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The Petrov faction operates on intimidation rather than finesse, relying on former military specialists with Soviet-era training. Their chain of command flows through regional captains who report directly to Oleg Petrov, an infamous butcher who carved his territory through methodical violence during the post-Soviet power vacuum. Where Markov built his empire on scheming politics and alliances, Petrov built his on fear and unquestioning loyalty.

I move to the bedroom doorway, watching Anastasia sleep. In repose, her face loses the guarded calculation she carries while awake, revealing something younger, more vulnerable. Something that stirs protective instincts I can't afford to indulge.

Last night floods back in vivid detail—her body beneath mine, around mine, her breathless cries as she came undone in my arms, the unexpected tenderness afterward as we talked of freedom and choices. The way she looked at me, not as an asset or a threat, but as a man. Perhaps the first time anyone has truly seen me since Misha died.

"Der'mo, der'mo, der'mo," I mutter in rapid sequence, the Russian obscenities slipping out unbidden. I reserve this particular cadence for the most compromised operations—a personal tell that Anton has learned to recognize as my crisis mode.

I close my eyes, forcing my mind to override sentiment. Anastasia Markov is not just a beautiful woman I met in Paris. She is the only child and heir of the man who murdered my family. She is leverage, opportunity, potential weapon—all wrapped in intoxicating curves and surprising intelligence.

She is also, as of last night, mine.

The possessive thought ambushes me with its intensity. I push it aside, returning to the office to continue communications.

Current location secure? I ask.

Anton's reply is blunt: For now. But you've gone off-grid with Markov's daughter. Decision matrix calculations extremely unfavorable. Petrov operatives now equipped with Katyusha protocol breach equipment. Recommend immediate separation and extraction to secondary location.

"Katyusha protocol"—the coded name for specialized Russian military breaching equipment designed for high-security facilities. The fact that a criminal organization has access to such technology speaks to the blurred lines between government and Bratva in the post-Soviet landscape. With Katyusha equipment, they'll bypass even my sophisticated security in under five minutes once they initiate breach.

The clinical phrasing doesn't mask Anton's concern. In our decade of operations together, I've never deviated so drastically from protocol. Never allowed personal factors to influence my mission. Never compromised security for something as irrational as desire.

Until now.

I type: Need 12 minutes to secure the asset. Then proceeding to extraction point Alpha.

The "asset." A deliberate depersonalization, distancing myself from the woman sleeping in my bed, returning to the cold calculation that has kept me alive and moving toward vengeance for five years.

Anton understands immediately: Acknowledged. Will prepare extraction. Clean break advised. Interference activities initiated to delay Petrov advance teams.

Clean break. No explanations, no contact information, no promise of future connection. The operative's protocol for terminating civilian entanglements. The most logical approach to the current tactical situation.

Then why does the thought feel like taking a knife to my own chest?

I return to the bedroom, allowing myself one moment of weakness as I watch her sleep. Long lashes casting shadows on high cheekbones. Full lips slightly parted. The elegant curve of her neck where I left marks of possession only hours ago. The sheet draped low across her hips, revealing the smooth expanse of her back.

If circumstances were different...

But they aren't. I am Viktor Baranov-Sokolov, last survivor of a murdered bloodline, with one purpose: destroying Mikhail Markov completely before claiming my rightful place in the Bratva hierarchy. She is Anastasia Markov, daughter and heir to my sworn enemy, raised in privilege built on my family's blood.

No future exists where those realities align. No matter how hard it will be, I have to undo the bond that was formed last night.

I shower quickly, washing away the scent of her from my skin, though the memory proves harder to erase. Dressed in tactical gear disguised as business casual—concealed holsters, reinforced clothing, specially designed shoes that leave minimal forensic evidence—I prepare for rapid extraction.

My go-bag contains everything needed for immediate departure: alternative documentation, encrypted communications equipment, emergency funds, backup weapons. Standard operating procedure for any mission that might require sudden evacuation.

What isn't standard is the heaviness in my chest as I make my final preparations, the foreign sensation of reluctance as I secure the penthouse for departure.

I check the time. Seven minutes until Anton's extraction team is in position. Eight minutes until the Petrov perimeter is complete.

"Vremya uhodit," I mutter to myself. Time is running out.

I return to the bedroom one last time, knowing I should leave while she sleeps. Clean break. No complications. No chance for her to memorize additional details about me that might later compromise my identity when she inevitably reports this encounter to her father.

Instead, I find myself sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, my hand hovering near her hair before I catch myself. This weakness could cost me everything.

"Viktor?" Her voice, rough with sleep, startles me. She blinks awake, taking in my changed appearance, my rigid posture. Intelligence sharpens her gaze instantly. "You're leaving."

Not a question. A statement of observed fact.