Page 18 of Fake Marriage Mafia Triplets

“You were.”

“He came here looking for your father, and I confirmed the connection for free.”

Nikita crosses the room. He reads the thread over my shoulder without touching the binder, and he exhales hard through his nose.

“He was hunting the Voss name before the crest ever surfaced,” he says. “The Voss name confirmed your connection to your father. The crest confirmed you had access to marked Rusakov property.”

I grip the workbench and read the message a third time.

I spent four months confirming the lapsed contract, the dormant trust, and the town’s delayed-return process. I chose the Rusakov estate, and I chose it well. Shilov’s people noticed the moment a Voss touched it.

“How long has my name been on that list?” I ask.

“I don’t know yet.” Nikita straightens. “Somebody in Shilov’s network kept your father’s name active after he died, and they connected it to you before that buyer ever entered the mansion.”

Maren sits down hard on one of the mid-century chairs, and I don’t have the energy to tell her the tag is still on it.

My phone rings.

Callum’s name fills the screen, and for one absurd second I think about not answering, because I’ve absorbed as much family history as I can hold today.

“Hey, are you okay?” I ask.

“Pipes, there’s something I didn’t tell you yesterday.” There’s no shop compressor behind his voice anymore, just the quiet of a house in the woods.

I close my eyes. “You should tell me now.”

“The guys who came to the shop. When I said I didn’t know where you lived, one of them laughed and told me it didn’t matter.” He stops for a second. “He said Dorian’s kid would turn up eventually. He used Dad’s name like they knew him.”

I lower the phone and tap the speaker icon. “Callum, you need to repeat that last part. Two people are listening now, and they both need to hear it from you.”

He repeats it. The workspace is silent by the time he finishes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.

“You were already scared.” Callum’s voice cracks on the second word and he pushes through it. “Every time something goes wrong, you fix it by working harder. I’ve watched you do that since I was twelve, and I thought if I handed you one more thing you’d just take that on too.” He exhales. “Dad’s been dead five years, and I didn’t want to be the one who told you he’s still ruining our lives.”

I press my palm against the workbench and hold on to the edge.

“You should have told me,” I say. “I’m not angry with you. I just can’t protect you from what I don’t know.”

“I get that now. Vera made me eggs and asked me nine questions and I ended up telling her the whole thing before I told you, which is honestly the most embarrassing part.”

“That sounds like Vera.” I press the phone harder to my ear, wanting the sound of him closer.

“She’s terrifying. I like her.”

When I hang up, Nikita is already watching me, and he hasn’t moved to take the phone or issue an instruction or do any of the twelve things a man in his position would be entitled to do.

“Platon should debrief him properly,” he says. “He needs a structured interview, recorded, with follow-up questions about faces, vehicles, timing, and anything else he’s holding. He’s twenty-three and he’s frightened, and frightened people withhold in pieces.” He waits. “That’s your brother. You decide.”

Two days ago I’d have said no on reflex, because letting bratva question Callum sounds like the beginning of a story that ends badly for both of us. Callum also sat on the one detail that mattered for a full day, and he’ll do it again, and the next thing he withholds might be the thing that gets him killed.

“You should do it,” I say. “I have two conditions. Platon tells him what the interview is for before it starts, and I get the recording afterward.”

“That’s acceptable,” Platon says.

Maren looks between the three of us from her chair. “I have follow-up questions about literally everything that just happened.”