Page 52 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“Registration copies,” Leonid says. “New Harbor’s filing papers and the processor record tied to the Blacklist query. You already saw the link. This gives you the paper trail.”

So Leonid is legal, then. Good to know.

Dmitri passes the sheet to the man who stepped too close to my chair. “Petrov.”

Petrov reads it, and his face changes by one careful inch. “Oleg’s name is on the clearances.”

“More than Oleg,” Yuri says. “Belyakov Protective Services shows up in the same shipment windows.”

Petrov looks up. “That vendor stopped Volkov freight last year.”

I click into the vendor folder before anyone can stop me. Invoices, guard lists, freight escort requests, and property records open first, then a construction site outside Moscow appears in three different places, tucked behind medical cargo and fake charity papers.

I open the property file.

Vostok Meridian Renovations.

Dmitri’s hand comes down on the back of my chair, and Yuri stops moving the cursor on the mirrored screen.

Interesting. I look at the folders beneath it.

“This isn’t just stolen money,” I say.

“No,” Dmitri says.

The pieces lock together fast enough to make my mouth go dry. Patrick didn’t bury a confession. He buried movement. Medical cargo that could travel without questions. Charity names made people look away. Security vendors that could stop a truck, open a gate, or escort the wrong shipment into the right building.

I look back at the men around me. “This is a route,” I say. “Patrick didn’t hide one secret in here. He hid a way through.”

I reach for the trackpad again. Dmitri catches my wrist before I touch it. His grip doesn’t hurt, but it tells me the rules have changed.

“Enough,” he says.

I look up at him. “You wanted me to read Patrick.”

“I did.”

“Then let me read him.”

A voice comes from behind us. “You’ve read enough for now.”

Before I turn, the office changes. Every hand becomes careful, and every breath gets measured against the cost of being noticed.

When I look over my shoulder, Maksim Volkov stands near the door.

No one tells me his name because the whole office already has. I’ve seen men chase power, flatter it, borrow from it. This man doesn’t borrow anything. A dark suit hangs perfectly on him. One hand rests in his pocket, a wedding ring gleams on his finger, and his face carries the kind of calm that makes raised voices look cheap.

His eyes settle on me. “Cara O’Connell.”

“And you’re the man whose house comes with locks, guards, and a serious signage problem.”

Dmitri’s hand tightens on the back of my chair. Maksim doesn’t smile.

I have just insulted the Pakhan in his own command wing.

12

DMITRI