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“Smart man.” Alexi keeps his gun trained on the group as they sink to their knees. “Stay exactly like that until we’re gone.”

One of the maids—young, maybe twenty—starts crying softly. She lowers herself to the floor, hands shaking against the cold marble.

“Which way to the family quarters?” I demand.

The butler’s eyes dart toward a grand staircase curving up to the second floor. “Main stairs, sir. But please?—”

“Shut up.” I motion to Nikolai. “We go up. Alexi, Dmitri—keep them quiet.”

“Copy that.” Dmitri positions himself where he can watch both the staff and the main entrance. “You’ve got maybe eight minutes before this place swarms with backup.”

Nikolai and I move toward the staircase, boots silent on the carpet runner. Behind us, Alexi settles into an overwatch position, laptop balanced on a mahogany console as his fingers dance across the keys.

“Internal comms are lighting up,” he reports quietly. “Igor’s on the second floor, coordinating response. Guard rotations pulling back from exterior patrol.”

The stairs stretch ahead of us, each step carrying us closer to Katarina. My pulse hammers against my collar as we climb, weapon ready, every nerve firing with combat adrenaline.

“East wing,” Nikolai murmurs, checking his phone for the floor plan. “Three doors down from the main hallway.”

We reach the landing. The second floor spreads before us—a carpeted corridor lined with portraits and expensive furniture. Voices carry from somewhere deeper in the house, Igor’s commands mixing with radio chatter.

“Move,” I breathe.

We surge forward into the hallway, leaving the terrified staff behind us.

The hallway stretches before us, a corridor of polished wood and expensive art. My boots sink into the thick carpet as we move toward the east wing, every shadow a potential threat.

Voices echo from around the corner ahead—Igor’s gravelly Russian. Multiple footsteps on marble, getting closer.

“Back,” Nikolai hisses.

We duck into an alcove lined with Chinese vases, pressing ourselves against the curved walls. The space barely contains both of us, my shoulder jammed against Nikolai’s as boots pound past our hiding spot.

“—sweep every room again,” Igor barks, his voice carrying the edge of barely controlled fury. “They’re inside the house. I want them found.”

“Sir, the east wing is secure,” a guard reports. “Double locks on all family quarters, additional patrol stationed?—”

“Not enough.” Igor’s footsteps pause directly outside our alcove. “Triple the guard rotation. No one moves through this house without my knowledge.”

I hold my breath, my finger resting on my weapon’s trigger. Through the narrow gap between vases, I catch a glimpse of Igor’s profile—weathered features twisted with rage, silver hair catching the hallway lights. Four guards flank him, assault rifles visible beneath their suit jackets.

“What about the girl?” another voice asks.

“She stays locked down until this is resolved.” Igor’s tone turns predatory. “The Petrov family will be here tomorrow morning. This little interruption can’t delay proceedings.”

My jaw clenches.

The group moves past us, voices fading as they head toward the main staircase. I count to thirty before emerging from our hiding spot, muscles tense with suppressed violence.

“Clear,” Nikolai confirms, checking both directions.

We continue down the hallway, passing door after door until we reach the east wing. The corridor narrows here, more intimate, lined with family photographs and personal touches that feel distinctly different from the formal reception areas below.

“Third door,” Nikolai whispers, consulting his phone. “Should be?—”

“There.” I spot the door at the end of the hallway, heavy wood with a brass nameplate I can’t read from this distance. But something in my chest recognizes it instantly. She’s behind that door.

“I’ll keep watch,” Nikolai says, positioning himself where he can monitor both ends of the corridor. “You’ve got maybe five minutes before the next patrol sweep.”