Chapter 71: The Paper Trail

The afternoon was thick with the scent of old paper and floor wax. Dmitri had summoned Leo to the library to "assist with filing," a task that was really just a test of Leo’s patience and obedience. The room was vast, filled with tall shelves that reached toward the ceiling, but today it felt like a tomb.

"Sit there, Leo," Dmitri said, pointing to a small desk tucked in the corner. "These folders need to be organized by date. Don't read them. Just look at the stamps on the top right."

Dmitri was busy at his own desk, his brow furrowed as he scanned a laptop screen. He looked tired, his usual sharp edge softened by a hint of frustration. He kept tapping his pen against the desk, a rhythmic sound that made Leo’s skin crawl.

"Is everything okay, Dmitri?" Leo asked, reaching for the first stack of papers.

Dmitri didn't look up. "Business is a series of problems that need to be solved, Leo. Some problems are just louder than others. Do the filing."

Leo began to work. Most of the papers were boring—invoices for catering, receipts for art supplies, insurance documents for the house. It was a glimpse into the machinery that kept his gilded cage running. Every few minutes, he’d glance at Dmitri, wondering what it felt like to hold so much power in such steady hands.

He reached for a thick, cream-colored envelope at the bottom of the pile. It was heavy, the paper feeling expensive between his fingers. It wasn't stamped with a date. Curiosity, a dangerous thing in this house, flared in his chest.

"Leo? You’ve stopped," Dmitri’s voice cut through the silence.

"Just... a stubborn staple," Leo lied, his heart jumping. He quickly shifted the envelope under a stack of receipts.

Dmitri watched him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. "Don't let your mind wander. Efficiency is a virtue."

When Dmitri finally took a phone call and stepped out onto the balcony, Leo pulled the envelope back out. His hands were shaking. He knew he shouldn't. Ivan’s lesson about "charming half-truths" was still fresh in his mind, but this wasn't a conversation. This was a secret.

He slid the contents out. It was a bank statement. At the top, in bold, elegant letters, was his own name: Leo Moretti.

His breath hitched. He had never opened a bank account. He didn't even have an ID card in his possession. He looked at the balance at the bottom of the page.

The numbers didn't make sense at first. He had to count the zeros twice. Then a third time. It was a fortune. Millions. More money than his family had seen in three generations.

"What is this?" he whispered to himself. "Where did this come from?"

He scanned the entries. There were deposits every month—huge sums labeled as "Consultation Fees" and "Asset Growth." But then he saw the withdrawals. Legal fees, housing costs, security services, "Maintenance." Every penny the twins spent on him—the clothes, the paints, the very tea he drank—was being deducted from an account in his name.

He wasn't just being taken care of. He was being financed.

"I'm a business," Leo muttered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "I'm not a person to them. I'm an investment."

He felt dizzy. The room seemed to tilt. All those moments where he thought they were being kind, all those times Ivan had spoken about "protecting" him... it was all reflected here in cold, hard math. They weren't spending their money on him. They were spending his money to keep him trapped.

The balcony door creaked open. Leo frantically tried to shove the statement back into the envelope, but his fingers were clumsy.

"Leo?"

Dmitri was standing by the desk. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were fixed on the cream-colored paper sticking out from the pile.

Leo didn't try to hide it anymore. He stood up, clutching the statement to his chest. "Why is there an account in my name with millions of dollars in it, Dmitri?"

Dmitri didn't flinch. He walked slowly toward Leo, his presence filling the small corner of the library. "It’s your inheritance, Leo. The fruit of your labor and the value of your name."

"My labor?" Leo’s voice rose, cracking with emotion. "I haven't sold a single painting yet! And these withdrawals... you’re charging me for the room I’m locked in? You’re charging me for the guards who won't let me go for a walk?"

"Everything has a price, Leo," Dmitri said softly. He reached out to take the paper, but Leo pulled away.

"Don't touch me! You told me I was part of the family. You told me you were helping me!" Leo felt tears stinging his eyes. "But I'm just a line on a ledger to you. Am I even real to you? Or am I just a debt that needs to be paid off?"

Dmitri’s expression shifted. For a second, he looked almost pained. He stepped closer, cornering Leo against the bookshelf. "You are more than that. But in this world, if you don't own your wealth, someone else will. We created that account to protect you. If we didn't 'charge' you for these things, the tax authorities and our rivals would ask questions we can't answer."

"Protect me?" Leo laughed, a bitter, jagged sound. "You’re using my own money to buy the locks for my doors! I’m paying for my own prison!"

"You're paying for your life," Dmitri snapped, his patience finally breaking. He grabbed Leo’s wrist, firm but not cruel. "Do you have any idea how much it costs to keep you hidden? To keep you safe from the people who would treat you far worse than we do? That money is a guarantee. It means that even if we fall, you will be taken care of."

"I don't want to be taken care of by a bank account!" Leo shouted. "I want to be a human being! I want to have a choice!"

"Choices are for people who can afford them," Dmitri said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "And right now, Leo, you are the most expensive person I know. Look at that balance again. Most people would kill for that number. You should be thanking us."

Leo looked down at the paper, then back at Dmitri. The man he had started to trust looked like a stranger again. A beautiful, terrifying stranger.

"I’m not a person," Leo whispered, his shoulders sagging. "I'm an asset. Like a car or a building."

Dmitri let go of his wrist. He sighed, a long, weary sound. "You are what we made you, Leo. And we made you a king. It’s not our fault you’d rather be a peasant."

Dmitri took the envelope from Leo’s limp hand. He didn't put it back in the pile. He tucked it into his jacket pocket.

"Go to your room," Dmitri said quietly. "I think you’ve done enough filing for one day."

Leo walked out of the library, his legs feeling like lead. He didn't look back. He didn't go to his room. He went to the studio and sat in the dark, surrounded by the smell of oil and turpentine. He realized then that he wasn't just a prisoner of the twins. He was a prisoner of a paper trail that he could never outrun. He was wealthy, pow

erful, and utterly, completely owned.