Page 96 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
Viktor rests his hands on the table. “If there are materials tied to that period, they stay internal. We’re not reopening the past. We’re preventing disruption.”
“Disruption already started when Markov died,” Volkov says.
Sergei turns toward Dominik. “Anything from that time needs to be secured,” he says. “Before it ends up with people who don’t know how to handle it.”
Vasiliev makes a comment about widows and loose ends. He says it like a joke, but he looks at me when he does.
Dominik’s hand presses once against my knee under the table, then eases.
I don’t wait.
“Loose ends don’t stay loose on their own,” I say. My voice carries across the table without rising. “They stay that way because someone keeps them there.”
A few men shift in their seats.
Viktor turns toward me. “Mrs. Sokolova.”
I meet his eyes. “If it’s still hanging there,” I say, “it’s because someone wants it there.”
I hold the silence.
“That’s a choice,” I add.
My gaze moves across the table, one face at a time, before settling on Sergei.
Roman looks at me longer than before. He doesn’t smile this time. At the far end of the table, two of the younger members glance toward Orlov before looking back down at their notes.
Viktor clears his throat and moves the meeting forward. The agenda shifts to transport contracts and regional staffing, but the table doesn’t feel the same.
When it ends, no one announces a decision. Chairs scrape back. Men stand in small groups again. Nothing is settled out loud.
But no one looks at me the way they did when I walked in.
Outside, the air is colder. We get into the car. I wait until we’re several blocks away before I speak.
“They’re protecting the ledger like it’s personal,” I say. “Not like it’s just paperwork.”
Dominik keeps his eyes on the road. “That makes it harder to move.”
“It also means it’s not sitting in a bank vault,” I say. “It’s somewhere tied to habit. Somewhere that doesn’t change.”
He glances at me. “Go on.”
“Markov didn’t trust institutions,” I say. “He trusted what he could see every day. The same people. The same rooms. The same routines.”
I picture how his house used to run, how nothing moved without someone noticing.
“It won’t be locked away somewhere dramatic,” I say. “It’ll be in a place people walk through all the time. Somewhere normal enough that no one questions it.”
Dominik nods once. “There are a few options. A private property under another name. An archive linked to one of his medical foundations. Or his old house.”
“It won’t be the house,” I say. “That’s too obvious now. It’ll be an archive tied to a supply group or procurement office. Somewhere that calls itself compliance storage. Old contracts. Shipping records. Files that already passed review and never got checked again.”
Dominik exhales through his nose. “Places like that don’t get audited unless someone forces it.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Procurement paperwork, manifests, audit trails that look clean because no one expects them to matter anymore.”
“And what’s actually there?” he asks.
