Chapter 7 - The Telegram from ChicagoThree days later, federal indictments against Michael Carter and Ashley Vance made national front-page news. Headlines blared: EXECUTIVE’S ELABORATE MURDER PLOT EXPOSED BY SURVIVING WIFE AND MYSTERIOUS COUSIN.
Television networks replayed footage of Michael being led out of the federal courthouse in handcuffs, shouting denials to reporters who threw flashbulbs in his face. Ashley had already agreed to a full plea deal in exchange for witness protection from federal prosecutors, spilling every single detail of Michael’s financial crimes, drug use, and premeditated murder plots.
Inside the study of the Sokolov mountain estate, I sat by the roaring fireplace, sipping chamomile tea while reviewing my grandfather’s corporate restructuring documents. My cast was still on, but the lingering pain in my ribs had faded to a dull ache.
Dmitri walked in, tossing a secure satellite phone onto the mahogany desk. His face was set in a hard, grim line.
"Chicago just made a move," Dmitri said, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves.
I looked up from my tablet. "Viktor Petrov?"
"He knows Michael failed," Dmitri replied, pouring himself a cup of black coffee. "And he knows the federal government has seized the accounts where the fifty-million insurance policy was supposed to land. Petrov isn't just angry about the three million embezzled dollars anymore. He views this as a direct insult to his syndicate."
"What does he want?"
"He sent a message through an intermediary in the Denver underground," Dmitri said, his eyes locking onto mine with intense gravity. "A trade. He drops his claim against your estate and forgets about Michael's debt... if you sign over the remaining equity of your grandfather's shipping logistics ports directly to his shell company."
I stared at him in disbelief. "My grandfather's shipping ports? That’s our entire global supply chain! That's worth hundreds of millions of dollars!"
"Exactly," Dmitri nodded grimly. "Petrov isn't just trying to recover losses. He’s trying to build an international smuggling empire using your family's infrastructure."
I stood up from the desk, walking toward the large window overlooking the snow-covered pine forest. My hand rested protectively over my belly. The baby kicked—a sharp, strong motion, as if echoing my own rising defiance.
"My grandfather built those ports with his bare hands after immigrating here with nothing," I said, my voice steady and ice-cold. "I will see Viktor Petrov in hell before I hand over a single brick."
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Dmitri walked up behind me, stopping just inches away. I could feel the heat radiating from his large frame.
"I was hoping you'd say that," Dmitri whispered, his breath brushing against my ear. "Because my private jet is already fueled and waiting in hangar four. And I think it's time we paid Mr. Petrov a little visit in Chicago."
