Scamming the Devil

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

NIKOLAI DRAGUNOV

I should have told her about Viktor tonight.

I'd decided against it by the time I reached my study, poured two fingers of whiskey, and sat down with Roman's weekly territory reports spread across the desk. The decision had nothing to do with softness. It had to do with timing. She'd watched a man bleed in my dungeon, tried to run, hit me with a vase, and been carried back to her room in the span of a single afternoon. One more piece of devastating information tonight and she'd either shut down completely or do something reckless.

Neither outcome served me.

I pulled up the security feed on my secondary monitor — something I hadn't done before, which I noted without examining — and found her in her room. She was curled in the armchair by the window, a philosophy book open in her lap. Not performing calm. Actually calm, or close enough that the difference didn't matter. She turned a page and the corner of her mouth moved — not quite a smile, but adjacent to one.

My baby girl, reading philosophy at eleven at night in a room she's trying to escape.

I looked back at the territory reports.

Dmitri had called an hour ago with updates. Viktor was still communicating with Morozov's people — cautiously now, aware he was probably being watched, but not aware enough. Katya was secure; my men especially Dmitri had eyes on her café and her apartment. Nothing had moved yet.

Yet.

I'd sent Roman to deal with the QJ bikers encroaching on our western border, partly because it needed doing and partly because another evening of his commentary about Irina was not something I had the patience for tonight. He'd left grinning, which meant he knew exactly why I was sending him and found it entertaining.

I'd deal with him later.

On the monitor, Irina closed her book, set it aside, and stood.

I sat forward slightly.

She left her room.

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She walked into my study like she owned it — that particular straightness in her spine she deployed whenever she was trying not to look like she was thinking hard about something. She stopped when she saw me. The frown arrived immediately, automatic as breathing, followed by the eye roll she didn't bother hiding.

She crossed to the bookshelves, replaced the philosophy book in its exact position, and turned to leave.

"You didn't finish it," I said.

She stopped. Turned slowly. "And how would you know that?"

"I was watching."

The anger that moved across her face was immediate and clean. "You put cameras in my room."

"Security feeds. Yes."

"That's a violation—"

"You're in my house, Irina. Everything here is my concern." I leaned back. "What book would you prefer? I'll have something sent to your room."

"I don't want anything from you."

She turned again. I let two seconds pass.

"Your father," I said.

She stopped. Didn't turn around this time — just went still, the way people do when a name lands somewhere it wasn't expected.

"Have you heard from him recently?"

"Why." Her voice had changed. Flatter. More careful.

"Curiosity. Whether he might know where you are. Whether that would concern you."

A long pause. "It wouldn't. I haven't spoken to Viktor in two years and I have no intention of changing that." She turned then, and her face was composed in a way that cost her something. "Stay out of my personal life, Nikolai."

"If something changes — if he becomes relevant to your situation — would you want to know?"

She looked at me for a moment. Reading the question, I could see her doing it, turning it over for what it might actually mean.

"No," she said finally. "I don't want to hear his name."

That's going to be a problem, malyshka. Very soon.

"You mentioned a request earlier," I said instead.

That shifted something in her posture — less defensive, more deliberate. "My laptop. I want to contact Katya. Let her know I'm alive."

I smiled. She’s up to something.

"I won't give you your laptop." I stood, moved to the locked drawer at the corner desk, and withdrew one of the sanitized machines I kept for exactly this kind of situation — monitored, encrypted, every keystroke logged in real time. I held it out to her. "Use this."

She took it. Looked at it. The recognition of what it was moved across her face and she filed it away without comment.

"Thank you," she said, with a smile that didn't reach anywhere near her eyes.

"One hour. Send your message and don't make it an SOS. If you put Katya in motion on my behalf, I'll know, and she'll be the one who pays for it." I returned to my chair. "Understood?"

"Understood."

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IRINA VOLKOV

I sat on the study sofa and opened the laptop.

No password. Of course — the lock wasn't on the front end. I'd recognized the model the moment he handed it to me: a sanitized surveillance unit, monitoring software embedded at the firmware level, every input logged and transmitted. Standard high-level operational security. Nikolai was thorough. I'd give him that.

I set my fingers on the keyboard and thought for a moment.

Then I started working.

Not the message — not yet. First the monitoring software, because if I was going to write anything real to Katya I needed thirty seconds of privacy, and thirty seconds was achievable if I was careful and he wasn't watching too closely.

I kept my posture easy, my eyes moving periodically to the desk where Nikolai was reading, making sure his attention stayed on the pages in front of him. Noted, without meaning to, the way his shoulders moved under that white shirt, the ink that disappeared beneath the collar — I'd seen it when he'd pinned me against the wall, dark lines curving up toward his shoulder blade.

Focus.

The monitoring software had three layers. I'd been coding since fourteen — since the year Viktor had locked me out of every computer in the house to stop me accessing his financial records, and I'd taught myself to get back in through the back door because no one can lock a door that only exists in your head. Three layers was twenty-five minutes of patient work.

I gave it thirty to be safe.

"You managed to hack my monitoring system." His voice arrived directly behind me.

Every hair on my body stood up. I turned slowly.

How the hell did he get here?

He was standing two feet away, arms folded, looking at the screen with an expression I hadn't seen on him before. Not anger. Not calculation.

Impressed.

"Yes," I said.

"How long have you been coding?"

"Since I was fourteen."

"Why?"

I looked at him. "Because the most important doors are the ones people think can't be opened."

Something shifted in his eyes — brief, unreadable — and then it was gone.

"Send your message," he said. "But understand that I'll know what you sent regardless of what you think you cleared." He moved back toward his desk. "I'm better resourced than you, Irina. Not better than you. Better resourced."

I turned back to the screen.

He was probably right. Which meant Katya got a simple message — I'm safe, don't worry, I'll explain when I can — and nothing more. I wouldn't risk her.

I sent it and closed the laptop.

"Done."

Nikolai looked up. "That was fast."

"I kept it simple."

He held my gaze for a moment, and I had the uncomfortable sense that he already knew exactly what I'd written.

I set the laptop on the cushion beside me and straightened. The proposal had been sitting at the back of my mind.

"I want to renegotiate," I said.

He set down his papers. "Go on."

"You paid my debt. I have nothing left to run from and nothing left to offer you as a prisoner. But as an asset—" I kept my voice level, professional, the voice I used when I needed a mark to take me seriously— "I'm worth considerably more. Social engineering, identity construction, hacking. Real Bratva intelligence work. I'm a partner with a salary and defined freedom within the compound. Not a prisoner."

The silence lasted long enough that I counted it.

"I'll consider it," he said.

"That's not a yes."

"No," he agreed. "It's not a no either. Give me three days."

I nodded once, stood, and moved toward the door.

"Irina."

I stopped.

"Don't contact Katya again without telling me first."

I didn't turn around. "And if I do?"

"Then I'll have to make sure she can't be reached at all." His voice was perfectly even. "I'd prefer not to do that. It would upset you."

Because she matters to you. Which means she matters to me.

I left without answering, because there was nothing to say that wouldn't give something away.