Page 22

Mikhail

I inhale deeply on my cigarette, the smoke curling lazily around me as I observe Vanya apply his unique form of persuasion to the mangled remnants of Bogdan's kneecaps.

The once-gray concrete floor beneath the chair has become a sinister tapestry, darkened with blood and other unidentifiable fluids I prefer not to contemplate.

We've been entrenched in this grim task for three relentless hours, and at last, the stubborn bastard's tongue has begun to unravel.

"Petrov family," Bogdan gasps, his voice a tortured, wet rasp that reverberates through the shadowy room. "They... they swore to give me my own territory in Brighton Beach."

I flick ash onto his quivering hands with deliberate disdain. "And what was the cost?"

"Information. About your wife."

The cigarette sears down to my knuckles, but the pain is nothing.

Inside, I'm a storm of ice and steel, as biting and ruthless as the January wind slicing off the Hudson.

Vanya locks eyes with me—he recognizes that expression.

He's witnessed the wrath unleashed when someone dares to threaten what's mine.

"Keep talking," I growl, grinding the cigarette under my heel.

Twenty minutes later, we leave Bogdan alone in the dim, cold warehouse to ponder the poor choices that led him here—choices that have left him with precious little time. The warehouse door slams shut behind us with a resounding metallic clang that echoes in the silence.

"It’s the Romero Cartel," Vanya mutters, his voice low and tense as he flicks his lighter with trembling fingers to ignite a cigarette. Smoke curls up into the air, swirling like a ghostly serpent. "They’re moving up from the border, and the Petrovs are backing them with money and intel."

I slide into the driver's seat of the sleek black Escalade, the leather steering wheel cool and smooth beneath my grip.

My fingers clench around it until my knuckles turn bone-white.

The engine purrs to life, a deep, rumbling growl that fills the cabin, but I remain still.

Can't move. Not yet. The weight of the situation presses down like a heavy fog, holding me in place.

"Call Inez," I tell Vanya. "Your contact in Bravo Cartel. If Romeros are making moves in our territory, the Bravos will want to know."

Vanya's scarred fingers glide swiftly across the phone screen, dialing with an urgency that speaks volumes.

Each scar tells a story, etched into his skin like a history written in pain.

The conversation that follows is brisk, conducted in a rapid-fire Spanish that I only partially comprehend, catching stray words like " peligro " and " ahora .

" As he ends the call, his complexion turns a ghostly shade of ash, his expression mirroring the gravity of whatever news he's just received.

"They want her, Misha. The plan is to take Kira and hold her for ransom. They need her father’s money to fend off their rivals and build their empire. But Inez says..." He swallows hard. "Says the Romeros don't usually keep their hostages breathing long. Too messy. Too risky."

The world tilts sideways for a moment, and I taste something metallic in my mouth. Blood. I've bitten through my tongue without realizing it.

Kira. My stubborn, beautiful kisa with her defiant blue eyes and soft auburn hair. The woman who's somehow crawled under my skin and made herself at home in the hollow spaces I thought were dead forever.

They want to kill her.

I gun the engine, tires screaming against the asphalt as we tear out of the warehouse district. The city blurs past in streaks of neon and shadow, but all I can see is Kira's face, the way she looked this morning over coffee—sleepy and unguarded, almost trusting.

"Get me everything on the Romero operation," I bark into my phone as Vanya holds onto the dashboard. "Locations, personnel, weapons. I want to know what they had for breakfast and how they like their mothers."

Because they've made one critical error in judgment.

They've threatened my wife.

And I've killed men for far less.

The penthouse feels like a mausoleum when we arrive, all marble and shadow in the dying light.

Kira sits curled in the leather armchair by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a book balanced on her knees, utterly unaware that death continues to circle her like a vulture.

The sight of her—alive, breathing, makes my heart beat lighter.

She looks up when we enter, those striking blue eyes taking in my expression with the sharp intelligence I've come to both admire and fear. Nothing gets past her.

"What's wrong?" she asks, closing the book with a soft thud. Her voice carries that cultured cadence, but underneath it, I hear the tension. She knows me well enough now to read the storm clouds gathering.

I pour three fingers of vodka, the crystal decanter catching the last rays of sunlight streaming through the windows. The liquid burns clean down my throat but does nothing to wash away the metallic taste of rage.

"Pack a bag," I tell her, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "We're leaving the city tonight."

"Leaving?" She rises from the chair with fluid grace, her auburn hair catching the light like burnished copper. "Mikhail, what's happened?"

I can't tell her the truth—not yet. Can't watch those defiant eyes fill with the kind of fear that breaks something inside a person. Instead, I move to the window, studying the street below for any sign of surveillance. Every shadow could hide a threat now.

"Business," I say finally. "There are complications that require my attention elsewhere."

Behind me, I hear the whisper of her bare feet against marble as she approaches. Her reflection appears in the glass beside mine—petite and ethereal against my bulk, but there's steel in her spine that most men twice her size lack.

"Don't lie to me." Her words are soft but edged with that quiet authority that always surprises me. "I can see it in your face, Mikhail. Someone's threatened us."

Us. The word hits like a physical blow. When did Kira start thinking of us as an 'us'?

I turn to face her, and the distance between us feels charged with electricity. " Kisa ," I murmur, reaching out to trace the curve of her cheek with fingers that have spilled blood today. She doesn't flinch. Never flinches. "Trust me to handle this."

"I do trust you. But I won't be kept in the dark like a child. If someone wants to hurt me, I have a right to know."

"The Petrov family has allied themselves with a Mexican cartel," I say finally, each word carefully measured. "They want me to believe they target you as revenge, but what they really want is to use you as leverage against your father's assets."

Her face goes pale, but she doesn't crumble. Doesn't dissolve into tears or hysteria like most women might. Instead, she nods once, sharp and decisive.

"How long do we have?"

The question catches me off guard. Not 'How will you stop them' or 'What are we going to do'—but an acceptance of the reality, an immediate shift into a survival mode that makes something fierce and proud unfurl in my chest.

"Not long enough," I admit. "They've been planning this for weeks. Maybe months."

Vanya appears in the doorway, his phone pressed to his ear, speaking in rapid Russian. When he hangs up, his expression is grim. "Three black SUVs were spotted circling the building. Could be nothing, but..."

"But we don't take chances." I'm already moving toward the bedroom, Kira close behind me. "Five minutes, kisa . Essentials only."

She disappears into the walk-in closet with military efficiency while I unlock the safe hidden behind a false panel. Cash, passports, ammunition. The weight of the Glock against my ribs is a familiar comfort as I slide it into my shoulder holster.

"Mikhail." Her voice carries from the closet, strangely calm. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere they can't follow." I pull out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find the number I need. "I have a house upstate. Remote. Secure."

The call connects on the second ring. "Dmitri? Da, it's me. I need the cabin prepared. Full security detail. We leave in ten minutes."

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, dusk settles over the city like a shroud. Somewhere out there, men with guns and empty consciences are closing in on us. On her.

The thought makes my trigger finger itch.

Kira emerges with a small leather duffel bag, dressed now in dark jeans and a fitted black sweater that makes her look like a shadow. Her hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, and I catch the glint of the small knife I gave her weeks ago tucked into her boot.

"Ready," she says simply.

I cup her face in my hands, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. "Stay close to me. No matter what happens, you don't leave my side. Understood?"

"Understood."

But as we head toward the private elevator, I can't shake the feeling that we're already too late.