Tsepov slides a thin, unmarked folder across the desk toward me. The motion is deliberate, and I can feel the weight of it before I even touch it. My fingers hover over the folder for a moment, just long enough for him to speak again.
‘‘Inside that folder is a name,’’ he says, his tone casual butstill carrying that undercurrent of authority. ‘‘A middle-ranked player in the Bratva. Not high enough to be untouchable, but not low enough to be ignored. His name’s Monya Kuznetsov. He’s a man you need to know.’’
I open the folder. The first page is a photograph of a middle-aged man with a cold stare and a tightly cropped haircut.
I glance up at Tsepov. “What’s his connection?”
“He’s mine,” Tsepov says simply, leaning back in his chair. “I answer to him. He controls a lot of the movement in the lower ranks, working as a bridge between the middle levels and the men above. He’s been doing it for years.”
I raise an eyebrow. ‘‘So why trust him?’’
Tsepov shrugs, the faintest smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘‘Because he’s also an old friend of mine. We grew up together. He is your best shot.’’
I absorb that for a moment, understanding the weight behind those words.
“He knows you’re coming,” Tsepov continues, his gaze unwavering. ‘‘I’ve informed him. He’ll be expecting you.’’
I nod slowly, the pieces starting to fall into place. “And he’s my opening?’’
“Exactly. Kuznetsov will be your first step on the ladder. The one who gets you through the first layer, helps you climb higher. He has contacts with the men above him, the ones who answer to the Vor v Zakone. Eventually, you’ll get close to the man who runs things now.”
I debate if I should drop Dominik his name or should remain silent. He hasn’t made me say anything, he knew what I wanted before I got the chance to say it.
Tsepov’s gaze hardens slightly as he leans forward, his voice low and serious. “That man has the power. If you want to find Aslanov, you need to get to him. He’s the one who can help you. But you need to be careful. The Vor v Zakone might notfeel the shifts happening below the surface as we do. They’re insulated, their information twisted or delayed. The changes are being filtered. You need to bring the truth alongside the wolves, Isabella. The men in charge need to hear what’s really happening before it’s too late.”
I let that sink in. Tsepov is giving me the opening I need, through Kuznetsov, I can climb the ranks and move closer to the heart of the Bratva. But it’s not just a power struggle. It’s a race to uncover the truth before the lies consume everything.
“And you want me to do a good word for you there?” I ask, though I already have an inkling.
Tsepov’s smile is cold, knowing. “Exactly. I don’t just want you to climb. I want you to get the truth up there. If the Vor v Zakone doesn’t know what’s going on, things will unravel. And I’ll lose my position. That’s a loss none of us can afford. I want you to drop my name, I want their attention.”
I close the folder, slipping it under my arm. It’s a heavy burden, but one I know I’ll have to carry if I want to survive in this game.
‘‘Understood,’’ I say, my voice steady.
“I’ll be watching,” He says, locking eyes with me. “The second I think you’re withholding from my term…” His gaze darkens, the easy smirk vanishing like smoke. “I will show you exactly who I am.”
A chill snakes down my spine, but I don’t let it show. I hold his stare, matching the weight of his warning with my own unwavering resolve. “Noted.” My voice is even, but there’s a challenge laced beneath the word. A reminder that I am not some pawn to be moved at his discretion.
Then, with a slow, satisfied nod, he leans back, reaching for his cigarette again. Conversation over. Dismissal given.
I rise slowly from my seat, feeling the weight of his words settle heavily on my shoulders. The air between us is thick with thepromise of an uneasy alliance.
The question is burning in my throat and before I know it, it slips out like a viper.
“Why don’t you do it yourself, Tsepov? Why don’t you just seek contact with the Vor v Zakone?”
He cracks his knuckles and stands tall, the chair scarping again the polished floor.
“I can’t,” he says quietly, his voice colder than before. “The Vor v Zakone… they don’t take kindly to anyone trying to climb into their circle. Not directly, not someone like me. Someone known in the Bratva. I’ve made enemies at that level. My position, my power—it’s built on a very fine balance. If I make the wrong move, if I overstep even an inch… it would be my end.”
His gaze hardens, and for a split second, I see the weight of years of careful maneuvering and strategic silence in his eyes.
“I’ve learned the hard way that certain doors… you don’t knock on them yourself. You find someone who can open them for you. That’s where you come in, Isabella.” His voice is steady, controlled, the faintest hint of something dangerous lurking behind his words. ‘‘I need someone they won’t see coming. Someone they’ll underestimate.’’
I nod slowly, the realization settling deeper. Tsepov’s playing a careful game. He might be in the shadows, but he knows the power of subtlety.
‘‘So, you’re trusting me because you know I’ll take the risks you can’t afford.’’
