Dirty Damage: Chapter 48

My phone vibrates against the nightstand. A death rattle in the dark.

The blue glow illuminates Sutton’s sleeping form beside me. She’d tossed and turned most of the night before finally falling asleep. I check the time at the same time I see who’s calling.

Fuck—Oksana at four in the morning.

It’s too late and too early for my mother to be calling me for any good reason.

Something’s wrong.

I slip from the bed, careful not to disturb Sutton, and pad barefoot into the hallway. The marble floor is cold beneath my feet, grounding me in this final surreal moment between sleep and whatever chaos awaits.

“Maman,” I answer, keeping my voice low. “What’s going on?”

“We didn’t manage to stop it.” Her voice crackles with fury. “The deal went through.”

My brain, still fuzzy with sleep, takes a moment to process her words. “What deal?”

“The deal,” she snaps. “Boris’s fucking sunk deal. He went behind our backs. The money’s already changed hands. Hundreds of millions, Oleg. Poured into a failing business.”

My free hand curls into a fist. I have to physically stop myself from putting it through the nearest wall.

“Jesus Christ,” I spit out. “How did you find out?”

“Got a call from Russia. Boris paid forty million over asking price. They jumped on it like sharks to blood.”

Of course they did. Who wouldn’t take free money from a fool?

The rage building inside me is familiar—an old friend I’ve known since the day I watched my sister burn.

It demands action.

Violence.

Retribution.

“Meet me at the office in an hour,” I tell Oksana. “We’ll regroup there.”

“It might be too late for game plans now, son.”

I glance back toward the bedroom where Sutton sleeps, unaware that our world is shifting beneath our feet. “We’ll see about that.”

The Pavlov lobby is a tomb at this hour. My footsteps crack against the floor as I stride toward the private elevator.

The night security guard doesn’t even look up—he knows better than to question my presence, no matter the hour.

In stark contrast, my office is already humming with activity when I arrive. Three hackers huddle around their laptops, bathed in the blue glow of their screens.

“Well?” Oksana prowls the space, twitching with fury and caffeine. At this rate, she’ll vibrate through the floor before sunrise.

Kate’s fingers never stop moving across her keyboard. “This is a process, Ms. Pavlova. These firewalls weren’t built in a day, and they won’t come down in one, either.”

Oksana’s heel scrapes against the floor as she spins away without a word.

An hour later, the orange glow of sunrise is just starting to paint the skyline when Kate’s triumphant cry splits the pre-dawn silence.

“Aha! Got the bastard!”

We converge on her station. The numbers on her screen tell a story of greed and betrayal in cold, hard digits.

“Ten times market value,” I growl, the words tasting like bile. “He’s not just burning money—he’s dousing it in gasoline and throwing matches at it.”

But it’s the name attached to the receiving account that makes my blood run cold.

Martinek Group.

The office falls into a silence so complete I can hear the hum of the computers, the soft whisper of the air conditioning, the rapid-fire clicking of Kate’s fingers against keys as she digs deeper into the digital grave Boris has dug for us all.

“I can’t believe he would do this,” Oksana whispers.

For the first time tonight, I hear real fear beneath her anger. The Martineks aren’t just business rivals—they’re the bogeymen that have haunted the Pavlov family for generations.

Kate glances between us, curiosity warring with professional detachment on her face. “The Martineks?”

“The biggest Bratva on this side of the States,” I tell her, my voice like gravel in my throat. “And our biggest rival. In business and beyond.”

Oksana backs away from the screens as if they’re contaminated. “Your father spent his life keeping them at bay. Every sacrifice, every late night, every missed family dinner—all of it was to keep the Martineks from taking what he built.” Her voice breaks. “And Boris just handed it to them gift-wrapped.”

I turn away from the damning evidence on the screen, my mind already racing through contingencies.

There’s always a way out. Always an angle.

I just have to find it.

“There has to be some way to reverse this,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.

“The money is gone, Oleg. The only thing left to do is hunt Boris down and kill him.” She looks at me. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“Longer than you have,” I admit. “But Boris isn’t stupid. Stubborn, yes. Short-sighted, maybe. But he wouldn’t make a move like this without a reason.”

“Isn’t it obvious? He’s throwing his lot in with the Martineks.”

I shake my head. The pieces don’t fit. “He was CEO and pakhan. Why give that up to be someone else’s errand boy?”

“Boredom?”

“No. There’s something we’re missing.”

Something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Something that whispers danger in a voice I’ve learned never to ignore.

Oksana eyes the coffee cart like it holds the answers to all life’s mysteries. “Fuck, I need a drink,” she mutters.

She strides for the exit—and nearly collides with Artem in the doorway. They exchange terse nods as they pass, and then my oldest friend joins me, his face grave in the artificial light.

“What do you have for me?”

Please let there be something salvageable in this fucking mess.

The look on his face tells me there isn’t.

“Nothing good. Boris has been running a shadow organization. Making moves against you for the past year. Like he knew you were coming for him and wanted to cut you off at the knees.”

My hands curl into fists. “Who?”

“They were behind the motorcycle chase after your engagement party.” He pauses, and something in that pause makes my skin crawl. “And one of their members is Drew Anton.”

“I fucking knew it.” The vindication is the best feeling I’ve had in hours. But there’s something off in Artem’s tone, something that makes me ask, “How did you find out?”

Artem’s shoulders slump. The look he gives me is part guilt, part resignation. “I did some digging. Based on information Sutton gave me.”

The world stops spinning for a heartbeat.

“… Sutton?”

He won’t meet my eyes. Not a good sign from a man who’s faced down death at my side. “She… she didn’t tell you?”

There’s a twitch developing in my left eye. “What was she supposed to tell me?”

Artem pulls out his phone. Cues up a video. Hands it to me. “This is surveillance footage Sutton found.”

I see Drew Anton on the screen. I’m not sure if it’s the sight of him or Sutton’s name in Artem’s mouth that makes my jaw clench.

“She found footage of our enemies? How the fuck did she⁠—”

“Maybe you should talk to her, Oleg.”

“Sutton’s had plenty of chances to talk.” My voice is deadly calm now. The kind of calm that comes before storms. Before bloodshed. “I’m asking you. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Goddammit.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d have told you by now.”

“Artem. Spit it the fuck out.”

He meets my eyes finally, and what I see there makes something cold settle in my chest. “Drew and Sutton have been in regular contact. For months.”

The silence that follows his words is absolute. Complete.

It is the silence that falls in the eye of a hurricane, when you know the worst is yet to come.

I stare at Artem for a few silent seconds.

Then I burst into bitter laughter.