Page 33 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

For now.

I walk past without slowing. The silence does more damage than my fist would have. By morning, Abramov will know his name. By breakfast, Elena will know why.

She changed this house before the ink dried on her marriage papers. Men here no longer use listed woman as if it means open property. Maksim’s reaction taught the first lesson. The blood taught the second. The public claim that followed made sure no one forgot either one.

Cara doesn’t know that history yet. She felt it, though. She filed it away with every camera, locked door, and lowered voice.

By the time I reach Maksim’s control room, it’s close to midnight, and no one has stood down. Secure phones line the table. Route maps cover the center. Every man has a notepad and pencil in front of him. No one writes until Maksim lets the discussion take shape. Petrov stands over fuel reports with his sleeves rolled. Leonid has three folders open, each marked with registry tabs. Abramov waits near the door with his tablet tucked under one arm. Maksim sits at the head of the table, reading through the papers, and every man in the office holds his tongue.

“Report,” he says.

I take the chair across from him. “Patrick O’Connell moved seven point eight million through offshore wallets tied to our freight corridors. He touched shipment clearances through the Riga bonded-warehouse lane, rerouted two medical fronts, and here,” I say, taking the report Petrov slides toward me, “he used fake charity invoices. One links back to Elena’s foundation.”

Maksim’s face doesn’t change at first.

That is the danger. He goes still, lets the silence show every man what Patrick has brought to his table, and waits for the first fool to explain badly. Petrov stops moving. Leonid lowers his pen. Abramov looks at the floor and waits for command.

Maksim’s voice comes out calm. “Say the name.”

“The Sokolov Children’s Fund,” I say.

Elena’s public work. Her cleanest structure outside the parts of the empire men pretend not to understand. Maksim sits back, and every man in the study feels the shift. Patrick has put dirt near Elena’s name.

Petrov slides another sheet toward Maksim. His hand stays on it a second too long.

“There's more,” he says.

Maksim’s eyes move to him. “Continue.”

Petrov taps the highlighted line. “The charity invoice was not the only cover. A medical shipment tied to Elena’s foundation disappeared from bonded storage this afternoon. The same money chain paid private security near Novorossiysk.”

Leonid’s pencil stays suspended over his pad.

Abramov looks up from his tablet. “The security contractor stopped one of our trucks under a false inspection order.”

Maksim’s fingers flex once on the closed file. No one speaks over that.

His voice stays calm. “Patrick’s Boston papers did more than move money. They helped someone blame Elena and slow our freight in one move.”

I keep going before the words can sit between us. “Patrick also moved through channels tied to Blacklist handling.”

Petrov’s mouth tightens. “This isn’t only money movement.”

Maksim’s eyes are on him. “Say it.”

Petrov taps another highlighted section. “Patrick didn’t have full access, but he knew enough. Account names, handling words, and internal terms. He knew what to look for.”

The paper noise dies around the table.

Nobody says inside job.

Leonid speaks after a second. He taps his pen once against the folder, then stops. “Some invoices use American wording, but the routing words are familiar. Whoever helped him knew how to read our records from outside.”

Maksim’s eyes lift. “Patrick won’t dare step on our threshold. He’s a mouse. He knows what waits under the boot.”

I look at the routing sheet again, and the old fire finds my throat before I say the name.

“Morozov.”