Page 4 of Beautiful Ruin

As often as I’ve heard versions of this proposal from Ivan in private over the years, not once have I truly believed the three other men sitting at this table would take it seriously.

Ivan does not see caution the way others do. To him, hesitation is often just another word for cowardice, prudence an excuse for a limited imagination. He believes, with the kind of certainty that sometimes borders on madness, that he sees farther into the future than the others seated here. In his mind, the future can still be seized if the rest of them would stop clutching at public perception and start thinking like architects for the new world order.

Politicians are temporary. Systems are not. Buy a minister and he can be replaced. Blackmail a governor and he can die. Own a party and another can rise against it. But anchor yourself inside the machinery itself, inside the architecture of the state, and suddenly, you are no longer dependent on the appetites or weaknesses of the men who may become unreliable with age, scandal, or fear. By infiltrating from the ground up, you become part of the structure itself.

This obsession has only deepened lately.

He hides it well, better than anyone else could. But I have been there for the late-night strategy sessions when the house has gone quiet and the only sounds are the frantic scratches of pen on paper. I have stood at his shoulder while revised projections were spread across his desk in contained but slightly disorganized stacks.

Maps. Names. Timelines. Donor networks. Media channels he intends to infiltrate long before anyone notices patterns forming in coverage. Public figures who can be bought off for early retirement. Bureaucrats who can be moved out of the way. Investigators who need to be ruined before the truth can catch on.

He has shown it all to me.

Not because he wants my opinion—that has never been my role—but because he trusts me to hear it without flinching away, to understand the legacy he intends to leave behind once everything has been slotted into motion. What he has shown me goes far beyond anything the men at this table can currently conceptualize from a few sentences spoken in a conference room.

I remember one night years ago in another room long before Borchin’s death turned this entire subject precarious, he had started talking without preamble the way he sometimes does when his mind has already been turning over an idea for too long.

He told me the age of backroom puppeteering was ending. That the old model would die because men had grown lazy with it, content to own politicians instead of becoming untouchable enough to stand beside them. He said criminal empires only remain that way because their rulers lack imagination, that they cling to the romance of illegitimacy because it makes them feel dangerous, when in truth, it keeps them vulnerable. Exposed. Forever dependent on secrecy and compromise.

He said a truly disciplined man stops bribing the state and learns to inhabit it.

The memory comes back with ugly clarity now as I watch him at this table, speaking the softened version aloud for men too cautious to understand the full scope of it.

Sokolov remains expressionless as he asks, “What is it that you are proposing then, Kuznetsov? If not someone starting from the bottom, as it sounds like.”

His voice is calm, almost politely curious, but there is nothing casual about the question. It is not confusion prompting him to ask. It is pressure.

That is Sokolov’s gift.

He never lunges for the obvious weakness. He circles it, studies it, then presses one finger to the exact point where he knows it will cause the most discomfort. It is an elegant kind of cruelty, one I’ve always found harder to prepare for than Volkov’s open hostility. With Volkov, you know where the blow is coming from. With Sokolov, you only realize you’ve been cut open once the blood is already all over the floor.

Ivan, to his credit, does not hesitate. “I have a few candidates in mind.”

Sokolov raises a single brow. It is the only outward sign that the answer interests him more than he expected. “From your own syndicate? How is that advantageous to the rest of us? If it is only your soldier being planted, that puts the three of us at a disadvantage.”

I hold back a frown. Accusatory, but not wrong.

A puppet loyal first and foremost to Kuznetsov interests would tilt the scales toward one empire, not four. The rest of them would become dependent on Ivan’s goodwill and priorities. That is the last thing any of them wants.

Volkov sneers again, and this time the expression carries less amusement than before. “Perhaps that is what he wants.”

For half a second, it looks like the conversation might finally devolve into something less civilized.

Before it does, Nikolai raises one hand.

Silence returns almost instantly.

“Enough. We will revisit this subject at a later date. Until then, I want a handle on what is going on within the Federation. We need to get ahead of this before any fingers are pointed our way.”

That is the end of it.

For now.

Volkov looks like he wants to. I can see it in the set of his jaw, in the faint flare of his nostrils, the aggressive ease of his posture turning fractionally stiffer. For all his swagger, Volkov hates being cut off when he believes he has found the truth of someone else’s play. But even he knows better than to challenge Malyshko when he gives an order.

Sokolov inclines his head once, almost imperceptibly, accepting the adjournment for what it is. He does not look disappointed, though he rarely looks like anything at all. But I know enough to recognize interest when I see its quiet version in him. It is clear he is not done thinking about Ivan’s proposal.

Ivan says nothing at all. He doesn’t need to. I can feel frustration coming off him in restrained waves. His expression, of course, remains composed.