Chapter 38 Research
They should have gone back to the estate.
That was the logical choice, the safe choice that would maintain appearances and avoid suspicion.
But neither of them suggested it.
Instead, Dima locked the office door, retrieved the folder from Anya's bag, and spread the contents across his massive desk. The second part of the Key lay before them—pages of evidence, photographs, and the small USB drive that held digital copies of everything.
"We need to cross-reference this with what we already have," Dima said, his voice all business now. The vulnerable man from moments ago was hidden away, replaced by the focused strategist. "The first part had financial records. This seems to have more... documentation."
Anya pulled a chair beside his, their shoulders almost touching. For the next hour, they worked in companionable silence, sorting documents, comparing dates, building a picture of Nikolai's empire.
It was Anya who found it.
A sheaf of papers tucked toward the back of the folder, held together by a rusty paperclip. The top page was a letter, typed on official letterhead, dated six years ago.
To Whom It May Concern:
I, Alexander Petrova, in my capacity as Director of the Eastern European Humanitarian Foundation, hereby authorize the transfer of funds as outlined in the attached agreement. These funds are designated for the procurement and distribution of medical supplies to conflict-affected regions.
Signed,
Alexander Petrova
Anya's blood ran cold.
She flipped to the next page. A bank transfer record, showing five million dollars moving from the foundation's account to a company she didn't recognize. The page after that was an invoice—not for medical supplies, but for military-grade equipment. Rifles. Ammunition. Night vision goggles.
"Weapons," she breathed.
Dima looked up sharply. "What?"
She handed him the papers, watching his face as he read. His expression shifted from confusion to horror to a cold, controlled rage.
"This is a setup," he said quietly. "Your father never authorized this. The signature is forged."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've seen his real signature. On the documents from the first part. The loops are different. The pressure points are wrong." He looked at her, his eyes dark. "Someone forged your father's name to move money for weapons. And then—"
"And then they made sure the evidence would be found." Anya's voice was hollow. "If this ever comes out, my father is framed as an arms trafficker. His reputation destroyed. His foundation discredited. My inheritance—"
"Would be contested. Possibly frozen. Certainly tied up in courts for years." Dima's jaw tightened. "This is insurance. My father's insurance, in case anyone ever got too close to the truth."
Anya stared at the forged signature, her father's name twisted into a weapon against his memory.
"He didn't just kill my father," she whispered. "He turned him into a ghost story."
Dima reached for her hand, gripping it tightly.
"We'll prove it's a forgery. We have experts—"
"It doesn't matter." She pulled her hand away, standing abruptly. She walked to the window, staring out at the city lights beginning to flicker on. "Even if we prove it, the accusation will always be there. People will always wonder. His name will always have a question mark next to it."
Dima came up behind her, not touching, but present.
"Not if we destroy the evidence. Not if we make sure this never sees the light of day."
She turned to look at him. "You mean hide it. Suppress it. Become complicit in the cover-up."
"I mean protect your father's memory. Protect your inheritance. Protect you." His voice was fierce. "This isn't about justice anymore, Anya. This is about survival."
"Is that what you told yourself with Lena?" The words came out sharper than she intended. "That it was about survival, not justice?"
He flinched, but didn't look away.
"Yes," he said quietly. "That's exactly what I told myself. And I'd do it again. Because the alternative—letting more people get hurt, letting my father win—is worse."
Anya stared at him, seeing the conflict in his eyes. The guilt. The determination. The desperate need to protect, even when protection meant compromise.
"I need to think," she said. "I need to process this."
"Take all the time you need." He moved back to the desk, giving her space. "But Anya—whatever you decide, I'm with you. We're partners. Equals. Remember?"
She nodded, turning back to the window.
The city spread before her, millions of lives, millions of stories. Somewhere out there, her father's name was being whispered in dark rooms, connected to crimes he never committed. Somewhere out there, Nikolai Volkov was laughing.
She thought of her mother, fragile and fading. She thought of Dima, carrying thirteen years of grief. She thought of Lena, walking into danger without knowing it.
And she thought of her father—his laugh, his kindness, the way he'd taught her to read numbers like stories.
He deserved better than this.
They all did.
Anya turned from the window, her decision made.
"We keep the evidence," she said firmly. "All of it. And when we bring your father down, we clear my father's name. Publicly. Completely. No more ghost stories."
Dima studied her face, something like pride flickering in his eyes.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." She crossed back to the desk, picking up the forged documents. "My father spent his last years building the Key to expose the truth. I'm not going to hide the truth to protect his memory cause he'd want it exposed, all of it."
Dima nodded slowly, a small smile touching his lips.
"You really are remarkable."
"So you keep saying."
They worked through the evening, cross-referencing documents, building timelines, creating a master file of evidence. By the time the city lights blazed below them, they had a comprehensive picture of Nikolai's crimes, financial fraud, money laundering, arms trafficking, and at least a dozen murders.
And at the center of it all, the forged documents that tied Anya's father to the weapons deals.
"He planned this," Anya said quietly, staring at the papers. "Even before he killed my father, he was building a backup plan. A way to destroy his reputation if anyone got too close."
Dima nodded grimly. "My father doesn't leave loose ends, he creates them, then controls them."
"And now we have to undo it all."
"We will." He reached across the desk, taking her hand. "Together, piece by piece until there's nothing left of his empire but ashes."
Anya squeezed his hand, drawing strength from his touch.
Outside, the city hummed with life while inside, two people held onto each other, preparing for the hardest fight of their lives.
And somewhere in the darkness, Nikolai Volkov was waiting.