"Damir—"
"One hour," he says. "Please, Zoya. You were never supposed to be involved in this. You were supposed to be safe."
The pain in his voice is unmistakable, and despite everything I've learned about him, despite the drugs and the murders and the lies, he's still my brother. The man who held me when I cried, who taught me to count money with steady hands, who promised to protect me from the world.
"How can I know whether this is another trap?" I ask.
"It's not a trap," he says quietly. "It's a goodbye."
The words send a chill down my spine. "What do you mean?"
"Just come. Please. One hour."
The line goes dead, and I stare at the phone in my hand. The desperation in Damir's voice won't let me ignore it. Whatever he's done, whatever he's become, he's still my brother. And if he's planning to say goodbye, then maybe I need to hear what he has to say.
I stare at the screen for several long seconds, heart pounding in my ears. The call log is still open, Damir’s name lit in white against the dark background. My thumb hovers over it as my mind races through every possible outcome. I pressDelete, watching the screen shift as the log disappears. Damir's name vanishes from the list, erasing the only proof the call ever happened.
I set the phone face-down on the nightstand and pull the sheet higher over my chest. My stomach turns, not from the pregnancy but from the decision I just made. I don’t know what Damir wants. I don’t know if I believe him. But I can’t ignore the sound of his voice or the memory of who he used to be.
When the door opens behind me, I turn slowly, every muscle tight with unease though I manage to keep my expression still. Maksim steps into the room and shuts the door behind himself. His holster is clipped across his chest, his gun resting over his ribs. He looks at me once, then down at the folder in his hand.
Without a word, he crosses the room and holds it out.
I reach for it slowly, the smooth texture of the manila cover cold against my palm. Whatever is inside will change things. I already know that, but I have to know. I can't just take his word for it, and I can't just believe Damir, either.
He watches me for a moment longer, then turns and walks toward the armoire in the corner of the room. He shrugs off the holster, methodical in the way he unbuckles the straps and sets the weapon aside.
I rest the file on my lap, my fingers curled around the edge as if holding it tightly enough will keep the truth inside from spilling out. My gaze lingers on the closed cover, every breath shallow and measured, bracing for what I already know I cannot unsee.
26
MAKSIM
Iplace the manila file in Zoya's hands and retreat to the far side of my room, positioning myself near the tall windows that overlook the estate grounds. The leather folder bears no markings, no indication of the devastation contained within its pages, but I know every photograph, every intercepted message, every damning piece of evidence that will unravel her world. My fingers drum against the window frame as I watch her hesitate before opening it, and I find myself studying her face in the lamplight, memorizing the last moments before everything she believes about her family dies.
The first page reveals surveillance photographs taken over the past three months. Damir outside the Khamovniki warehouse, his face clear in the telephoto lens as he checks his surroundings with the paranoid awareness of a man who knows he's being watched. Damir shaking hands with Lev Antonov in a parking garage beneath the city, their meeting choreographed like experienced operatives. Damir accepting thick envelopes of cash from men whose faces are known to every Bratva soldier in Moscow, men who have killed for far less than what he's stolen from us. The progression tells a story of betrayal thatruns deeper than anyone imagined, a systematic dismantling of everything we've built.
Zoya's breathing changes as she turns each page, and I can see the precise moment when each new revelation lands. Her shoulders tense with the first photograph, her jaw tightens at the second, and by the third, her hands have begun to shake with the kind of tremor that comes from shock rather than fear. The photographs are damning enough, but the real devastation lies in the pages that follow—months of intercepted communications between her brother and the Karpin organization, conversations that paint him not as a desperate man making bad choices, but as a calculated operative working to destroy us from within.
I remain motionless by the window, giving her the space she needs to process what she's seeing while keeping my own reactions carefully controlled. The room feels heavy with the weight of revelation, the mahogany bookshelves and Persian rugs serving as silent witnesses to the destruction of everything she believed about her family. Outside, the estate's security lights illuminate the grounds in harsh white circles, but here in this room, shadows gather in the corners where the lamplight cannot reach, and I can feel the darkness closing in around both of us.
She reaches the transcripts of digital messages, and her hands begin to tremble with increasing intensity. The pages flutter as she struggles to maintain her grip, and I know she's found the communication that will break her completely. The message was intercepted two weeks ago, sent from Damir's encrypted phone to a number we traced back to the Karpin organization's communications hub. Our tech specialists had cracked the encryption within hours, and when I read the contents, I felt something cold and final settle in my chest.
Damir: 15:42: If we get the girl, Maksim will come. Take her. Don't kill her unless you have to. Kill him first.
The file tumbles from her hands and flutters downward to the hardwood floor. Documents scatter across the antique rug, photographs and transcripts spreading in a chaotic pattern that mirrors the destruction of her faith in the one person she trusted above all others. Her breath comes in short gasps, and she presses her palms against her face as if she can somehow block out what she's seen, as if closing her eyes will make the evidence disappear.
"I don't recognize him anymore." The words emerge broken and raw, torn from somewhere deep in her chest where hope used to live. "This isn't the brother who raised me. This isn't the man who worked two jobs to keep us fed, who taught me to balance ledgers when I was twelve years old, who told me bedtime stories about heroes and villains when I couldn't sleep."
I move from the window to her, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet that has absorbed the sound of countless conversations in this room. When I crouch in front of her, bringing myself to her eye level, her hands are ice-cold despite the warmth of the room. I take them in mine, feeling the tremor that runs through her entire body, and I'm struck by how small she seems in this moment, how fragile despite everything she's endured.
"Damir has been working against the Bratva for three years, Zoya. The evidence goes back to when he first approached the track management about expanding the gambling operations. Every decision he made, every contact he developed, every piece of information he gathered—it was all being fed back to the Karpins." I keep my voice steady, factual, because she needs truth more than comfort right now. "The man you remember might have existed once, but he's been dead for a long time,replaced by someone who sees you as nothing more than a useful tool."
She looks at me through her fingers, her hazel eyes reflecting a pain so deep it threatens to pull me under with her. "He was all I had left after our parents died. He was my family, my protector, the person who made sure I never went hungry or cold, who held me when I cried about the boys at school, who taught me that family means everything."
"He was using you." The harsh and unforgiving words cut through the air between us, but they're necessary. "Every moment of closeness, every shared memory, every time he told you he was protecting you—it was all in service of a longer game. Every birthday celebration, every Christmas morning, every time he comforted you after a nightmare—he was building your trust so he could betray it more effectively." I pause, letting the full weight of this sink in. "I don't know what Damir loved, but it wasn't you. Not if he was willing to trade your life to win a war."
Zoya nods slowly, the movement barely perceptible as she stares at the scattered evidence of her brother's betrayal. The photographs stare back at her from the floor, frozen moments of treachery that cannot be unseen or forgotten. Her breathing gradually steadies, but I can see the effort it takes, the way she forces herself to process this new reality while her entire world crumbles around her.
