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“The Secretary is pleased we could resume our arrangement,” he says, the smoothness of a career politician in his voice. “The, ah, unfortunate situation with Mr. Novikov created quite a disruption.”

I allow myself a small smile. “Indeed. Unfortunate.”

Whitmore shifts in his chair. We both know what happened, though neither will acknowledge it directly. Sergei Novikov slipped in a bathroom, hit his head, and died. A tragic accident that just happens to benefit me enormously.

“These terms are acceptable,” I say, signing each contract with a sense of smug satisfaction that I don’t bother to hide. “I assume delivery schedules remain as previously discussed?”

“Yes. The first shipment is expected within thirty days.” He accepts the signed contracts, sliding them into his briefcase with visible relief. Our business is concluding, which means he can leave. “I should mention that Katherine sends her regards. The Oxford scholarship has been… transformative for her.”

The scholarship Novikov arranged to buy Whitmore’s loyalty. Now Whitmore returns to me, but ensures his daughter keeps her prize. Smart man.

“I’m pleased to hear it.” I stand, signaling the end of our meeting. “Vasya will handle the technical specifications with your team.”

Whitmore rises, extending his hand. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Tarasov.”

The lie comes easily to him. It’s never a pleasure doing business with me, but it is profitable. For both of us.

I watch through the security feed as Sasha escorts him from the property. When his car disappears through the gates, I pour myself a small measure of vodka. Not to celebrate— it’s too early for that— but to mark the moment.

Novikov’s death was unplanned. Messy. A complication I didn’t need. But the results… the results have been excellent. Five Pentagon contracts. Three European distributors returning to the fold. Banking restrictions mysteriously lifted.

The business empire stabilizes. The balance of power shifts back in my favor.

I pull out my phone and dial Vasya.

“The contracts are signed,” I tell him when he answers.

“All five?” I can hear the click of his keyboard in the background.

“All five. Better terms than before.”

A low whistle. “Whitmore didn’t waste time crawling back.”

“He follows the money.” I lean back in my chair, swirling the vodka. “Have the Swiss accounts been unfrozen?”

“As of this morning. Looks like Novikov’s associates are retreating.”

There’s a pause, the silence heavy with unasked questions. Finally, Vasya speaks again, his voice dropping lower.

“What happened to Novikov, Aleksei?”

I take a sip of vodka, considering my answer. Vasya isn’t asking if I’m responsible— he knows me too well for that. He’s asking for details he doesn’t need.

“An unfortunate accident,” I repeat the official line.

Another pause. “Sofia will be looking for answers.”

The mention of her name triggers a flicker of something like guilt. Not for her father— Novikov deserved his fate— but for Sofia herself. Once my fiancée, now my enemy. Another complication I’ll need to handle.

“Let her look.” I dismiss the concern. “If she pushes too hard, maybe she’ll hit her head in a public toilet, too. Accidents happen all the time.”

Vasya chuckles. “Glad to hear that you haven’t lost your edge,brat. I was worried that new pussy of yours had softened you.”

I feel my jaw tighten. “Watch your mouth, Vasya.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, then changes the subject. “How’s the baby?”

“My daughter has my temper, apparently.” I smile. “She screams the house down when she’s hungry.”