"And then Anton died," I say.
"And then Anton died," Radimir repeats, then says, "But here's where it gets different. Petrov and Koval both went down as natural causes, clean enough on paper. Nobody asked too many questions. But Radin was a gunshot wound, Roman. And it's still under investigation."
The bell rings for the next fight, and two new fighters climb through the ropes. The crowd builds again from the back rows and the noise pushes in from every direction, but it's all behind just white noise now as I zone out and stare at the Kuzin logo on the canvas in the middle of the ring.
"She got sloppy with Anton," Radimir says, leaning closer, "or she got impatient, or someone else pulled the trigger for her. Either way, three husbands in three decades and all three of them are in the ground and she's sitting on top of everything they left behind."
"And what does that make her then, gentlemen?" I grit my teeth and blink some moisture back into my tired eyes.
"Black widow," Yegor says from my right.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and try not to let this push me over the edge. I've had a pretty decent day, but this takes the cake. Vera really thought I wouldn't look into her, or maybe she was stupid enough to believe I'd feel sorry for her and take her at face value. Now I've discovered something that looks very suspect, even if she is entirely innocent—which I don't believe for a second.
And all the pieces are stacking up now.
Radimir closes the folder and slides it back inside his jacket. "That's everything Timur has right now. He's still pulling the financial records apart, tracing the shells, but the trail gets thin the farther back it goes. He says he'll have more soon."
"Tell him I need it fast," I grumble. "I have thinking to do, and with this gala coming up, I need a plan."
Radimir nods and stands and pushes his chair back and disappears into the crowd. The fighters in the ring throw their first punches, and the noise swells and the overhead lights press down on me as I stand and straighten my tie.
"I need some air and to think… Get the car," I tell Yegor, and he nods and moves straight toward the exit.
Vera Koval thinks she can get away with murder and she's wrong. And my guess is that the reason she's pushing her prissy offspring toward me is that things didn’t work out so well for her with Anton. He put his fortune in a trust for his biologicaldaughter, and when Mila didn't get killed for what she did to me, Vera had to scramble.
Knowing she could never win over a new younger man at her age, she's pushing her daughters to do the same thing in hopes to kill me too and take my empire.
Well, Mrs. Koval-Radin, I have some news for you.
I'm not falling for it.
I turn and follow the path Yegor took toward the door, wheels already spinning. I'm going to catch this spider under a glass and when I do, I'll put her on display for the entire world.
Vera won't know what hit her.
17
MILA
Rebecca has flour on her chin and she doesn't know it. She's rolling dough on the counter with her sleeves pushed up past her elbows and telling stories about Roman after I asked about his personality. I love listening to them go on about him. It's like one big happy family and they all get along, nothing like my home.
"He sat right there at that table," Rebecca says, pointing her rolling pin at Sorin. "Poured vodka over the cut on his hand, wrapped it himself with gauze from the kit under the sink, and ate his dinner with one hand." She chuckles and winks at me, though I don't laugh with her. It definitely sounds like something Roman would do.
"That sounds right," Sorin says from the stove, stirring a pot of soup with a wooden spoon.
"He came into the kitchen the next morning and the gauze was soaked through, and I told him he needed stitches and he told me he'd had worse. The man is incorrigible." Rebecca snorts this time, like she's picking on an unruly child behind his back.
Sorin taps the spoon against the rim of the pot and glances over her shoulder at me. "The man's been fighting since before any of us worked here. They say he was the first fighter when his Pop started the club."
I stand at the counter beside Rebecca, slicing bread for Roman's lunch tray. The loaf is warm from the oven and the crust cracks under the knife with each cut. Taking care of him has become somewhat enjoyable to me now, more like the welcoming feeling these ladies have always had and less like the hostility I started out with.
And I’m getting to know his patterns and what he likes, how he takes his coffee in the morning, and how he likes a slice of tomato when he has a sandwich. And today I'm getting a lesson in his history. It makes me feel like I'm fitting in well, which is a feeling I've never had.
"Has he always been this particular about his routines?" I ask, and Rebecca blows a strand of hair out of her face.
"Since the day I started. He trains at the same time every morning, eats lunch at the same time every afternoon, and God help you if you put mustard on his plate because the man will order the entire lunch thrown out and remade.
"No mustard." I snicker, and I stack his bread, cheese, and turkey high, just the way he likes it. Rebecca hands me the lettuce and tomato while I slather a coating of mayo on the top slice of bread.
