Chapter 13 - The Traitor in the RoomEvery gun in the study turned toward Viktor Sokolov.
Except Viktor’s.
His was already pointed at Mikhail’s head.
The old man had served the Volkov family for thirty years. He had white hair, careful hands, and the tired eyes of someone who had buried too many secrets to fear one more grave.
“Mikhail,” Viktor said softly. “Do not make this ugly.”
Mikhail did not move.
“It became ugly when you came for my son.”
“I protected your son from what you became.”
Lena gasped.
Mikhail’s voice was deadly quiet. “Explain.”
Viktor’s hand tightened on the gun. “Your father built an empire on blood and called it legacy. You inherited it and called it duty. Anya wanted out. She begged you to take Misha away from all of this.”
Mikhail flinched.
It was small.
But I saw it.
“You refused,” Viktor said. “So she came to me.”
Mikhail’s face turned gray.
Viktor smiled sadly. “Yes. Your wife trusted me before she died.”
“You killed her.”
“I tried to save her.”
“By cutting her brakes?”
Viktor’s eyes hardened. “Roman arranged the accident. Irina helped cover it. I discovered it too late.”
“Then why protect them?”
“Because they promised to dismantle the empire.”
Lena cried out, “They promised to sell it!”
Viktor ignored her. “You think you are different from your father because you love your son. But you still raise him behind armed doors. You still teach him that fear is protection.”
Mikhail looked toward the hallway where Misha slept.
For once, he had no answer.
Viktor shifted the gun. “Tonight was never meant to kill him. It was meant to force you to open Anya’s box. To show the world what your family is.”
“You used my diner,” I said.
He looked at me then. “Collateral.”
The word burned.
“My father trusted Anya.”
“He should not have.”
I stepped forward before anyone could stop me.
“People like you always think the poor are scenery in your big moral wars. My diner was not scenery. My father’s life was not scenery. That child’s fear is not scenery.”
Viktor’s eyes narrowed.
“You have courage.”
“No,” I said. “I have nothing left for you to burn.”
A sound came from the doorway.
Misha stood there in his pajamas.
His eyes fixed on Viktor’s gun.
“Grandfather Viktor?”
The old man’s face broke.
Just enough.
Mikhail moved.
A shot fired.
May you like
The study window exploded.
And Viktor Sokolov fell before anyone knew whose bullet had hit him.
