Fatally Yours

Chapter 47

•INDIANA•

The next day, we arrived back in L.A. in the early hours of the morning. The drive from the airport was silent, the city still half-asleep, but the moment we reached Dominik's estate, it was like a switch flipped.

He was swept away by his work without another word, leaving me standing in the grand foyer with no real purpose.

I knew he was dealing with the aftermath of whatever Lee had uncovered, and while I had grown accustomed to being near him, I also knew better than to get in the way of business that didn't require my involvement.

With nothing else to do, I decided to make myself useful. As soon as I was sure no one would notice, I slipped out of the house and made my way to the FBI field office.

By now, the location felt familiar—an odd mix of comfort and tension settled over me as I walked through the building's sterile halls. When I reached the private meeting room, everyone was already there.

My uncle stood near the head of the room, arms crossed tightly, his gaze serious as always. The three federal agents—Agent Hawke, Agent Wilder, and Keith—were seated around the table, papers and files scattered across its surface.

"Detective," Keith greeted me with a quick nod as I entered, his kind eyes assessing me before turning back to Agent Hawke, who was preparing to speak.

I quietly took a seat and looked around the room. The atmosphere was thick with focus and urgency. Everyone was here for a reason.

Agent Hawke straightened, his usual no-nonsense demeanor even more intense than normal.

"Let's get started," he said, cutting through the silence.

He pressed a button on the remote in his hand, and the flat TV screen on the wall behind him flickered to life.

"We've finally pieced together what we know about this new gang in town—the one that's been causing chaos and targeting the Valahia Syndicate."

The room fell completely silent as Hawke continued.

"They call themselves The Volkov Brotherhood. A splinter group formed just over two years ago, but their rise to power has been swift and violent. They've built a reputation for being ruthless—smuggling, arms dealing, assassinations. The usual business, but on a much bloodier scale."

I leaned forward slightly, taking in every word, my pen scratching against the small notepad in front of me.

Hawke's jaw tightened as he flipped to another screen, this one displaying documents and surveillance photos.

"The man at the center of it all—their leader—is this guy." He pressed another button, and a profile picture filled the TV screen.

The face of a man appeared, staring coldly into the camera. His features were sharp, angular, and hardened—cheekbones prominent, jaw sharp as a blade.

His short, dark hair was slightly graying at the temples, and his eyes—icy and calculating—sent an involuntary chill through me. The profile included his name, recent activities, and a terrifyingly long rap sheet.

"His name is Viktor Volkov," Hawke continued. "Formerly high up in the Russian Bratva, but he broke away and started his own operation here in the U.S. Volkov is clever and dangerous, and he doesn't operate without reason. For some unknown motive, he's declared open war on the Valahia Syndicate. Every chain of businesses, every operation Dominik's built over the years—it's being systematically targeted."

I stared at Viktor's image, memorizing every detail of his face. The sharp cut of his features, the cold detachment in his expression—it was the kind of face you wouldn't forget, even if you tried.