do, as if weighing the cost of every word before speaking it.
“Tell me what you know about the murders,” he says.
Straight to the point. I respect that.
“Somebody killed them in Pavel’s nightclub,” I reply evenly. “After closing. Three shots, three men. Clean. Professional.”
Alexandr’s jaw tightens. “No witnesses?”
“None that I know of,” I say. “Police believe the shooter hid inside before the club closed.”
He exhales slowly through his nose, fingers tapping once against the desk. “I believe Alexi’s disappearance and these deaths are connected.”
Internally, I agree. Outwardly, I say nothing.
Alexandr leans back, steepling his fingers. “Someone is cutting out the second generation. My son. Pavel’s son. Artem’s son. Oleg’s son. It’s an attack on the future of the Bratva.”
It’s an interesting theory. Emotional. Protective. And wrong.
“I see it differently,” I say carefully. “If someone wanted to destroy the Bratva, they would hit the fathers. Create chaos. Decapitate the organization.”
“And you think this is not destruction?” he asks sharply.
“I think it’s consolidation,” I answer. “Eliminate the competition before stepping into power.”
Alexandr watches me closely, measuring the idea. He doesn’t dismiss it. That alone tells me he’s already considered it.
My thoughts drift, unbidden, to Anya. To the way she tries to hide her fear behind defiance. To how exposed she truly is in all of this. I feel a tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with strategy.
“Anya could be the target,” I say instead.
Alexandr’s eyes harden. “I’ll protect my daughter.”
“Protected doesn’t mean untouchable,” I reply. “Who knew about the plan to replace Alexi?”
He hesitates just long enough to matter. “The three men who are now dead,” he says finally. “And their fathers.”
“That’s a very small circle,” I say. “Too small.”
“You think someone else knew,” Alexandr says.
“I think someone always knows,” I reply. “Secrets like that don’t stay contained.”
Silence settles between us, heavy and loaded.
“I can help guard Anya,” I say. “Discreetly. Personally.”
Before Alexandr can respond, Igor finally decides to remind us he exists.
“We can handle Anya’s security,” Igor says, voice smooth, confident. “She is family.”
I turn my head slowly, meeting his eyes for the first time since entering the room. “Family is often closest to the knife,” I say mildly.
Igor stiffens.
Alexandr raises a hand, cutting off any further exchange. His gaze shifts back to me, thoughtful now. Calculating.
“I would appreciate your help,” he says. “Especially if you believe whoever killed these men sees her as a target.”
Relief flickers through me, sharp and unexpected. I keep it off my face.
“I’ll take her to her performance tonight,” I say. “And bring her home afterward.”
Alexandr nods once. “See that you do.”
I stand and turn for the door, acutely aware of Igor’s stare burning into my back. As I step into the hallway, I notice Dominic is no longer waiting. Checking my phone, I see that he’s left two messages.
In the first one, he tells me that he left to follow Skylar. He heard her on the phone as she was leaving the house. She made arrangements to meet with someone, and it sounded urgent. The second message was the location where Dominic followed her. I immediately head to the area.
The building looks dead long before I step inside it.
Its windows are either boarded up or shattered, black mouths gaping into rooms that once held families, arguments, and laughter. Now it’s just concrete bones and rot. The kind of place people stop seeing after a while, which makes it perfect for secrets.
I park two blocks away and walk the rest, collar turned up, senses tight. The front door hangs crooked on one hinge. Inside, the air smells like mildew, rust, and something faintly chemical. Old wiring, maybe.
My phone vibrates once.
Dominic: Second floor. East side. Third door on the left. Don’t step on the loose stair—it screams.
Of course it does.
I climb slowly, every movement deliberate. The stair groans anyway, a long-suffering sound that echoes through the hollow shell of the building. No voices answer it. Good.
The second-floor hallway is narrow, wallpaper peeling in long strips like dead skin. Dominic waits inside what used to be a bedroom, the door barely cracked. He pulls it open just enough for me to slip in, then shuts it again without a sound.
“You’re just in time,” he murmurs.
“In time for what?” I ask.
A corner of his mouth lifts, then he gestures toward the far wall. An antique air vent is set into it, ornate ironwork instead of modern slats. Decorative. Out of place. Someone long ago thought even airflow should be beautiful.
Dominic has already removed the inner panel. The vent opens into the adjacent apartment—another bedroom, judging by the warped hardwood and the faded outline where a bed once sat.
We’re both tall men. The vent is set high enough that when we lean in, shoulders brushing, we can see clearly through the patterned iron without being seen ourselves.
Skylar is alone in the room.
She paces, running a hand through her hair, agitation sharp in every step. She checks her phone twice, then glances at the door. The look on her face is not fear.
It’s anticipation.
I feel something cold settle behind my ribs.
Two men arrive a few minutes later. Suits, but not tailored. Government issue. Practical shoes. No visible weapons, but the way they move tells me they’re armed anyway.
Skylar’s posture changes instantly. Her shoulders square. Her mouth curves into a professional smile.
“Two operatives?” she asks, extending her hand. “Langley must want this information.”
“Dealing with the Bratva always gains their undivided attention. You should know this by now. I’m Glenn, this is my associate, Crow.”
Dominic and I exchange a look.
Langley?
So that’s the game.
They shake her hand, quick and efficient.
“You said you had something important and that it was time-sensitive,” Glenn says.
“It is,” Skylar replies, pacing again, energy barely contained. “Things inside the Bratva are accelerating.”
Crow pulls out a small recorder and sets it on a crate. “Start from the beginning.”
Skylar doesn’t hesitate. “Alexi Stepanov was supposed to take over for his father. He disappeared weeks ago.”
“That isn’t new information,” Glenn says mildly.
“No,” Skylar agrees. “What’s new is that the men next in line to replace him are dead.”
That gets their attention.
“All three,” she continues. “Murdered in Pavel Nazarov’s nightclub. Clean executions. Professional.”
Crow leans forward. “That creates a vacuum.”
“Yes,” Skylar says. “And panic.”
I grip the edge of the vent harder than necessary.
She’s feeding them everything.
“And Alexi?” Glenn asks.
Skylar smiles. “Alexi is alive.”
The words hang in the air like a gunshot.
“He was taken out of Russia after his disappearance,” she says. “I know where he is now.”
Dominic goes very still beside me.
“Where?” Crow asks.
“Here,” Skylar replies. “The Grand Hotel. Under the protection of Vladimir Zoloth.”
That would be me.
My jaw tightens.
“He’s wounded,” Skylar continues. “Physically and… ideologically. He doesn’t want the Bratva. Especially not their human trafficking operations.”
Glenn nods slowly. “And his sister?”
Skylar’s expression softens, just enough to sell it. “Anya didn’t know the truth until recently. She’s struggling with it. She’s emotional. Idealistic.”
“Potential leverage,” Crow says.
“Potential asset,” Skylar corrects. “If we work it right.”
She stops pacing and faces them fully now. “I believe I can turn them. Both of them. Alexi and Anya. They’re not hardened criminals. They don’t want this life.”
Silence stretches as the agents consider that.
Finally, Glenn stands. “You’ve done good work.”
“So far,” Skylar says.
Crow picks up the recorder. “Keep monitoring. Don’t spook them.”
“I won’t,” Skylar says confidently. “They trust me.”
That almost makes me laugh.
Glenn pauses at the door. “You’re doing your country a service, Agent Skylar.”
She nods, chin high. “I know.”
They leave together, footsteps fading down the hall, then the stairs. Skylar gathers her things, checks her phone once more, and exits the apartment alone.
The building falls silent again.
For a long moment, Dominic and I don’t move.
“CIA,” Dominic finally mutters.
“They are,” I say. “They called her Agent. She might be something else. FBI, maybe.”
He exhales slowly. “She gave them everything.”
“Not everything,” I say. “She still thinks she’s in control.”
I straighten, stepping back from the vent. My mind is already racing, threads pulling tight, rearranging the board.
“Alexi’s no longer safe at the hotel. We need to move him,” Dominic says.
“Immediately,” I reply.
I pull out my phone, already typing as I speak. “Contact Alexi. Now. He needs to leave the hotel—no arguments. Find somewhere safe. Off-grid. Then he can contact us.”
Dominic nods, already dialing. “And Anya?”
My chest tightens again.
“We protect her,” I say. “From the Bratva. From the Feds. From people she thinks she can trust.”
I glance once more at the empty room through the vent, at the space where Skylar stood selling out everyone she claimed to care about.
“She just chose her side,” I add quietly. “And she chose wrong.”