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Then I turned to Nikolai.

“And you check your connections. You know who to lean on. You know where the bodies are buried, metaphorically or otherwise.”

He smiled. I wasn’t done.

“If you really want to hurt him, don’t threaten him. Undermine him. Make him look weak. Make his people stop trusting him. Make them wonder if he’s got the stomach for a fight at all, or the balls to be the mayor of Boston.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Aleksei let out a low whistle. “Well, damn. You are a Morozov after all.”

I glanced at my father. He was watching me like he didn’t know whether to be proud of me or horrified. Maybe both.

Good.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Maxim leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching me like I’d just said something in a language he didn’t realize I spoke. Ivan was tapping the rim of his glass thoughtfully, his brows drawn down, analyzing my words like he was decoding them. Aleksei just looked smug, like he knew I had it in me and was pleased to be proven right.

And Nikolai?

He wasn’t smiling anymore, but he didn’t look away either. He was watching me with that same quiet heat I’d seen behind his eyes before, but this time, it wasn’t about control.

It was filled with pride.

Finally, Maxim broke the silence.

“If we’re going to hit Stillwell politically, we’ll need dirt. Verified. Traceable, but not to us. Aleksei?”

Aleksei lifted a shoulder. “I know a few art collectors with connections to some of his major donors. I can start poking around. Social reputations are fragile. A whisper about money laundering or bad taste in mistresses and we’ll watch the funding dry up.”

Maxim nodded once. “Do it.”

“Ivan?” Nikolai said.

Ivan’s fingers danced over the screen of his tablet.

“I’ll trace the funds tied to Stillwell’s campaign. If there’s offshore movement—or any undisclosed donors—we can leak it. Quietly. We’ll feed it through a few channels. Keep it from coming back to us.”

Maxim turned to my father now.

“Charlie, you’re the public piece of this. You’ll need to rally your party. Push back, but not defensively. Control the narrative. You’re not the father of a criminal. You’re a leader with the strength to handle pressure and a little bit of bad press from the opposition.”

My father gave a slow nod. “I’ll reach out to a few friendly voices in the press. We plant a story about my unwavering leadership. I’ll show up to a few photo ops with old community partners. Put a little shine back on the record.”

“You’re good at shine,” I muttered under my breath.

He gave me side-eye. I grinned.

“Sergei?” Maxim asked finally, turning to the brother who’d barely spoken.

Sergei glanced toward me, then back at Maxim.

“I’ll monitor movement. Stillwell has allies in Boston PD. If they’re thinking about pressing charges or opening a file on her, I’ll know before the ink hits paper.”

“If they come,” I said quietly, “we’ll handle it.”

Nikolai turned to me. His voice was deep and decisive. “I’ll handle it.”