Page 51

The sound cuts through the reinforced glass, through the thick walls, through everything I've built to keep the world out. It's primal—desperate. The kind of sound that makes your blood turn to ice before your mind even processes what you're hearing.

I know that voice. I know it better than my own heartbeat.

I'm moving before the first guard bursts through my door, before the radio chatter explodes across every frequency, before my phone starts buzzing with calls I don't have time to answer. The hallway blurs past me as I sprint toward the sound, my dress shoes echoing against marble that suddenly feels too pristine, too clean for whatever hell is waiting outside.

The screaming stops.

That's worse than the noise. The silence is a void that swallows everything—my breath, my thoughts, my carefully constructed control. I hit the south doors at full speed, shouldering through the reinforced steel like it's paper.

The scene unfolds in slow motion and lightning speed all at once. My men are scattered across the courtyard like toys,some speaking frantically into radios, others running toward the perimeter. Tire tracks scar the gravel near the south gate, deep gouges that tell a story I don't want to read.

And there, crumpled against the stone wall like a broken doll, is Anya.

Blood. So much blood it turns my vision red at the edges. It streaks from her temple down her neck, soaking into the fabric of her dark shirt. Mud cakes her arms, her legs, her face. She's not screaming anymore because she can barely breathe.

I'm across the courtyard before my mind even registers the cold. Stepan and three others spill out behind me, but their voices fade to white noise. Everything fades except her.

I drop to my knees beside her, the gravel biting through my pants. My hands find her shoulders and I shake her—not gently, not like the fragile thing she looks like right now. Hard enough to bring her back from wherever the pain has taken her.

"Anya." Her name tears out of my throat like broken glass. "Look at me."

Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy. Blood has pooled at the corner of her mouth. When she tries to speak, nothing comes out but a whisper of air.

"Where is he?" The words explode from me with enough force to make her flinch. "Where is Nikolai? What happened? Who took him?"

She blinks, trying to focus on my face. Her lips move but no sound emerges. I lean closer, close enough to smell the copper tang of blood mixed with her fear.

"They—" The word is barely a breath. "Three men. Black SUV. They—" Her voice breaks entirely.

Three men. Black SUV. The information burns through my brain like acid, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough.

"Which direction?" I'm shaking her again, harder this time. "Anya, which fucking direction?"

She lifts one trembling hand and points east, toward the main road. Toward a thousand possible routes out of the city, out of the country, out of my reach.

"Stepan!" My voice carries across the courtyard like a gunshot. "Get Dr. Isaev here now. And I want every camera, every tracker, every fucking piece of surveillance equipment we have online in the next sixty seconds."

I slide my arms under Anya's body and lift her off the ground. She weighs nothing. She's always been small, but now she feels like she might dissolve entirely if I'm not careful. Her head lolls against my shoulder, leaving a dark smear on my shirt.

The back door of my medic's SUV is already open and he hovers over me as I carry her. I lay her across the leather seats as gently as I can manage with rage coursing through my veins like poison. Her shirt rides up, revealing more cuts, more bruises. Someone put their hands on her. Someone hurt what's mine.

"Take her to the infirmary," I tell my medic without looking at him. "Don't stop for anything. Not traffic, not police, not the fucking apocalypse. Get her to Dr. Isaev and keep her alive."

The door slams shut and the SUV peels out, carrying away the only person who might have answers I need. But I can't wait for her to recover. I can't wait for information to trickle in through proper channels.

My son is out there. My son is in the hands of animals who had the balls to come onto my property, hurt his mother, and steal what belongs to me.

I turn to face my captain of the guard, and the fury must show on my face because he actually takes a step back.

"Full lockdown," I snarl. "Every road in and out of the city. Every airport, train station, bus depot. Every contact we have in Moscow PD, FSB, border patrol—I want them all activated right fucking now."

"Sir, it's been less than five minutes since?—"

"I don't care if it's been five seconds!" The words roar out of my mouth as an echo that bounces off the estate walls. "My son is missing and every second you waste talking is another second those bastards get farther away. Move!"

He's already pulling out his radio, barking orders to teams across the city. Good. But it's not enough.

I stride to the weapons locker built into the side of my garage. My hands shake—actually shake—as I punch in the code. Inside, lined up like soldiers, are enough firearms to outfit a small army. I grab my Kalashnikov, the one I've used for wet work since I was barely older than Nikolai is now. The weight of it in my hands is familiar, comforting in a way that nothing else can be right now.