He spreads photographs across the coffee table. My breath catches.
A woman in an expensive black Mercedes, her auburn hair catching the sunlight. The photos are taken from a distance, but the quality is good enough to see her face clearly.
Katya Rostova.
"She visited the area three times over six months," John says. "She met with Pavel at the diner. I watched them through the window. He looked terrified, and she looked like she was enjoying it."
Aleksandr's hand tightens on my shoulder. "When was the last time?"
"Two weeks before Pavel died." John taps one of the photos. "She stayed for three days that time. Rented a room at the motel, drove around town like she was scouting something. Then she left, and a week later, Pavel was dead."
"The police called it suicide," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"The police are idiots." John's tone is flat, certain. "Pavel was shot in the head with his own gun, yes. But the angle was wrong. The powder burns were wrong. And there was no note, which doesn't fit his profile at all. Men like Pavel, if they're going to kill themselves, they leave explanations. They need people to understand why."
Aleksandr stands, moving to study the photographs more closely.
"I know who you are, Romanov," John says. "I know what you do. I spent twenty years building cases against men like you."
"And yet you're helping me now." Aleksandr turns to face him. "Why?"
"Because Pavel was a good man who made bad choices and paid for them by testifying. He deserved to live out his life in peace." John's jaw tightens. "And because whoever killed him staged it as a suicide, which means they think they're smart enough to get away with it. I don't like people who think they're smarter than me."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "So this is about ego?"
"This is about justice." But there's a hint of humor in his eyes. "The ego is just a bonus."
Aleksandr moves back to the couch, his hand finding mine again. "I need copies of everything you have. Photos, timeline, any notes you made about her movements."
"Already made copies." John pulls a flash drive from his pocket and sets it on the table. "But I want something in return."
"Name it."
"I want to know that when you find who did this, they answer for it properly." John's gaze is steady, unflinching. "I'm not asking you to turn them over to the police. I'm not that naive. But I want to know justice was served."
Aleksandr studies him for a long moment, then he nods. "You have my word."
"The word of a Pakhan." John's mouth quirks. "I suppose that'll have to do."
We talk for another hour, going over details, timelines, and possibilities. John's observations are sharp and thorough, the product of decades of investigative work. He noticed things the local police missed or didn't care about. Small inconsistencies that add up to murder.
By the time we stand to leave, the sun is setting, painting the mountains in shades of gold and purple. John walks us to the door, and I notice the way he moves. Careful. Watchful. A man who's spent his life looking over his shoulder.
"One more thing," John says as Aleksandr opens the door. His eyes find mine. "I know about the hit Romanov put on you three years ago. I know who your family is and what they did."
My heart stops. Beside me, Aleksandr goes very still.
"I also know he called it off," John continues. "And I know you saved his life when you could have let him die in the snow." He pauses. "I don't know what's between you two now, and frankly, it's none of my business. But for what it's worth, I think you're good for each other. You make him more human, and he makes you braver."
The words sit in my chest like a weight. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." His expression is serious. "Katya Rostova is dangerous. She's patient, she's smart, and she's got nothing left to lose. That makes her the worst kind of enemy."
"I know," Aleksandr says quietly. "But she made a mistake when she came after me. And now she's going to pay for it."
We walk to the SUV, and I'm acutely aware of Aleksandr's hand on my back, guiding me, protecting me. Danil opens the door, and I'm about to climb in when the world tilts sideways.
Nausea hits me like a freight train. My stomach lurches, and I barely make it to the bushes beside the driveway before I'm vomiting, my body heaving with violent spasms that leave me shaking and sweating despite the cold air.