The older man gives a rough laugh. “He owns more than you want to admit.”
“Not for long, Oleg.”
A cold pressure spreads through my chest.
I should leave, but I physically can’t bring myself to.
“You want the captains first,” Oleg says. “That’s smart. Men follow money before blood. If you freeze the side accounts, half of them will panic before Andrei even understands what happened.”
Roman’s answer is flat. Practical. Nothing like the man who danced with me in the snow. “I need names, not advice.”
“You will get names.” A pause. “But you should know your father has already started rearranging the board.”
Your father.
The hallway tilts.
Roman doesn’t react.
My hand closes over the wall beside me.
His father. Andrei Morozov is Roman’s father.
No. No, that cannot be right.
The older man continues. “Lev is in Moscow. Engaged to a Markov girl, from what I hear. Sergei Markov wants the alliance. Andrei wants the money and port access. It’s a practical match.”
Roman is quiet for a beat. Then he says, “I saw them at the airport.”
The air leaves my lungs.
He saw them. He knows.
Maybe not everything, but enough.
The man across from him watches carefully. “Then you understand the timing. If Lev marries into the Markovs, Andrei buys himself room to breathe.”
“Then he does not get the marriage.”
The words are plain cold.
Nothing like the man who danced with me in the snow.
The older man’s mouth twitches. “You still think like an American sometimes. You want to cut off money, turn captains, expose accounts. That works if you want a business. If you want a family finished, there is a simpler way.”
Roman’s eyes lift. “Say it.”
“Kill them,” the man says. “Andrei. Lev. Anyone close enough to inherit. You end the line in one night and spend the next year cleaning up the mess.”
My hand flies to my mouth. The sound that almost leaves me stays trapped against my palm.
My skin goes cold under the black dress Roman bought me. For a moment, I’m not in the club anymore. I’m back home, hearing men speak behind closed doors, hearing the low, practical tone of violence dressed as strategy.
I know this language. I hate that I know it.
Roman does not reject it. He does not laugh. He stands very still, and that’s worse. “Oleg,” he says, voice low.
The older man leans back slightly. “You came for revenge. Do not pretend revenge is accounting.”
