Page 138 of Stolen Empire
"If the families had known Lyovik had an heir, they would've come for her years ago."
"They're coming for her now."
I pull out my phone and slide it across the table.
The screen shows surveillance photos my men took of the Radich compound after the warehouse raid.
"Oleg knew exactly who she was. He used her real name. That information came from somewhere, which means someone in Moscow has been tracking the Morozov family."
Rolan picks up the phone and studies the photos.
His expression doesn't change, but I see the calculation happening behind his eyes.
He's measuring risk against reward, weighing what Katya represents against what it will cost to protect her.
"The pact Batya made with Lyovik was comprehensive. Protection for his family in exchange for weapons and intelligence. When Lyovik died, the agreement should've been passed down."
"But no heir came forward," Misha, my uncle, points out.
"The pact died with Lyovik. We don't owe his daughter anything."
"Legally, no."
Rolan sets the phone down and looks at me directly.
"But in our world, these agreements carry weight beyond the people who sign them. If we honor the pact, we strengthen our reputation. Other families will know that the Vetrovs keep their word even when it's inconvenient."
He sits back and drums his fingers on the table.
"And securing the pact means bringing what remains of the Morozovs into our fold, and the Volkovs will follow, along with many of Morozov's former allies."
"And if we don't?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
Rolan spreads his hands on the table.
"They'll take the girl anyway, probably kill her to send a message, and we'll have shown weakness."
The thought of anyone touching Katya makes something violent rise in my chest.
I force it down and keep my expression neutral.
"So we honor the pact."
"We honor the pact." Rolan nods slowly.
"But that means accepting the terms Batya agreed to. Lyovik supplied intelligence and weapons. In exchange, we gave him protection and twenty percent of the profits from the eastern territories."
Misha makes a sound of protest.
"Twenty percent is a massive cut, Ro. We've been operating those territories at full profit for twenty years. Giving up that share now will hurt."
"It'll hurt more if we start a war over a broken pact."
Maxim crosses his arms over his chest.
"The Radiches are already looking for excuses to move against us. This gives them one on a silver platter."
I lean forward, my hands splayed flat on the table.
