Page 3 of Beautiful Ruin

Borchin dead meant there would no longer be a lead to dig up. Eventually, news cycles always shift interest once the court of public opinion has no one left to prosecute. Katerina’s revenge had done more than just satisfy her need for justice. It gave her little reason to keep speaking. There was no need to keep dragging her father’s sins back into the light once his blood had already paid for them.

At the head of the table, Malyshko has barely moved in the last twenty minutes. A shift of his hands once, fingers coming together in a quiet steeple beneath his chin. The faintest adjustment of one shoulder before growing still once again. The only things that move are his eyes.

It is unnerving to watch.

When he finally speaks, the room goes utterly silent. “The problem isn’t Borchin’s demise. The government is still scrambling internally, which means disruptions for us. Instead of keeping their heads down and doing what they are told, they are too busy looking inward trying to assemble their own investigations into the matter.”

His gaze drifts then, first to Volkov who receives it with a slight frown tugging at the corner of his mouth, then to Ivan whose face remains composed enough that most would miss the faint hardening at the corners of his mouth. Then finally to the untouched documents near the center of the table.

It seems this is no longer about one dead official causing a temporary stir. That would be irritating. Costly, maybe, but at the very least manageable. A corpse can be buried without notice, a scandal can be smothered with a few journalists bought or frightened or disappeared if the situation calls for it. We all know this. But that is not what Nikolai is talking about.

He is talking about the dangerous energy that forms when frightened institutions begin lashing out blindly because no one with enough authority has stepped in to guide that fear somewhere useful. The government is wounded and embarrassed, suspicious of its own parties. Wounded institutions are like wounded animals, unpredictable, desperate, and prone to thrashing at shadows until they finally hit something real.

That is what concerns him.

Volkov may be right that Borchin is more useful dead than alive. On a basic tactical level, he probably is. But Nikolai is already three moves past that line of thinking, already staring beyond the corpse and into the machinery it has disrupted.

The crisis is what his death has set into motion. It has left nervous men in government offices asking the wrong questions and has left bureaucrats peering too closely at paper trails they should have no idea existed.

Exposing any part of the Iron Pact will topple the entire regime completely. Institutions like ours only work because no one is aware who the real masterminds are behind the scenes pulling the strings.

“Regardless of whatever their investigation turns up, we do not want to be at the center of whatever conclusions they are drawing,” he finishes.

It is a hell of a predication.

These men have spent years, decades in some cases, building elaborate systems of distance between themselves and the ugliest mechanics of their empires. Layers of deniability, loyal intermediaries, officials bought young and promoted carefully because of their obedience. Violence here is never supposed to lead back to the hand that ordered it. You do not survive this long by committing brutality openly and then trusting fear to protect you from consequence. Fear has a short shelf life. Eventually, someone braver or more desperate will come along to disrupt the balance.

Ivan’s jaw tightens so subtly that most would miss it. But I don’t. The muscle pulse near the hinge of his jaw, a tiny split in the granite calm he likes to wear when he wants to appear above the mess instead of knee-deep in it. He does not enjoy being reminded that control is already slipping from his fingers. More than that, he hates hearing the unspoken implication that events are moving faster than even he can contain.

My Pakhan prefers every variable be accounted for. To suggest otherwise is not merely an inconvenience. It is an insult to the religion he’s made of his own competence.

Across the table, Sokolov finally speaks. His tone is even, almost mild. “So, what are we supposed to do?”

Ivan has been waiting for that question. I can see it in the way he shifts forward by half an inch. His fingers unlatch and flatten against the table, broad palms braced lightly against the polished wood. His expression doesn’t change much, but something underneath it shifts, a dormant current coming alive.

This is familiar terrain for him.

“I propose we set up a puppet within the ranks. One of our own, not paying one off already inside. Men like Borchin aren’t ideal to control when they have already been institutionalized before we get to them. Putting one of our own in from the start will guarantee us control as they grow within their role.”

For a second, the words simply hang in the air with no response.

He is not talking about another useful coward fed enough money and promises to keep his mouth shut while moved around to further whatever agenda is on the table that month. He is talking about planting someone inside the machine itself and raising them there like a seed planted deliberately under concrete, waiting for the first crack in the foundation to split open around it as the roots grow deep into the soil bed.

My stomach tightens with anticipation.

Then Volkov laughs. The sound is abrupt, a short barking noise that ricochets off the stone walls and glass cups. “You want to play kingmaker in the Kremlin now, Kuznetsov? That is ridiculous. What is the point when we can simply continue to pay off whomever we want? That takes less time than waiting for an intern at the bottom of the totem pole to rise in ranks.”

Ivan’s mouth hardens instantly. “That is not what I meant. We would start farther up than an intern, Volkov.”

“Oh, right,” Volkov says with a cruel smirk, leaning back farther into the chair while lapsing into an easy tone. “A secretary, then. Someone to run for coffees in the morning and get bent over a desk by the afternoon.”

I nearly sigh.

Crude, as always.

No one laughs with him. The vulgarity is not unusual for Volkov, but even by his standards it is insulting to be this blatant about it. Usually, he has a little more tact. This reaction doesn’t surprise me, however.

It, unfortunately, is exactly as I expected.