Page 47 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

He stands and signals his sons. They rise, chairs scraping the floor. The Albani man calls out, "This is a misunderstanding, we will clarify," but no one listens. The legal team consults in rapid Albanian, faces going from pink to gray.

As the Bratva trio heads for the exit, every screen in the conference suite goes red, then blinks to a new headline — EXCLUSIVE—Albani Syndicate Compromised Eurozone Banks .

The newsfeed cycles through bullet points—laundered billions, bribed officials, secret deals with half the major banks from Riga to Rotterdam. There are faces on the screen. The Albani man's is first. He hisses something, not in English, and slaps the table so hard the glassware jumps.

The patriarch and his sons keep walking. The camera crews outside the door swarm, bulbs popping like gunfire. The patriarch walks through it all, jaw set, eyes only on the elevator at the end of the hall. The sons flank him like bodyguards.

Inside the conference room, the Albani reps confer, hands frantic. One tries to call a number. It doesn't pick up. Another swears, then yells at the Swiss moderator, who shrugs, already backing out of the fray.

Down in the lobby, every television in the hotel shows the same story. The patriarch steps onto the marble, takes a deep breath, and in that moment, he looks less like a traitor and more like a survivor.

His phone buzzes again. He ignores it. The sons keep pace.

They don't speak, but the younger one glances back, just once, at the top floor where the deal had died.

The patriarch pulls his coat tight as he steps outside, hails a waiting car, and is gone before the next wave of reporters can find him.

The Albani men watch from the glass, helpless as their perfect plan drowns in the flood of bad press.

Back in the blue-lit command center, the room is quieter than before. The news tickers scroll across the bottom of every screen—" Albani Laundering Network Exposed ," " Eurozone Rocked by Syndicate Scandal ," " Unconfirmed Reports Link Berlin Negotiators to Organized Crime ."

I let the data stream wash over me. The first wave did its job.

The world is watching, but so are the enemies.

I open the second file set, this one heavier, dirtier.

Names of shell companies, trusts in Malta and Panama, the real owners of three major logistics firms in Hamburg.

Ekaterina labeled it Bitter End . She always had a flair for the dramatic.

I verify the leak package—no Vetrov fingerprints, no cross-contamination with assets we still use. The work is clean, almost elegant. "Ready?" asks Vera, her voice a whisper in the hum of the electronics.

I nod. "Push it."

She enters the command. It takes less than a minute for the files to propagate.

The first journalist to open the link will have a field day.

The second will call a prosecutor. The third will get a bullet, if the Albani have any sense left.

The Berlin feed shows the patriarch and his sons exiting the tower, flanked by a different set of faces this time, security, lawyers, no more smiles. The Albani team is gone.

The lieutenant enters, tie now straight, hair still damp but face set in a new mask. He reads his phone, then looks up at me. "Confirmation from Berlin. Meeting is over. Albani team is in retreat."

I nod, just once. "And the patriarch?"

He checks his screen again. "On a secure line, wants to talk to Konstantin. Direct."

"Give him the number. Tell Sokolov to clear the line."

He turns to leave, but I stop him with a look. "Good work," I say.

He allows himself a smile, then vanishes down the hall.

Vera glances over at me. "That's it?"

"For now." I close the laptop. It feels lighter than before.

I take a moment, staring at the map of Europe on the wall.

Red pins mark hot zones. Gold pins show the safe routes.

For the first time in weeks, the gold outnumber the red.

I stand, smooth my skirt, and check the clock.

In four minutes, the calls will start. Offers, threats, apologies, all flooding into the switchboard like water through a cracked dam.

But for now, it is quiet. I savor it. Then I pick up the phone, dial the suite where Konstantin waits. He answers on the first ring. "Report."

"It's done," I say. "Your friend is coming home."

He grunts, not quite a laugh, but close. "Come upstairs."

The suite's terrace is sealed off from the city by bulletproof glass, but I open the window anyway.

Konstantin stands at the edge, a bottle of Pol Roger in one hand, the label already flecked with ice.

He doesn't turn as I approach, but I see his shoulders relax, the line of his back less rigid than in the morning.

He gestures to the table. Two flutes, clean as crystal. A single white rose in a bud vase, probably a joke from the concierge. I sit. My legs ache. I didn't realize how tense I was until this exact moment.

He uncorks the bottle. The pop is almost vulgar in the hush of the terrace. He pours, careful to hit the right angle. The foam rises, then settles. He sets the glass in front of me. "Three banking channels, gone in a day."

I pick up the flute. The bubbles race for the surface, as eager as the sons in Berlin. "And the patriarch?" I ask.

He grins, lips barely moving. "Just where we need him to be."

I take a sip. "Funny," I say, "how transparency can fix what decades of threats couldn't."

He shrugs. "Violence is loud. Information is permanent."

The city glitters under us, a million windows pulsing like nerve endings. He sits opposite, arms folded. "You used the Baranov files."

I nod. "I used what I had."

He looks at me for a long time, then says, "Your father would have been proud."

I almost choke on the champagne. "My father was never proud of anyone. Not even himself."

He laughs, a real sound, and for a second I see the boy he might have been. I finish my glass. He refills it, then his own. We clink, the sound barely audible above the city's pulse.

He lifts his glass in salute. "To old enemies. May they live long enough to see us win."

I copy him. "To family."