Page 14

I’m not a man prone to shock, but the moment Anton calls and tells me Seraphina’s father struck her, everything in me snaps. I can’t stay still. I don’t bother telling anyone where I’m going; I just grab my coat, bark at my driver to warm up the car, and slam the door on my way out.

If Evan Thorne thinks he can put his hands on my wife for any reason at all, he’s about to learn a very harsh lesson.

I stare out the window as we drive, though I’m not focusing on any scenery. My mind churns with the memory of her expression earlier in the day. She gave me no indication that something was off, even though, in hindsight, there was something off about her. She tried to hide it. I told myself I’d wait for her to open up on her own terms. But now I see that trust or not, I should’ve pried. That woman is my wife, and no one puts a mark on her without paying dearly.

We arrive at Evan Thorne’s mansion, and my driver glances at me in the rearview mirror with concern in his eyes, but he keeps his mouth shut. Good. I throw the door open the instant we come to a stop, ignoring the startled guards by the entrance as I march forward.

“Mr. Barkov,” one guard stammers, moving to block me.

I push him aside without slowing. “Out of my way. I have business with your boss.”

“He’s not expecting—”

“He’ll see me, or I’ll rip this place apart.” My tone leaves no room for argument, and the guard steps back.

The front door swings open before I reach it, revealing a house attendant wearing a forced, polite mask. I shove past him into the foyer, scanning the lavish interior. My heart hammers, spiked by fury more potent than any gunfight.

“Where is he?” I ask nobody in particular.

One of Evan’s men gestures down a hall, shifting on his feet like he’s not sure if he should fight me or obey. I walk until I reach a door left ajar, and I push it open.

Evan Thorne stands with his back to me, and he’s speaking to two men in suits. The second I appear, his men start reaching inside their coat pockets, no doubt for a weapon. I lift a hand in a silent warning.

“Unless you want my men on your doorstep riddling this place with bullet holes, I guess you two get out.” Neither of them moves. “Now,” I repeat, letting my voice carry the threat.

Evan finally glances at his men. “Leave us,” he says, feigning composure.

They look between us, but he waves them away. They step out, closing the door. We’re alone.

“Grigor Barkov,” Evan says, forcing a cool smile. “To what do I owe this unannounced visit?”

I advance on him until we’re inches apart. “You hit your daughter.”

His expression shutters. “That’s between me and Seraphina.”

My hand shoots out, grabbing the collar of his expensive jacket. He snarls, trying to break free, but I’m stronger. “Seraphina is my wife. If you think you can treat her like some object you can beat, think again.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but I twist his collar tighter, cutting off his words. “Let me go,” he squeaks out.

“You don’t give me orders, Evan. You lost that right when you forced her into this marriage. And now you’ve lost any pretense of fatherhood by raising your hand against her.”

Anger flares in his eyes, and I loosen my hold just enough to allow him to speak. “She’s my daughter. I’ll deal with her as I see fit.”

I sneer. “Wrong answer.”

I slam him against the desk and grab a letter opener lying there. He eyes it, but before he can react, I plunge the slender blade straight through his flesh, pinning him to the wooden surface. He cries out, and his face twists in agony.

“You insane—” he gasps, trying to pull free.

I press down on the hilt. “You want to call me insane? Fine. I’ll be whatever you say, so long as you understand one thing: if you ever lay a finger on Seraphina again, I’ll cut off that hand. Then I’ll move on to your other parts until there’s nothing left. Got it?”

He sputters in pain, and sweat beads on his forehead. “You bastard!”

“Says the man who struck his own daughter.” My anger boils my blood, but I force it to remain controlled. I twist the blade, and he chokes on a scream. “Now we’re clear, aren’t we?”

His eyes roll with agony, and he manages a jerky nod. “Yes,” he spits. “Get this thing out of me.”

I consider leaving him, pulling my gun out right here and ending his miserable existence, but I remind myself I’m not here for a murder spree. I need him living, so Seraphina doesn’t carry that guilt. Slowly, I pull the blade free, watching blood ooze across the polished desk. He clutches his impaled hand, breath rasping.

“Next time,” I warn, “it won’t be so clean.”

“You think you can waltz in here, stab me, and walk away? I’ll have your head.”

I lean forward, letting him see the promise in my eyes. “Try. See how far you get. My men are right behind me.”

He grits his teeth. “Get out.”

I fling the bloodied letter opener aside and back away. He gasps in pain as he presses a piece of cloth to his hand. The sight of his blood does nothing to ease my fury. “Remember this,” I say, stepping toward the door. “You treat her with respect, or you’ll pay worse than this.”

I stride out of the mansion with adrenaline pumping, ignoring the flecks of blood on my coat sleeve. The moment I reach my car, I yank the door open and sink into the seat.

My driver glances in the rearview mirror. “Everything alright, Boss?”

“Drive,” I order. “We’re done here.”

As we pull away, I let out a slow breath, trying to calm the storm inside me. No one hurts my wife. No one. I realize I’m gripping the seat so hard my knuckles ache. For a fleeting moment, I consider telling her exactly what I did to her father, but I have no desire to see her pity for the man who wounded her.

When I arrive home, I step inside and shrug off my coat. As I pass a hallway mirror, I notice spots of blood near my cuff, a dark reminder of my confrontation. I tug the sleeve lower, not wanting the staff to gossip. If Seraphina spots it, I’m not sure how she’ll react.

I find her in the living room and she looks up when I enter, moving her eyes over me like she’s gauging my mood. Her face is so calm, not a hint that anything is amiss. That bruise must be hidden by makeup.

“You’re back,” she notes.

I nod and drop into a chair across from her. “Yes.”

She waits as if expecting me to say something else. When I don’t, she adds, “Busy day?”

I run a hand over my hair. “Something like that.” Part of me wants to demand she tell me about her father, to confirm what Anton reported. But she acts like there’s nothing to discuss. Maybe she’s burying it. Maybe she’s testing whether I already know. Either way, I decide to hold my silence for now.

“How was your father?” I ask carefully, curious if she’ll lie.

She shrugs. “About as fun as usual.”

A surge of frustration tugs at me. She’s not giving details, which means she’s hiding them. “Did he say anything about… your living arrangements? Our marriage?”

She picks at a nonexistent thread on her sleeve. “He asked questions, but I told him nothing of real value.”

I maintain a neutral expression. “Good.”

She exhales and looks at me directly for the first time since I walked in. “What about you? Bratva business, I assume?”

I arch a brow.

“Call it curiosity,” she explains. “You’ve been out a lot, doing who-knows-what. I’m stuck here not knowing if you’re off in some shootout or meeting.”

My suspicion pricks. She’s asking for details about my dealings, is she? Could be harmless concern coming from a wife, or something else entirely. I recall my father-in-law’s manipulations and remind myself to stay on guard.

Her lips thin. “You really like to keep things close to the chest, huh?”

“It’s safer for you not to know certain things.”

“I see.”

I wait, but she doesn’t press further. She eventually excuses herself, heading upstairs, maybe to gather her thoughts or hide whatever turmoil she’s experiencing.

When I hear her footsteps fade, I stand and follow quietly. I notice her phone is still on the coffee table. Without a second thought, I pick it up. I know this is a breach of trust, but I don’t trust that man. I’d rather have her furious at me than risk everything for that bastard who calls himself her father.

Upstairs, I duck into my office and place her phone on my desk. With a few quick taps, I install a small tracker program. It’s basic but enough to log calls, keep tabs on messages, and track her location. My gut churns with guilt, but I remind myself it’s necessary. She might resent me for it, but the threat looming over us is too large to ignore. If she’s talking to Evan, I want to know.

I wipe my fingerprints from the screen—unnecessary, maybe, but old habits die hard. Then I slip her phone into my jacket, planning to return it without her noticing. I hate that it’s come to this, but I can’t let her father’s schemes unravel everything. I promised myself I’d keep her safe, even if that means protecting her from her own misguided loyalty.

I find her in the hallway, rummaging through a small linen closet. She startles when I appear. “What are you—?”

“Looking for you,” I lie smoothly, pulling her phone out. “You left this downstairs.”

She accepts it without so much as glancing at the screen. “Thanks.”

We head down to the dining room, where I order a quick meal from the staff. Halfway through the meal, my phone buzzes with a message from Akim, flagged urgent.

We cracked the burner phone. Last number dialed was Evan Thorne. But it’s suspicious. The call happened minutes before we hit the yard. Looks like it was dialed on purpose to set him up .

I text back: Explain ‘on purpose.’

A moment later, he replies: No record of an actual conversation. Just a quick dial, then an immediate hang-up. The phone was set to store the number under a code name. Looks staged.

My pulse ticks faster. So someone used that phone to implicate Evan or to create a trail leading us to him. That might mean Evan’s innocent of direct involvement in that particular plan. Or maybe he’s being framed for reasons unknown.

Pavel’s memory flickers through my mind. He died without answers, and I swore to find them. Now I’m juggling the question of who’s behind that phone, plus the danger swirling around Seraphina’s father.

I force a steady breath, closing my eyes briefly. The day has been a whirlwind: confronting Evan, drawing blood in defense of a wife who won’t even admit she needs protection, and then discovering new complications in the search for Pavel’s killers.

We’ll dig deeper into that staged phone call and trace every possibility. Meanwhile, I’ll watch Seraphina more closely. She might resent my caution, but I can’t let her father’s cruelty or some cunning puppet master rip her from me. If that means being ruthless in my own house, so be it.