Page 32 of Deadly Offer

Reuben felt no satisfaction in this discovery. Only a hollow recognition that his finance degree, rendered worthless by his father’s vindictiveness, had found its use after all... tracing the financial footprints of a brother’s betrayal.

“It could still be coincidence,” Alexei said, but his voice lacked conviction. “Similar structures, similar timing, but not—”

He stopped abruptly as new data populated the screen. A series of transfers appeared, dates and amounts scrolling past. With each new entry, the color drained further from Alexei’s face.

“This is from the night before the port deal,” he said quietly. “When Grigorii’s cartel shipment was hit. Three million transferred to this account,” he tapped the screen, “which feeds directly into Dmitrii’s account.”

Silence fell over the room. Reuben watched the transformation happen in real time; Alexei’s twin loyalty shattering under the pressure of mounting proof. The final defense crumbling.

“Fuck,” Alexei’s voice cracked slightly on the single word. “I’m going to need more time to review these, but the numbers don’t seem to lie.”

No one spoke. Silence filled the room like concrete, hardening around the undeniable facts.

Reuben thought about his own distant family—the father who had disowned him, and the mother who had chosen sides. He’d thought that pain was unique, but watching Alexei’s face now, he recognized the universal agony of familial betrayal.

Grigorii was the first to move. “We find him,” Grigorii said, the syllables landing like hammer blows. “Now.” He pulled out his phone, dialing a number from memory.

The room remained silent as they listened to Grigorii’s side of the conversation.

“It’s me.” A pause. “Find Andrey. Bring him to Alexei’s tower.” Another pause. “Alive and unharmed, but donotlet him escape.” He ended the call without waiting for confirmation, tucking the phone away with the crisp movements of a man who’d made the gesture thousands of times before.

“And what happens when we find him?” Nikon’s voice was carefully neutral.

“Justice,” Grigorii replied.

The word settled over them like a shroud. Not vengeance. Not punishment. Justice. The distinction mattered to the Matvei brothers, Reuben realized. Even now, with a brother’s defection burning through their ranks, they clung to their code.

Alexei closed his laptop, slow and deliberate. “I’ll need to prepare the tower. Security protocols, private access.” His voice had regained its professional detachment, but his eyes remained haunted.

Nikon crossed to the window, staring out at the industrial landscape. His reflection in the glass showed a face stripped of its usual control, revealing the raw pain beneath.

Reuben approached him quietly, standing close enough for their shoulders to touch. He offered no platitudes, no hollow reassurances about how things would work out. They both knew better. The cards had been dealt, and this hand would play through to its final conclusion.

All they could do now was prepare.

Chapter 12

The private elevator chimed, and Nikon turned away from the window where he’d been watching for Andrey’s arrival. The sight of Grigorii stepping out of the elevator shouldn’t have surprised him. Yet something in his brother’s face, (the grim set of his mouth and the coldness in his eyes), made Nikon’s stomach clench.

But it was what Grigorii carried that made Nikon’s breath catch: their father’s favourite brand of vodka, the one he’d reserved for pouring at family celebrations, exiles, and irreversible decisions.

That vodka had presided over their father’s deathbed, when he’d passed leadership to Grigorii. And that particular brand had been drunk at every major Matvei decision, and key conversations, for generations.

Nowadays, it was never drunk at celebrations—only for moments when the family’s very foundation trembled.

Grigorii placed it in the center of the conference table without a word, the heavy glass base making a dull thud against the polished wooden surface.

“Is that necessary?” Nikon kept his voice flat, betraying nothing of the storm building inside him.

Grigorii’s fingers lingered on the bottle. “You know it is.”

Nikon turned back to the window, where he watched as an unmarked van pulled up to the service entrance ten floors below. Two of Grigorii’s men dragged a figure from the back. It was Andrey, his usual confident swagger replaced by stumbling steps.

“Where did they find him?” Nikon asked, unable to tear his gaze from the scene.

“Private airfield outside the city.” Grigorii moved to stand beside him. “Bag full of cash, a forged passport, and a ticket to Buenos Aires.”

The elevator doors opened again, and Reuben stepped out with Alexei. Alexei’s face was drawn, the bruise from the casino ambush still livid against his pale skin. His gaze went immediately to the vodka bottle, and he flinched.

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