Page 66 of Royal Bargain

And suddenly, the conversation doesn’t feel like a deflection anymore.

It feels like a warning.

I nod slowly, keeping my expression neutral. “Yeah,” I say. “You might be right. The Russians don’t usually take kindly to someone threatening their grip on the city.”

Burns lifts his brows like he’s impressed by how quickly I agreed. “Exactly. You get it.”

But even as I say the words, something doesn’t sit right.

It’s too easy, blaming the Volkovs. And sure, it tracks—they’ve got the reach, the motive, the means. Anatoly’s always played the long game. But I’ve spent enough time in the middle of this damn mess to know that things aren’t always as simple as they look on paper.

Still, I keep my doubts to myself. Burns already thinks I’m bordering on conspiracy theory territory. No need to start sounding unhinged.

“I’ll keep my ear to the ground,” I say instead, rising to my feet. “If there’s anything out there, I’ll find it.”

Burns smiles like that settles it. “I knew I could count on you.”

I force a smile back, shake his hand, and tell him to get some rest.

Once I’m out of the room, I exhale hard, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension. But it doesn’t go anywhere. The hallway’s too bright. Too clean. Too full of unanswered questions.

I take the stairs down, one hand on the railing, phone already buzzing in my pocket.

Lucky: Working on it. Found some traffic cam footage. Looks like the guy showed up on foot near the venue twenty minutes before the event. No known gang ties—at least not officially.

Lucky: But get this. He was last seen leaving a car that’s registered to a shell corp. One that used to be tied to a Volkov-owned construction firm.

My pulse kicks up.

You’re sure?

Lucky: Still confirming. But yeah. Pretty sure.

I climb into the car and sit there for a minute, engine idling as I pull up everything I can on my phone—press reports, public records, surveillance leaks from the gala. Lucky sends me a blurry still of the guy’s face as he exited the alley. And yeah, he’s not familiar. But the license plate visible in the edge of the shot?

I’ve seen that prefix before.

Volkov plates. Eastside registration.

I scrub a hand over my face, jaw tight.

It doesn’t prove anything, but it’s a hell of a lot more smoke than I expected to find this fast.

Which means maybe Burns was right.

Maybe I was just being paranoid. Seeing ghosts in the wrong places.

The thought churns in my gut like acid. I want to dismiss it, shove it aside like I did before. But I can’t. Not when the pieces are lining up so cleanly now.

I head home, flip open my laptop, and start digging deeper. Cross-referencing logs from Blackthorn’s private security feeds, syncing timestamps with the gala’s perimeter coverage, even scraping data we got from that hush-hush city contract Quinn helped us snag last quarter.

And there it is.

Clear as day.

Multiple sightings of Dariy’s men near the venue. Not just one or two guys doing a drive-by, but a cluster. Lingering. Watching.

Some stationed near side streets. One near the back alley where the shooter came from.