Konstantin was silent for a few seconds, processing what he’d heard. Then he asked:
— Is she willing to give us the recording?
— She says she’d be happy to. She never liked the Zotovs. Arrogant, she says, and they play loud music at night.
Pavel went to see Nina Vasilievna personally. She lived in the next building entrance of the same block, in an apartment filled with pots of violets and geraniums, with lace doilies on every horizontal surface and a smell of soil and fertilizer that seemed to have soaked into the very walls.
— Oh, as soon as I saw it, I knew something was wrong, — she began to lament, scurrying to the sideboard for her phone. — Such a disgrace! A young girl with a baby… And they’re pushing her! And I thought to myself: why did I record this? I just wanted to show my flowers to my followers. I have 327 of them, by the way! See, it came in handy.
The video was 47 seconds long. The quality wasn’t perfect — it was filmed from a third-floor balcony, after all — but the faces were clearly distinguishable, and the voices were audible. It was more than enough.
Konstantin moved Yulya and Bogdan to a new safe house. An apartment in a secure complex on the other side of town, belonging to an old friend who spent winters in the South and was happy to help. A place with no connection to Konstantin’s address, with a concierge downstairs, electronic card access, cameras on every floor, and a heavy metal door at the entrance.
For the first time in a long time, Yulya was able to sleep properly. Not the fitful, anxious sleep that had plagued her under the bridge and at the motel, but the deep, restorative sleep of someone who finally feels safe. Bogdan drank his milk until he was full, his cheeks turned rosy, and he started to smile the way babies do when the world around them becomes kind and predictable.
— I don’t want Bogdan to grow up with people like that, — Yulya said one evening, rocking her son by the window as the city sun set. — Never, no matter what happens.
And Konstantin understood: she was no longer a victim. She had become a mother fighting for her child.
Pavel sent the invitation for mediation to Maxim in a neutral tone: no accusations, just “family settlement in the best interests of the child.” The wording was precise, down to the last comma. Nothing to arouse suspicion, nothing to reveal their true intent.
Maxim agreed instantly. He was confident of victory after the viral video and his mother’s connections; he thought the old man with a bad heart had finally given up and was ready to buy his way out. He walked into Pavel’s office with the confident stride of a real estate agent closing a profitable deal. Expensive suit, polished shoes, the smile of a man accustomed to getting what he wants. The scent of his cologne filled the small office.
Maxim sat down, crossing his legs, looked around with the air of an owner, and got straight to the point:
— Let’s skip the drama, gentlemen. Yulya comes back, Bogdan comes back, and we’ll forget this misunderstanding. I’m even willing not to demand compensation for emotional distress.
Konstantin sat motionless, his hands folded on the table, and looked at his son-in-law with the same gaze he had once used on raiders in the nineties. Calm, appraising, without a hint of fear.
— Where is Yulia’s car? The Hyundai Tucson. It’s a family car.
Maxim shrugged with the air of someone explaining the obvious:
— We’re married, everything is shared.
— The apartment in “Rodnikovaya Dolina” is also family property. Yulya is my wife, I have every right.
— The money you withdrew from her account? One million two hundred thousand.
— So what? — Maxim spread his hands and smiled the kind of smile he probably gave clients signing unfavorable contracts. — I’m her husband. The money is shared. I spent it on the family, that’s normal.
Pavel intervened, looking at Maxim the way a former investigator looks at another overconfident type, knowing how quickly they break.
— Is there written consent from Yulia for these transactions? A power of attorney? Any document at all?
— What consent? — Maxim smirked as if he’d heard a stupid joke. — We’re a family. Families don’t need paperwork.
Then Konstantin took out his phone and played the recording of the conversation at the cafe. Emma Yakovlevna’s voice filled the office. Condescending, self-assured, with the intonations she had used for decades when speaking to the parents of unruly students.
“What apartment, Konstantin Dmitrievich? That’s family property now…”
“He used the money for the family, that’s normal…”
Maxim froze. The smile vanished from his face. Rashid entered with a thick folder, bristling with tabs of different colors, and placed it on the table in front of Maxim.
— The scheme of transfers from Yulia’s account to accounts associated with LLC “Emma Consult,” a company registered to Maxim’s mother. Amounts, dates, recipients, transaction numbers. Everything is documented, everything is provable.
— Yulia did not have access to her phone or bank card during this period, — Pavel added, tapping his finger on the folder. — There are witnesses. There are threatening messages demanding her compliance.
Maxim tried to seize the initiative, leaning forward.
— Listen, I’ll take Bogdan through child services! My mother has connections there, you have no idea who you’re dealing with! One call, and…
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