Page 129 of His Forced Bride
23
INESSA
Yuri leads me down hallways I've never seen before, past rooms I didn't know existed in this sprawling compound.
The walls here are thicker, the doors heavier, and I understand without being told that we're entering the true center of his operations.
He stops in front of a steel door that requires both a keycard and biometric scan to open.
The mechanism clicks twice, and then we're inside a room that takes my breath away.
The war room is exactly what I'd expect from a man who rules such a large, violent organization.
Massive monitors cover every wall, displaying maps, financial data, surveillance feeds, and communication intercepts.
A long conference table dominates the center of the space, its surface scattered with files, photographs, and documents.
Banks of computers hum quietly along one wall, their screens flickering with constant updates.
But it's the evidence board that captures my attention—a wall-mounted display covered in photographs, strings, and notes that map out connections I can't yet decipher.
At the center of it all is a professional headshot of my mother, surrounded by dozens of other faces and locations.
"Sit," Yuri says, gesturing to a chair at the head of the table.
"There are things you need to see."
I settle into the leather seat and watch as he moves to one of the computers.
His fingers fly across the keyboard, and suddenly, the main monitor displays a financial spreadsheet that makes my stomach drop.
The numbers are staggering—millions of dollars flowing in and out of accounts I don't recognize.
"This is what our investigators have uncovered about your mother's operations over the past six months," he says, but his voice is clinical and detached.
“She hasn't been building a criminal network, Inessa. She's been expanding one that already existed."
The screen changes to show a web of interconnected businesses, all with one common thread—my mother's involvement.
Import companies, shipping firms, construction corporations, even several high-end boutiques that I recognize from St. Petersburg's fashion district.
Each one is connected by lines of ownership that ultimately trace back to offshore accounts controlled by Viktoria Mirova.
"She's been using my businesses," I whisper, understanding beginning to dawn.
"More than that. She's been using them to launder money for some very dangerous people."
Another keystroke brings up transaction records that show funds flowing from arms dealers, human traffickers, and drug cartels through a maze of legitimate businesses before emerging clean on the other side.
My fashion empire—the company I built from nothing, the designs I poured my soul into, the employees I considered family—all of it has been corrupted by my mother's poison.
She'd taken something pure and twisted it into a tool for criminals, using my reputation and my father's connections to legitimize blood money.
Something far worse than Yuri's alliance ever was.
This betrayal is somehow even worse than her personal rejection of me.
She hadn't just abandoned me.
