Echoes of Blood

Missing Money

ECHOES OF BLOOD

(Sasha's POV)

Rain had a way of making ghosts louder.

Johannesburg glittered beneath dark clouds while rain danced against the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office.

Everyone had gone home hours ago.

The building was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that allows memories to breathe.

I sat alone behind my desk.

A half-finished glass of whiskey rested beside me.

The prison file lay open.

One page.

One name.

Nikolai Sokolov.

Three visits.

Three years ago.

No conversation.

No messages.

No explanation.

Just watching.

I traced the name with my finger.

Something about it bothered me.

Not because I remembered him.

Because I didn't.

My father trusted very few people.

If a man worked directly for Viktor Shostakovich, I should've known his face.

His name.

His story.

Yet all I had was a ghost.

A dead man who apparently visited prisons.

The office door opened.

Scara stepped inside.

"Still here?"

I looked at him.

"So are you."

He smirked.

"Fair."

He pointed at the file.

"You staring at that thing won't make answers appear."

I took a sip of whiskey.

"No."

A pause.

"But it reminds me questions exist."

Scara's smile disappeared.

Because he understood.

Questions were dangerous.

Especially in our world.

And I was finally starting to ask them.

The following morning, I called an emergency meeting.

Not the glamorous kind.

Not the boardroom kind.

The dangerous kind.

The kind that happened behind locked doors.

Only trusted people attended.

Scara.

Mr. Dlamini.

Finance directors.

Legal advisers.

Security chiefs.

People who had survived Viktor's reign.

People who understood silence.

The conference room felt tense.

Everyone knew something was coming.

They just didn't know what.

I sat at the head of the table.

My father's chair.

My father's empire.

My father's ghosts.

Then I spoke.

"I want a complete forensic audit."

Several people exchanged looks.

One finance director cleared his throat.

"Of which division?"

I looked directly at him.

"Everything."

Silence.

"I want every account."

I folded my hands calmly.

"Every transfer."

A pause.

"Every company."

Another.

"Every cent."

The room went still.

Scara leaned back smiling slightly.

He already knew what I was thinking.

Nobody asks for every cent unless they already suspect theft.

Six hours later the atmosphere had changed completely.

The finance team looked pale.

The legal department looked uncomfortable.

The accountants looked terrified.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

A senior accountant slowly adjusted his glasses.

His hands were shaking.

That got my attention immediately.

I placed my whiskey down.

"Talk."

He swallowed.

"Ms. Shostakovich..."

His voice cracked.

Then he tried again.

"Over the last four years..."

He opened a report.

"...money has been disappearing."

The room became silent.

Not surprised.

Silent.

Because hearing something and proving it are very different things.

"How much?"

The man hesitated.

Never a good sign.

"Leon."

I looked toward another accountant.

"Answer her."

The younger man lowered his eyes.

Then quietly said:

"Approximately four hundred and seventy million rand."

The room froze.

My expression didn't change.

Not immediately.

Four hundred and seventy million.

Gone.

Not stolen in one transaction.

Not robbed.

Drained.

Carefully.

Patiently.

Like poison entering water.

I stood slowly.

Walked toward the window.

Rain hammered the glass.

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

Then—

I picked up my whiskey glass.

And smashed it against the wall.

The explosion echoed through the room.

Glass scattered everywhere.

Nobody flinched.

Nobody dared.

Because suddenly everyone remembered exactly who they worked for.

The Crimson Flame wasn't a nickname.

It was a warning.

I turned slowly.

My voice remained calm.

Which somehow frightened them more.

"Who?"

The senior accountant swallowed.

"We found one recurring name."

My eyes narrowed.

"Show me."

He slid a file across the table.

I opened it.

One photograph.

One name.

Leon Pretorius.

A trusted financial director.

Personally hired by Viktor.

Personally trusted by Viktor.

Personally dead if I found him.

My jaw tightened.

"Where is he?"

Silence.

Nobody answered.

Wrong answer.

"Where."

The accountant looked terrified now.

"He disappeared."

"When?"

"Two weeks ago."

Scara cursed softly.

I smiled.

Dangerously.

"Convenient."

Very convenient.

Three hours later we found Leon's younger brother.

Not Leon.

The brother.

A dentist.

Ordinary life.

Ordinary family.

Ordinary man.

Which made him completely unprepared for Scara.

The warehouse smelled like oil and dust.

The dentist sat across from me sweating through his shirt.

Terrified.

Confused.

I almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

I poured him water.

He stared at the glass.

Then at me.

Then back at the glass.

"Am I going to die?"

I smiled politely.

"No."

His shoulders relaxed.

Then I added—

"That depends entirely on your next answers."

His panic returned immediately.

Good.

Fear encourages honesty.

"When did you last speak to Leon?"

He swallowed hard.

"Three days ago."

The room went still.

Three days.

Alive.

Very alive.

I leaned forward.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know."

Scara cracked his knuckles.

The dentist nearly fainted.

"I swear."

His voice shook.

"I swear I don't know."

I studied him.

Truth.

He was telling truth.

Interesting.

"Was he afraid?"

The question surprised him.

"Yes."

My eyes sharpened.

"Of me?"

The man looked genuinely confused.

"No."

That got everyone's attention.

"Then who?"

His answer changed the room.

"He wouldn't say."

A pause.

"But he kept repeating one thing."

I leaned closer.

"What?"

The dentist looked directly at me.

"He said if they found him..."

His voice broke.

"...he would rather die."

Silence.

Heavy silence.

I slowly sat back.

Because Leon Pretorius knew me.

He knew my reputation.

Yet he wasn't hiding from me.

He was hiding from someone else.

Someone worse.

That night I found myself sitting beside Dmitri's bed.

Again.

Watching him sleep.

Children sleep like the world is good.

Like monsters don't exist.

Like betrayal isn't real.

I brushed a curl away from his forehead.

And for the first time since prison—

I felt uneasy.

Not angry.

Uneasy.

Because somebody started this war years ago.

Years.

Before my arrest.

Before Viktor's death.

Before Ghost stole the empire.

This wasn't chaos.

This was planning.

And planning meant intelligence.

Intelligence meant danger.

At exactly two in the morning—

my phone rang.

Scara.

I answered immediately.

"What?"

Silence.

Not good.

Scara never hesitated.

"Boss."

His voice sounded wrong.

Cold.

Tight.

Uneasy.

My body straightened.

"What happened?"

Another silence.

Then—

"We found Leon."

I stood immediately.

"Alive?"

The pause lasted too long.

Far too long.

Then Scara spoke.

Quietly.

"You need to come see this."

Thirty minutes later I stood on an abandoned farm outside Johannesburg.

The wind was vicious.

Cold.

Merciless.

Several vehicles surrounded the area.

Headlights cut through darkness.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody moved.

Scara waited beside a large tree.

His face said everything.

I followed his gaze.

And stopped.

Leon Pretorius hung upside down from a thick branch.

Dead.

Broken.

Blood stained the ground beneath him.

His body looked like a message.

Not a murder.

A warning.

The wind shifted.

His shirt moved.

And suddenly—

I saw it.

Words.

Carved deep into flesh.

Fresh.

Deliberate.

Brutal.

Three words.

Three simple words.

Three words that changed everything.

SHE SHOULD'VE DIED

The world became silent.

Completely silent.

I stared at the message.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Then finally—

I understood.

This was about Gabriel.

The original target was Viktor Shostakovich another target...

was me then the reward will be our empire.