Vera asked.
“He’s mentioned too. Not directly enough for a conviction by itself, but enough to trigger an investigation. If the DA’s office takes this seriously, he’ll lose the bench and likely his freedom.”
Vera nodded. Justice—the thing she had been talking about for months—was beginning to look real. But one thing darkened the relief: Masha had not called in two weeks. She didn’t answer texts. Didn’t open emails. Total silence. Vera understood why. Her daughter believed she had broken her promise and gone back to war with her father. Technically, that was true. But how did you explain to a nineteen-year-old that sometimes a promise has to be broken for a larger truth?
In the third week, Gromov called.
“Vera Nikolaevna, we have a problem. Vitaly Ignatyevich died last night.”
The news hit harder than Vera expected. She had barely known the man, but she felt tied to him—they had both been prey for the same predator.
“How?”
“Officially? A second heart attack. His heart gave out.”
“And unofficially?”
Gromov was silent for a moment.
“Unofficially… I don’t believe in the timing. He was improving. Doctors were talking about discharge. Then suddenly, overnight, with no witnesses…”
“You think he was killed?”
“I think Sokolov is cleaning up loose ends. The old man was the only living witness. Now he’s gone.”
Vera closed her eyes. Another death on Dmitry’s conscience. How many would there be?
“Does that change our plan?”
“Not critically. We still have the documents and recordings, and they speak for themselves. But without the old man’s testimony, the case gets harder. Sokolov’s lawyers will challenge authenticity.”
“So what do we do?”
“Move faster. Before he destroys anything else.”
Anton Sergeyevich proposed filing with the district attorney the following week. By then all the materials would be ready, and experts would have certified the recordings. Once the machinery started moving, it would be hard to stop.
But three days before they planned to file, something unexpected happened. Vera was coming back from a night shift when she noticed an unfamiliar car parked outside her building. A black luxury sedan with tinted windows—out of place in that neighborhood. She slowed before reaching the curb. Every instinct in her told her something was wrong. The sedan door opened and a man in a dark coat stepped out. Vera recognized him instantly. Dmitry.
Her ex-husband had barely changed in those months. Same confident posture. Same cold gray eyes. Maybe a few more lines in his face, or maybe she was imagining it.
“Vera,” he said, walking up to her car and tapping on the window. “We need to talk.”
She didn’t move. Her hands gripped the wheel so tightly her knuckles went white.
“Open the door. I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Like Vitaly Ignatyevich?” she shot back.
Dmitry’s face flickered—just for a second.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My uncle died of a heart attack. He was an old, sick man who happened to be the owner of your shell companies.”
Dmitry glanced up and down the street, checking for witnesses. At that hour before dawn, the block was empty.
“Vera, listen carefully. I know what you’re doing. I know about the lawyer, the retired investigator, the documents. You think you can destroy me. You can’t.”
“We’ll see.”
“No, you will.” His voice hardened. “You have a choice. Option one: you hand over everything, forget this whole story, and live your life quietly. I’ll even help you out—say, $100,000. That should go a long way in a place like this. Option two…” Dmitry leaned closer to the window. “Option two won’t be pleasant. I have friends in a lot of places. Police. Prosecutors. Courts. You’ve already seen how the system works when I’m on the right side of it. Want a repeat?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m warning you. There’s a difference.” He straightened. “And one more thing. Think about Masha.”
Vera’s heart clenched.
“What about Masha?”
“Nothing yet. She’s in school. Everything’s paid through the semester. But if you keep up this little crusade…” He spread his hands. “The money dries up. Masha comes home without a degree, without a future. And she’ll know exactly whose fault it was.”
Vera said nothing. Inside her, rage and fear were locked in a dead heat.
“You have three days,” Dmitry said. “Think it through. Call me when you’ve made up your mind.”
He tossed a business card onto the seat and returned to his car. The black sedan disappeared into the predawn dark. Vera sat motionless long after it was gone. Then she picked up her phone and called Anton Sergeyevich.
“He knows,” she said. “Dmitry came to see me. Offered money for silence. Threatened Masha.”
“Damn.” The lawyer’s voice sharpened. “Where are you?”
“Outside my building. I’m afraid to go in.”
“Good instinct. Come to my place. I’ll text you the address. You’re staying here tonight. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
Anton Sergeyevich’s apartment was small but comfortable. Two bedrooms, books and case files everywhere, old photographs on the walls, cacti lined up on the windowsill.
“My wife died five years ago,” he said when he noticed her looking around. “The kids are grown and gone. So there’s room.”
He sat her on the couch, poured tea, and took the chair across from her.
“Tell me everything. Start to finish.”
Vera repeated the conversation with Dmitry. Anton Sergeyevich listened, growing more troubled by the minute.
“Three days,” he said when she finished. “That changes things. We file tomorrow. No waiting until next week. Are the documents ready?”
