Isabella
It’s one thing to talk about playing Tsepov, but another to make it work. A single misstep, one wrong assumption, and we’ll be another footnote in the long history of people who thought they could outmaneuver the Bratva.
Ada doesn’t waste time. She pulls her laptop from her bag and starts typing. The glow of the screen flickers in her glasses as she works. “I’ll start with his businesses, see what’s public.”
I turn back to the box of files Karpov left us. “And I’ll check what’s hidden.”
Sawyer moves to my side, scanning the scattered papers with narrowed eyes. “If we’re doing this, let’s do it fast. The longer we dig, the more we risk being noticed.”
I nod and start flipping through the documents. Roman Tsepov. Mid-tier Bratva operative. Smart enough to be dangerous, ambitious enough to be a threat. Karpov’s words about him echo in my head. We’re not looking at some street thug, we’re looking at a man who has carved out his own empire in the shadows of a much larger one.
I pull out a file with his name on it. A series of company names jump out immediately—Volk Strategic Solutions, Novorossiysk Logistics, the CEO of Eastport International Holdings, multiplenightclubs and casinos. All legitimate businesses on the surface, but we know better.
I also know one other things, he is fucking rich from all of this. I guess that this is how inequality came about.
“Alright,” Ada mutters, reading off her screen. “Volk Strategic Solutions is a private security company. Officially, they handle VIP bodyguards, corporate security, high-end event protection. But…” She frowns, clicking through records. “…they’re also listed as subcontractors on a few questionable contracts overseas. Their guards were linked to violent ‘accidents’ in Moscow last year. And guess what? The investigations never went anywhere.”
I scan the papers in front of me, my fingers tracing over signatures, contracts, transaction logs. “Tsepov has his own team of enforcers,” I murmur. “His own muscle.”
Sawyer exhales sharply, resting a hand on the edge of the exam table. “Which means he’s not just some low ranked man. He’s got some control.”
“It gets better,” Ada continues. “Novorossiysk Logistics—on paper, it’s just an import-export business. But according to some flagged customs reports, their shipments don’t always match the manifests.”
I glance at the records in the file. Weapons, drugs, and stolen luxury goods, all funneled through the New Jersey ports. But something doesn’t add up. If Tsepov were at a higher rank, he wouldn’t need to rely on this kind of smuggling network. He’s not the one pulling the strings on the docks. He’s paying someone off, someone higher than him.
“Which means he’s dependent,” I say, tapping the file. Something we know for sure now. “He doesn’t own the ports. He doesn’t control the supply routes. He’s still under someone else’s thumb.”
“Exactly,” Ada agrees, her expression darkening. “If he wantsto move up, he needs to break free from whoever’s keeping him at arm’s length. If we make him think we can help loosen that grip…”
“We have his attention,” I finish.
But there’s more. I dig deeper into Karpov’s files, looking for something bigger—something we can use. And then I find it. A faded document, yellowed at the edges, buried beneath layers of financial reports. A sealed internal Bratva report. The second I scan the first few lines, my stomach tightens.
“This is it.” I lay the paper flat on the table.
Ada and Sawyer lean in, their eyes locked on the document. It details an arms shipment from three months ago, a high-value cargo that never reached its destination. Tsepov had been personally responsible for overseeing the transport, ensuring its safe passage. But the shipment vanished under his watch, and instead of taking the fall, he managed to shift the blame just enough to keep himself breathing. The higher-ups had covered for him, but barely.
Sawyer exhales, shaking his head. “So he fucked up.”
Ada’s eyes flicker across the page, reading fast. “And he never paid the price for it.”
I let out a slow breath. “Which means someone is still holding this over his head.”
That’s our way in.
Ada closes the laptop, her face set in stone. “If we let him think we know about this and we’re not looking to burn him for it, he’ll want to know why.”
I nod. “And that’s when we offer him something better.”
Sawyer smirks. “The chance to rise.”
I glance back at the paper, the evidence of his greatest mistake. This is the leverage we need. A man like Tsepov isn’t loyal to anyone but himself. If we play this right, we won’t just get information from him—we’ll use him as a key to open the nextdoor.
One step closer to the truth.
The plan takes shape quickly, but the argument is just as fast.
“I should be the one to go,” I say firmly, looking between Ada and Sawyer. “Tsepov isn’t going to take a meeting with just anyone. We need someone who can sell this, I know all the details about Dominik to tell him.”
