Page 87 of The Bratva Betrayal

"There's also this one," she suggests.

My first real smile of the morning forms. "Write it down.”

20

Artem

I find it on a Tuesday.

I'm running a routine pull on Misha's financials, the kind I do for everyone in my orbit every few months, because trust is a nice concept but verification is better. It takes me twenty minutes to get through his accounts, the shells, and the shells behind those.

Then, I find the thread.

It's intentionally small, broken across three accounts over fourteen months, and designed to look like nothing.

But I've been doing this long enough. I pull it and keep pulling, and what comes out on the other end sits on my screen for a long time.

Three million dollars.

Misha owes Lucas Manifold three million dollars.

The timeline builds itself as I read. A year and a half of losses at gambling tables, debt that changed hands quietly in the way debt does when the person holding it wants leverage more than repayment.

Manifold bought it eight months ago and didn't collect. He just held it, knowing he'd need it eventually.

Eight months ago is right around the time Manifold started making noise about the task force expansion, and right around the time he started making noise about us.

The Hargrove Foundation Gala raises money for children's literacy and exists primarily so men like Manifold can stand in rooms full of people who believe in them and feel clean about everything else. The venue is warm light, round tables, and a string quartet, with waitstaff moving through the crowd with champagne and small things on small plates.

I've been here forty minutes in a black suit with untouched champagne, working the room.

I know where Manifold is, where his security is, where the catering staff disappears to between passes, and what I'm putting in his drink and when.

It's not complicated. It rarely is when you do it right.

I move toward the bar, running the sequence, and timing the approach.

Then, I see the red dress.

Cady Gallagher is standing at the edge of the dance floor in a dress that has no business being worn in public.

She's laughing at something the man beside her has said, her head tilted back, and the man is young and good-looking and has his hand on her waist.

She lets him.

I’m going to break that hand.

I watch for about four seconds before handing my champagne to a passing waiter and walking onto the dance floor.

I put my hand on the man's shoulder and tell him I've got it from here in the tone that leaves no room to argue.

He looks at me, makes the smart decision, and disappears.

Cady stares daggers at me. "You've got to be kidding me.”

"Dance with me."

"I was dancing with someone.”