Page 20 of The Wrong Monster

His mouth snaps shut. Beaumont works hard not to roll his eyes, and Art is very still. I don’t look at Ariadna because I don’t want to see the pity on her face.

“This concerns Mikhail,” I continue evenly. “Which means it concerns every company we own. Every employee. Every family that depends on us. Including yours.”

Timur’s expression shifts. He settles deeper into the chair, listening now. Not far from here, his wife, Nat, and their toddler are at home. Even if he’s never had to choke a man to unconsciousness, Timur has that vital Borisov trait…he’ll do anything for those he loves.

Beaumont clears his throat. “I’ve met with Mikhail.” We all look at him, waiting to hear that this will end faster than we anticipated. Instead, he says: “He hasn’t spoken, but that doesn’t mean we’re in a favorable position.”

Withdrawing a thin folder from his briefcase, he continues, “They’ve seized financial records from four locations. They’re interviewing former employees and have already begun tracing inter-company transfers. From the questions they’ve asked Mikhail…” he pauses, his eyes looking tired and rheumy. “They have a roadmap and know what and where to look.”

The room is silent.

My fingers curl against the steel chair arms, the pressure so intense they go numb.

“How much?”

Beaumont looks baffled.

“Well, I won’t know exactly how much they know⁠—”

“No. I mean, how much to make this go away?”

The old man barks out a laugh, and it takes everything in me not to launch myself across the table. Art notices and leans forward, bracing himself; ready to stop me from killing our lawyer.

“You can’t pay your way out of this, Vasily.”

“Well, I’m paying you, so you better find a way out.”

His mouth opens, face going purple. Ariadna is strategically hiding a smirk behind those elegant fingers and Timur looks incredibly uncomfortable.

“My professional recommendation, Vasily, is that you do nothing. No calls, no financial moves, no disappearing witnesses, no intimidation. If anyone connected to this organization suddenly changes behavior, investigators will notice.”

“You want me to just sit here?”

“Yes.”

I lean forward slightly. “While they dismantle decades of work?”

“I’m advising you not to hand them the remaining pieces.”

His voice has risen, and something cold and flat suddenly goes calm in me. I stand, palms on the table. Art stands as well, his eyes on me. He isn’t carrying a weapon; no weapons are allowed on this floor. But his hands are bigger than Beaumont’s face, and the old lawyer finally sits back, a thin sheen of sweat on his mottled face.

“You need to prepare for the possibility that Mikhail can’t be saved,” Beaumont advises carefully. “Start shutting things down. Quietly. Let whoever you need to go.”

Timur looks shocked at the idea; he’s the lead supervisor on dozens of projects, with employees and families depending on him.

“My lawyer is suggesting surrender.”

The words come out in a voice that isn’t my own. Beaumont’s hands are shaking now, but somehow he has the balls to nod despite the obvious lump in his throat.

“Leave.”

He stands so quickly his knees jar the table, and the old man hisses in pain. The briefcase is snapped shut, but papers stick out of the edges. Giving the group one last glare, Beaumont limps toward the door and presses the keypad with trembling fingers.

When the door closes behind him, Timur asks: “There’s no one else who can take care of this? Just Beaumont?”

The muscle in my jaw tightens. It aches with how hard I’ve been grinding my teeth in the night.

“Just Beaumont. It might be time we get rid of the old guard and bring someone in with more vitality and willing to fight.”