So why am I not walking out the front door?
I rub the pad of my thumb back and forth across the ring's band, my chest tight from the tension.
Victor is absolutely certain the Volkovs hurt his family. Whether he's right or not, I don't know, but I know he truly believes it.
Shit. What do I do?
I know Ivan isn't trafficking women. I'm confident of that. Victor is mistaken. He has to be. The Volkovs have lines they don't cross. Ivan told me that himself.
But what if the data proves it?
A dangerous thought creeps into my mind, and I can't believe I'm even contemplating it.
Maybe if I give him a copy of this, he'll see the truth.
I mean, any Bratva trade routes exposed in the data can be changed by Ivan in a matter of days. He's done it before. But most importantly, if Victor sees the truth, if he reads the files and realizes the Volkovs aren't trafficking women, he'll stop hunting them, and everyone can move on.
This could end up saving Victor's life, or maybe his brothers', and it would stop Ivan from focusing on the Ionescus if they backed off.
My stomach is in knots. Is that what I'm doing? Trying to save Victor?
I stand there for a good thirty seconds, thinking. Then it comes to me. How I will rationalize it.
This isn't about him. No. It's about the truth, and it's about paying my debt.
Victor saved me in that hotel. He got me out alive when I was certain we'd both die. Leaving him the data is my way of repaying that debt.
Once I walk out this door, we go back to our respective sides, and who the hell knows how it will be the next time we meet? But my debt will be paid, and the Volkov name will be cleared.
I refuse to let myself think about it any longer.
I wake up the laptop, and the screen flickers to life. I pop the diamond memory stick off my ring and, with trembling fingers, jam it into the USB port.
A progress bar appears immediately, and the files start copying.
I glance at the bedroom door again. My heart beats fast, and my palms sweat.
Don't regret this. Don't regret this.
The progress bar moves faster than it did in Dimitri's penthouse. Forty percent. Sixty percent. Eighty percent.
I bite my lip, my leg bouncing with nervous energy. This hotel room is too quiet. I can hear the soft rush of the ocean outside, the distant call of birds.
Ninety-five percent.
My hand hovers over the USB drive, ready to yank it out the second it finishes.
Come on, come on.
One hundred percent.
Finally.
I pull the drive free and snap it back into the ring band with a click.
My hands shake as I step back from the table.
It's done.
