Page 5

"Description?" Anton's voice sharpens with interest.

"Dark hair, black dress, moving alone. No visible security." I watch as she begins walking, her movements fluid but controlled. "She's scanning the street. Trained awareness."

"Connected to Kovalev?"

"Unclear." I take her photograph using the micro-camera concealed in my watch. "Running facial recognition now."

While the software processes, I continue tracking her movements. She turns left, heading toward the smaller side streets rather than the main boulevard—another unusual choice for a wealthy hotel guest. Most stick to well-lit, populated areas. She's either foolishly naive or confident in her ability to handle trouble.

The Petrov operatives notice her too. A subtle shift in their positioning, a silent communication between them that raises my alertness. They recognize her or at least see something about her that interests them professionally.

My earpiece beeps as the facial recognition completes. I access the results on my phone, and the breath freezes in my lungs.

"Viktor?" Anton's voice seems distant against the sudden roaring in my ears. "Results?"

"Anastasia Mikhailovna Markov,"I read mechanically. "Twenty-three years old. Only child and heir of Mikhail Markov."

The silence stretches between us. I stare at the information before me—Markov. The pakhan. The leader of Russian mafia. The murderer of my entire family. The man I swore to hate and destroy.

His daughter is here, within my grasp. I feel my heart start to pound. Is fate playing her right into my hands?

"Markov's daughter." Anton finally speaks, disbelief evident. "In Paris? Alone?"

"Appears so." I continue watching her, reassessing her movements, her posture, her apparent solitude. "No visible security detail."

"Impossible. Markov would never?—"

"She's moving toward Rue du Faubourg," I interrupt, already on the move, trailing her at a safe distance. "Entering unsecured areas. And the Petrov men have noticed."

"Viktor." Anton's voice carries a warning. "Do not engage. This changes nothing about our timeline."

But it changes everything. Hatred boils in my veins.

Markov's daughter. The one thing he values above his empire, his power, his own life. The princess kept behind bulletproof glass and security cordons. I've seen satellite images of her at carefully orchestrated events, always surrounded by guards, always distant, untouchable.

Yet here she walks alone through Parisian streets, either unaware or unconcerned that she's entering territory controlled by her father's enemies.

And now the Petrov faction—brutal, opportunistic, and currently hunting me—has her in their sights.

"Viktor, stand down. That's an order."

My steps falter—not because of Anton's command, but because I've spotted movement in the shadows ahead. Two Petrov men, separating from a darkened doorway, their attention fixed on Anastasia Markov's retreating figure. Their movements hold the unmistakable predatory rhythm of Bratva soldiers on the hunt.

"Petrov's men have made her," I report, decision already made. "They're moving to intercept."

"Let them," Anton hisses. "This is not our?—"

I silence my comm, slipping it into my pocket as I quicken my pace. Ahead, Anastasia turns onto a narrower street, unaware of the danger closing in behind her. The Petrov men follow, now moving with purpose, hands shifting beneath jackets in the telltale motion of accessing concealed weapons.

My mind races through calculations, assessing potential outcomes. If Petrov's faction captures Markov's daughter, they gain valuable leverage—leverage that should rightfully be mine. If they harm her, the resulting Bratva war between Markov and Petrov factions would destabilize the entire power structure I've spent years infiltrating.

Either way, my carefully constructed revenge plan disintegrates.

I make my decision in a heartbeat, crossing the street to intercept. The rational part of my brain catalogs this as a necessity—protecting my operation, my timeline, my vengeance.

But as I move toward her, drawn by some inexplicable force beyond cold calculation, an unexpected memory surfaces: Misha, my brother, blood pooling beneath him in the snow, his final words gasping past bloodied lips.

My family’s winter chalet burning behind us, its occupants dead. But my brother survived just long enough for me to run to him after Markov’s taillights faded in the distance.