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I hate not having constant eyes on Clara. At first, it was because I didn’t trust her and needed to make sure she wasn’t plotting her escape or a way to assassinate me in my sleep.
That’s what I told myself. I’ll stick by that, even if the thought doesn’t feel as genuine as it should.
It quickly became a way to make sure she was okay. First, with her fever and infection, then with her nightmares and general trauma responses to every little trigger. But then it was just a light in the darkness of my day to be able to open my laptop or turn on my phone and see Clara and Willow playing in the sunshine. I could always check on them and it would reassure me that they were still there; this was real.
Now, they’re gone. They’re gone and I can’t just turn on my phone to see them. I can’t reassure myself that Martin hasn’t stolen them from this world.
I fucking despise it.
Someone knocks on the door. I’m about to tell them to fuck off and leave me alone when Tolya pokes his head around the doorframe. “You good to talk?”
I nod. He’s the one person who can’t piss me off right about now.
My brother shoulders through the door and quickly shuts it behind him. “I’ve been digging around.”
My brow lifts. “Go on…”
“It’s his behavior, mostly. Even when he’s talking sports or women or the fucking weather, Otets just has this…” Tolya shakes his head. “I don’t know what to call it, man. But I don’t trust him. Never have, to be honest—but this is something different.”
I sit up from where I’ve been slumped on the bed. “And you found something…?”
“Well, I’ve been digging.” He strides over to the desk and straddles the chair. “But yeah, I found something. Transfers. Alotof wire transfers.”
Okay. That might be something. “Did you hack his computer?”
Tolya scoffs. “You think I’m all caught up on that tech shit? No. I found the receipts on his desk. He’s just as bad as I am.”
“You went into his office?”
“Yes, brother, I went into his office,” he sasses. “I’m not fucking ten anymore. Plus, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have the upper hand in a fist fight.”
He’s got a point. Tolya’s bulked up since he was put behind bars. I like to think I’m shredded and ready for a fight, but I have to admit, my older brother is built like a fucking tank.
And standing next to Oleg, he makes the old man look exactly that: old, withered, feebly clinging to the last vestiges of his youth. Father Time is taking a toll that our own father is stubbornly refusing to pay.
But Time is the loan shark of all loan sharks.
He always gets what’s coming to him, one way or another.
“Anyways.” Tolya digs into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled scrap of paper. “Something seemed off about the numbers. So I tallied them up and wrote down the origination numbers for your guys to research.”
“What’s the total amount?”
His mouth twists into a wry, knowing smirk. “Fifty million dollars to the penny.” He hands me the scrap of paper to show me his math and the account numbers.
I waste no time in snapping a pic to send to Pavel, then I hand the paper back to Tolya. “The fuck does it mean?”
“He’s outsourcing. If I have to make a guess, he’s outsourcingeverything. I don’t know what all he’s been telling you, but the things he’s told me don’t add up with a man who has that kind of cash to burn.”
Oleg is hiding something. That much is certain. “Did you find anything else in there?”
“It might be nothing, but…” Tolya pulls out another piece of paper, this time neatly folded and whole. “He left his laptop open. Figured you might find this interesting.”
It’s a word-for-word copy of Oleg’s screen, down to a sketched placement map of the browser itself.
What grabs my attention is the log of messages between Oleg and at least three different mercenary groups. I recognize the call signs and symbols used by each.
“Again,” Tolya explains, “he’s outsourcing. I bet half of these men here aren’t even Bratva.”
