47. Chapter 47

47

Leonid

T he buzz of my phone pulls my attention from the frosted windowpane. The Matterhorn stares back at me, sharp and defiant against the brilliant sky. I glance at the screen—Maksim. A message flashes.

Boss. Running errands. Don’t miss me too much. Be back before meeting.

I exhale through my nose. Running errands .

That could mean anything from bribing a local official to flirting with some ski bunny. The man has all the discipline of a stray dog. My thumbs move over the screen with a bite of frustration.

Don’t be late, suka.

I hit “send” and shake my head, muttering “mudak” as I pocket the phone. Maksim’s irresponsibility is a small stone in the mountain of betrayal and chaos crushing down on me lately. Fiona, Ludis, Dmitry’s cryptic message—everything gnaws at my patience like a dull blade.

A sound pulls me from my thoughts, light and high-pitched. Laughter. I glance toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, my gaze drawn by the unexpected burst of joy. Below, on the terrace, Elijah is stomping in the snow, scattering powdery flurries into the cold, bright air.

“Mommy! Look, I’m making a snow volcano!”

Clara stands beside him, her hands tucked into a tailored white coat, the fur-lined hood framing her face. Her dark hair spills over her shoulders, catching the light as she leans down to fix Elijah’s scarf. She’s laughing too, her shoulders shaking slightly, the kind of unguarded moment that seems rare for her.

She’s dressed better than I expected—thankfully. The coat is fitted perfectly, the slim cut showing her figure without trying too hard. Leather gloves cover her hands, sleek and practical, while knee-high boots crunch softly in the snow. I’d made sure my retail manager had their sizes before we left New Orleans. I’m not dragging them into the Alps just to watch them freeze to death.

“That’s not a volcano, silly. That’s a snow pancake. What kind of lava does a pancake have?”

“Chocolate lava!” Elijah crows, twirling in a clumsy circle, his arms stretched out for balance.

Clara laughs, a sound that doesn’t belong in my world—light, unguarded, completely free of calculation. She kneels to adjust his knitted beanie, her gloved hands moving with care. “Chocolate lava it is,” she says, her breath visible in the cold.

Blyat , she’s… fitting in here in a way I didn’t think she would. Classy, composed. Beautiful.

Galina’s voice slithers into my head, uninvited, smug. “The perfect wife, Leonid.”

“Perfect,” I huff under my breath, the word heavy with derision. Galina always knew how to twist the knife, even from a distance. Perfect isn’t real. Perfect gets you killed.

I catch myself. Too long … My eyes have lingered too damn long. My eyes have no damn business staying on her. She’s my captive, not a fucking daydream. I scrub a hand through my hair.

There’s too much shit piling up—Ludis’s scheming, Fiona’s betrayal, Dmitry chasing shadows. I don’t have time for distractions. Certainly not one wrapped in a fur-lined coat, laughing in the snow like none of this touches her.

But I saw her face earlier. When I asked about Stephan. The way her jaw tightened, the flicker of something beneath the surface, gone before she thought I’d notice. The question bothers her, too—maybe even more than it should.

I step back from the window, running a hand through my hair as if I can shake off the thought.

The phone’s cold weight anchors me, a tether to control in the midst of chaos. I dial Dmitry.

It rings twice before his gravelly voice breaks through. “Boss.”

“Talk.”

The line goes silent for two seconds, a hesitation heavy with meaning. In the background, faint clicking and clattering reach me. Keyboards. Dmitry is in the lab— our lair of wires, monitors, and shadows. The Kuznetsov Bratva’s hidden nerve center, manned by tech savants who don’t see daylight unless it’s reflected off a screen.

“I don’t have anything on the picture yet,” Dmitry finally says. “But we’re looking into it.”

I clench my jaw. “That’s not what I asked.”

He exhales, sharp. “Boss, it’s fresh. The text came in a few hours ago. No sender ID or IP. Anonymous.”

“What do you mean, anonymous text?” I hiss; my own voice echoes slightly in the vaulted ceiling of the suite. Exposed beams and stone walls frame the room, the kind of rustic luxury people pay for when they want to feel connected to nature without leaving their comfort zone. “Anonymous isn’t good enough. I need names.”

“There’s no metadata, Leonid,” Dmitry says, his voice tightening with an edge of his own. “No IP, no location tag. It’s scrubbed clean, like a ghost sent it.”

I grip the phone tighter, staring at the grain of the wood floor. The faint hum of electricity from the suite’s fixtures suddenly feels oppressive. “Then tell me about the photo.”

Another pause. The tapping stops, replaced by muffled voices—someone in the lab murmuring something too low to catch. Dmitry mutters a quick curse in Russian, likely waving them off, and then he’s back.

“We’re digging,” Dmitry says, his tone carefully neutral. “The team is pulling records. Accounts, family connections—hell, we’re even checking their pets. But whoever sent those photos knew what they were doing. The metadata is clean. No trail.”

“No such thing as clean. Keep looking. I want every detail of their lives since they were born. I don’t care if it’s a kindergarten report card; find it.”

“Understood.”

I pause, the image from the message flickering in my mind again. These two. What the fuck is happening here? How long has this been going on? Yob tvoyu mat’. The questions circle like vultures, feeding on the unknown.

A gruff chuckle crackles through the line; Dmitry’s version of easing the tension. It doesn’t work. I end the call without another word.

My watch catches the light as I check the time—Rolex Daytona, practical but unapologetically excessive. 1:04 PM. Montclair. In an hour, I’ll be sitting across from the man who has a knack for making order out of chaos. Victorien Montclair isn’t just a business partner; he’s the kind of ally who doesn’t need theatrics to command respect. Swiss-born, raised in luxury, and a mastermind of both legitimate trade and black-market ingenuity. He’s kept his family’s empire clean on the surface, while its foundation runs deep with gold laundering, smuggling, and logistics that leave no trail. Trustworthy. Consistent.

He’s everything Fiona isn’t. That suka blyad’.

I walk to the balcony, pushing open the glass doors. The cold hits me immediately, but it’s refreshing. The sound of Elijah’s laughter reaches me again, a high, clear note that carries in the thin mountain air.

Clara stands now, brushing snow from Elijah’s hat as he twirls in place. She glances up, almost instinctively, as if she can feel my gaze. Our eyes meet for a moment. She doesn’t smile, but there’s something in the tilt of her head, the way she doesn’t look away, that stirs something I can’t name.

Chyert. I force myself to look away, stepping back from the railing as if the distance could sever the pull. Business trip , I remind myself. Ludis is circling, waiting for weakness. That’s why we’re here. That’s why I need to keep them close—Clara and Elijah. Not because she’s standing there like she’s already doing something to my fucking heart.

I turn back inside, letting the door close behind me with a muted click. I need to think. About Ludis. About the photos. About anything but her.