Page 13

SANDY

I clutch my purse to my chest, the recorder still warm from being pressed against my skin for hours.

Outside, the estate looms like a fortress.

A sprawling monument to power and protection that has been my home for these past brutal months.

Somehow, it looks different tonight, more imposing than before.

I barely wait for the car to stop before throwing open the door, ignoring the driver's protests.

My heels click on the concrete as I race down the street and up the driveway.

I rush toward the front entrance, my pulse hammering.

Every second feels like wasted time. Every breath without Dimitri is a moment stolen from us.

The grand doors open before I reach them. Aleksandr stands on the threshold, his massive frame blocking the light from inside. Even in the darkness, his eyes gleam like polished steel. Calculating, cold, yet burning with something that might have been pride if it wasn't so laced with fury.

“You're reckless,” he growls, his voice low. Aleksandr never needs to raise his voice to command attention. The quieter he speaks, the more dangerous he becomes.

“I got it,” I reply, brushing past him into the foyer, the scent of my perfume trailing behind me. I pull the auburn wig, yanking it free, and my red hair falls loose in a tangled mess that feels more authentic than anything I've worn or said for hours.

“And put yourself in danger in the process.” He shuts the door with a decisive click that echoes through the marble entryway. The sound is like a judgment passing.

I turn to face him, chin raised despite the exhaustion seeping into my bones. “Dimitri would have done the same for me.”

“Dimitri,” Aleksandr says slowly, each syllable punctuated, “is trained to handle men like Russo. You are not.”

The baby kicks defiantly as if rejecting the idea of being underestimated. I place a hand over the small bump, drawing strength from the life within. “And yet I'm the one with the evidence, aren't I?”

His eyes narrow, and his back teeth grind together. “Peter's waiting in the office. Lev is on his way.”

In Aleksandr's world, those simple words speak volumes. Peter Kreshnov, the Avilov family's attorney, doesn’t just “wait” for anyone. And Lev being summoned means my evidence might actually be worth something.

Suddenly, too tired for further argument, I nod and follow Aleksandr down the grand hallway.

The estate has been in the Avilov family for generations, and every inch of it has been meticulously maintained to showcase their wealth and power.

Crystal chandeliers hang from coffered ceilings, Persian rugs muffle our footsteps, and priceless art adorns walls that have witnessed decades of secrets.

It feels less like a home and more like a war room tonight.

The office door is ajar, warm light spilling into the corridor. Inside, Peter sits behind Aleksandr's massive desk, papers spread before him like a general mapping a battle plan. His wire-rimmed glasses reflect the light as he looks up, making his eyes unreadable.

“Sandy,” he greets with a nod, his voice carrying the faint accent of his native Moscow despite decades in America. “I hear you have something for us.”

I don’t waste time with pleasantries. My fingers tremble slightly as I reach into my purse, pulling out the small recorder. It looks so innocent, so ordinary for something that holds the key to Dimitri's freedom.

“Russo confessed,” I state, placing the recorder on the desk. “To everything.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, the most emotion he typically allows himself to display. He picks up the device and turns it over as if he were measuring more than just plastic and circuitry.

“And how did you acquire this confession?” he asks, his gaze sharp despite his calm tone.

“She played the seductress,” Aleksandr answers for me, pouring himself a generous measure of whiskey from the crystal decanter near the window. “Complete with disguise.”

I shoot him a glare. “I did what was necessary.”

“You did what was foolish,” he corrects, but there is no real heat behind the words. Just the tired exasperation of a man who’s seen too many people he cares about put themselves at risk.

“Play it,” I insist, ignoring the rebuke. “Just play it.”

Peter presses the button without further comment. Russo's slurred voice fills the room, bouncing off mahogany panels and leather-bound books. Each word is a nail in his coffin. Each boasts another brick in the foundation of Dimitri's freedom.

“...the shell casings? Please. Those were from a range I practice at. Had 'em for weeks waiting for the right moment...”

“...witness never existed. Just needed a name. Someone who'd never come forward...”

“...Petrov said Morozov wanted it done clean. No loose ends. But you know what? I added those extra charges because I wanted that bastard Popov to rot...”

My stomach churns as I hear it again, the casual cruelty with which these men had torn apart our lives. The baby kicks, stronger this time.

When the recording finally ends, the office falls into heavy silence. Aleksandr stands at the window, his broad back to us, gazing out into the darkness beyond the glass. Peter removes his glasses, polishing them methodically with a handkerchief pulled from his breast pocket.

“Well?” I demand, unable to bear the suspense a moment longer. “It's enough, isn't it? We can get Dimitri out now?”

Peter sighs, replacing his glasses carefully. “It's good,” he admits. “Better than I expected.”

Hope blooms in my chest, wild and fierce. “Then?—”

“But not good enough.” He cuts me off with a raised hand. “Not on its own.”

The hope withers as quickly as it had grown. “What are you talking about? He confessed! To tampering with evidence, to fabricating witnesses?—”

“Without context, without corroboration, a drunk man's boasts to a pretty face could be dismissed as exactly that—drunken boasting.” Peter's tone is clinical, devoid of the emotion surging through me. “Especially when the judge is on Morozov's payroll.”

“Aleksandr,” I turn to him, desperation cracking my voice. “You heard him. You know what this means.”

Aleksandr turns from the window, his expression blank. “It means we're close,” he replies. “But Peter's right. The judge will claim it's inadmissible. Russo will claim he was drunk, playing a role to impress a woman. Without something concrete to back it up?—”

“Like Petrov?” I cut in. “Like photos of him meeting with Isaak Kiril? Exchanging money and documents?” I reach into my bag again, pulling out the folder of photos. “Like this?”

I spread the photos across the desk, watching both men's expressions shift subtly. Aleksandr's eyes narrow, going from steel to obsidian in an instant. Peter leans forward, fingers trailing over the images with a lawyer's calculated interest.

“When did you take these?” Aleksandr questions, his voice dangerously soft.

“Last week,” I say, swallowing hard. “The same night I told Talia I was going to my apartment for clothes.”

His mouth tenses and his eyebrows snap together. “You've been busy.”

“Someone had to be.” The words come out sharp, but I can’t take them back.

I won’t take them back. “We need to follow the money.

Morozov might be smart, but greed leaves a trail.

Those envelopes they're exchanging…there's got to be records, bank statements, something to prove they're not just having friendly chats in parking lots.”

Peter glances at Aleksandr, something unspoken passing between them. “She's right about the money,” he says. “Financial records would be harder to dismiss than a recording or photographs. If we could connect Petrov to payments made to Russo or the judge...”

“Then we could blow the whole case open,” I finish, renewed determination surging. “Get Dimitri out. Make them pay for what they've done.”

The door to the office opens, and Lev steps in, broad-shouldered, composed, and already reading the room.

His eyes sweep over the photos scattered across the desk, the recorder resting beside them, and then land on me.

He takes in the smudged makeup, the tension in my shoulders, the fire I’m not bothering to hide.

“Sandy’s been busy,” he says dryly, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

“Reckless,” Aleksandr mutters, not missing a beat.

“Effective,” I shoot back, not missing mine.

Lev crosses to the desk, his gaze narrowing as he studies the photos. Then he looks up directly at me. And for the first time, I see it. Not worry or frustration, but respect.

“I’ve already got our contact at City Records digging,” he informs Aleksandr. “I flagged any financial movement or unusual activity tied to Kiril or Petrov. Should have something back soon.”

Aleksandr doesn’t respond right away, but I see the shift in his stance, the calculation, and the beginning of belief.

We are getting closer. And now, they know it too.

“Have him dig into Russo, too,” Aleksandr instructs, his voice cool and controlled.

Then he turns to me, eyes like ice.

“This ends now,” he orders, the words slicing through the room like a blade. “You’ve done more than anyone could’ve asked. More than you should have. From here on out, you stay out of it. The investigation is ours now.”

The finality in his tone is unmistakable. But so is the fire building in my chest. The warmth drains from the room.

“Excuse me?”

“You're pregnant,” he reminds me as if I can possibly forget the life growing inside me. “You’re carrying my brother’s child, my blood. You're a target. And you're not trained for this.”

“I’m the one who got the recording,” I snap, the words sharp and fast. “I’m the one who risked everything to get those photos. While you’ve been barking orders and shaking down criminals, I’ve been out there collecting real evidence. Putting myself on the line because no one else would.”