Page 104 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
Dominik steps closer. “Tracked how?”
“Signed in and out,” I say.
I slide one folder out just enough to see the inside cover. Plain brown board. No title. A stamped identifier sits near the bottom, and a faded red diagonal mark cuts across the corner.
Behind it sits a slim metal case fixed into the back of the shelf. It’s not large. It’s locked with a key and sealed with a strip thatwould tear if forced. A log sheet is clipped beside it in a clear sleeve.
Dates. Times. Initials.
The handwriting is the same on every line.
“One custodian,” Dominik says.
“Yes,” I say. “If something goes missing, there’s one name attached to it.”
The log is the control.
No one moves this without signing for it.
I check the seal first. It hasn’t been broken.
I photograph the log sheet, line by line. The initials repeat. The handwriting stays the same across every entry.
Dominik logs into the terminal under the compliance review window Igor opened. When he selects the shelf ID, it prompts for confirmation that the material falls under the active review.
He confirms. The system records the access.
A soft click sounds from inside the shelf. The lock releases.
I open the case.
The ledger sits inside, black cover worn at the corners. No title. No marking on the front.
I open it to the index and mark the sections we need. My device captures each page without sound or light. I set it to continuous and turn the pages at a steady pace.
Council names appear beside approval signatures. Duplicate forms signed by two officials on the same day. Emergency procurement waivers pushed through by judges who never recorded the cases. A regional leader’s office routing funds before they circle back to a logistics firm tied to Sergei’s network.
Roman Kadeev’s name appears in a different column. Companies folded and reopened under transport subsidiaries that answer to his faction.
“Someone’s going to have to answer for the gaps,” I say, keeping my hands moving.
I don’t start at the front and I don’t move straight through. I go to the entries we marked first. The names tied to leverage. The transfers that don’t match the public filings. I capture those pages before anything else and check each image before turning to the next.
Some entries I pass over. Others I capture twice.
This isn’t removal. It’s duplication that looks like review. I pause once on a set of names, then continue, careful not to leave any pattern that stands out.
Dominik stays near the door, eyes on the hall. He doesn’t hurry me.
I’m halfway through the last section when the building shifts. The steady hum from the vents fades, then settles into a lower pitch. I don’t look up. I keep turning pages and capturing them at the same pace.
When I finish, I close the ledger the way it was. I slide it back into the case and lock it. The seal presses flat against the edge.
We step into the corridor.
The sound hits first. Or the lack of it. Phones aren’t ringing anymore. The low conversation from the offices has thinned out. Doors that were half open are closed.
At the end of the hall, the desk is empty. The chair is pushed in. The ledger that sat on top is gone.
