Page 19 of The Bratva Betrayal

“Da.” I cross the room and take the seat across from him without waiting to be told.

A server appears briefly at my side, pushing in the chair before disappearing again just as quickly, the door closing behind him with a soft click that leaves us alone.

Just us.

No buffer.

No distractions.

I reach for the coffee, wrapping my fingers around the warm porcelain and lifting it to my lips, letting the heat settle something in my chest.

He gives me one sip.

Then, quietly, “What did you find?”

There’s never any buildup or pretense with him.

I lower the cup slowly, setting it back onto the saucer with care, buying myself half a second to think even though I already know what I’m going to say.

“Not much.” I keep my tone light enough that it doesn’t sound like the deflection it is.

I feel his dissatisfaction. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the truth.”

“You’ve been in that house for weeks.” He leans back in his chair. “You’ve got access to one of Benedikt Volkov’s men, and you’re telling me you’ve got nothing to show for it?”

I reach for a piece of toast to give my hands something to do, spreading butter across it in slow, deliberate strokes.

“I didn’t say nothing,” I correct gently. “I said not much.”

“Then give me something useful.”

I glance up at him as I take a bite, chewing slowly to stretch the moment just enough to decide how much I’m willing to give.

I have something.

Too much.

The shipment logs.

The access points.

The way things are moving inside that house: controlled, compartmentalized, deliberate.

But handing that over doesn’t prevent a war; it starts one.

“There are movements.” I set down the toast. “Routine ones. Nothing that suggests coordination with the Italians.”

That’s the part he cares about.

His jaw tightens at the mention of them, and I know I’ve hit the right place.

“You’re sure?” he presses.

“Yes.”

He studies me for a moment, deciding if I’m telling him what he needs.