Page 1

ROMAN

T he broken guardrail loomed in front of me half a second too late.

Rain blurred the glowing red taillights below, but I already knew.

I was too late.

The tires screamed as I wrenched the wheel, skidding sideways to the edge of the ditch.

Mud sprayed up as I slammed the brakes, threw the car into Park, and jumped out before the engine even finished coughing.

My boots hit the ground hard, gravel scattering underfoot.

The reek of oil and burning rubber still hung in the air.

A black Range Rover—Pavel’s car—lay at the base of the embankment.

Given the damage to the scrub brush and trees, it was clear how it rolled on its way down; I could picture it flipped on its roof like a beetle trapped on its back near the bottom before taking one slow, final roll and settling into place with a groan of crumpled metal.

One amber turn signal still blinked, pathetic and slow.

The driver’s side door hung open at an awkward angle. The driver’s seat empty. “Pavel!” I shouted, drawing my gun and sprinting through the rain-slick brush. No answer. Only the hiss of rain and the metallic tang of blood in the air.

So I ran, half-sliding in the wet leaves to get to the heap of twisted metal and shattered glass. “Pavel!” I yelled again. Nothing but crippling silence.

I cocked my head.

No more than a hundred yards away, from the other side of the road…

Came the deep, mechanical whirr of spinning turbine engines, the power behind them building as they got closer. The telltale thump-thump-thump of rotor blades slicing through the air.

Distant at first, then gradually gaining in volume, joined by the wet slapping of rain flung from the blades as every single pass got louder and louder.

A helicopter.

They were landing. They were still here.

With a quick thanks to whatever god or devil hadn’t forsaken me yet, I ran. I kept low as I moved through the trees, searching for the bastards who kidnapped Pavel.

It only took me a few minutes to make my way to the clearing where they had landed.

I was still too late.

Pavel’s body lay limp on the back cargo ramp.

The last of the men dressed in solid black military-grade gear were climbing into the back as the blades spun faster—ready again for takeoff.

I raised my gun and fired.

Over the roar of the rain and helicopter blades, I could hear their shouts in Spanish as they returned fire. My intel had been correct. It was definitely the Colombians.

I killed two before they took cover. More fired back, screaming at the pilot to take off.

I didn’t stop.

I took cover behind a tree as I lined up every shot and hit at least two more of them. It wasn’t enough.

I needed to hit the pilot.

If the pilot was dead, the helicopter couldn’t take off and I could kill the rest of them and retrieve Pavel.

The others would clean up the mess. I would’ve done my job and protected my cousin. Once he was home, the entire family would plan our revenge and make an example of the motherfuckers who thought they could hit the Ivanovs and live.

I circled, staying low, every shot measured. Calculated. When I got to the front, I aimed at the pilot, ready to fire—until she turned around and the most intense green eyes stared back at me.

A woman.

My heart stopped as I stared at her.

I didn’t shoot women.

Ivanov men did not kill women unless it was absolutely necessary.

There was always another way.

Under the circumstances, her death would have been warranted, but she caught me off guard long enough that I hesitated.

I had never hesitated before.

But I had also never seen eyes so green they seemed to look right through me.

I was frozen.

Stuck in place long enough for her to whip out a pistol of her own and start shooting.

I dodged behind a rock and exchanged gunfire. Intending to wound, but not kill, her.

The helicopter lifted, and then disappeared into the black abyss, taking my cousin—and those otherworldly emerald eyes—with it.

I turned and sprinted back toward the wreck.

Perhaps there was something, anything, that could give me more clues to help me find them.

As I got closer, there was movement in the passenger seat.

Christ. Pavel’s wife, Alina.

It hadn’t occurred to me to check for her in the car.

I’d been so focused…Dammit.

If I’d risked her life to save Pavel’s he’d never forgive me.

Her safety came first. Always.

The moment I approached the vehicle her eyes tracked me—barely. And in them there was the unmistakable glare of fear and panic.

“Who are you?” she rasped, pressing herself back into the passenger seat.

“I’m Roman, Pavel’s cousin.”

My eyes swept over the crushed car, then over her, cataloging injuries with clinical precision before locking onto hers. “Where did they take him?”

She pointed toward where they’d disappeared.

“Do you know who they were?”

She shook her head. “You have to get him back. He’s going to be a father. I need him back. I can't do this without him.”

My world tilted. “What did you say?”

“He’s going to be a father,” she whispered again, the truth spilling out through trembling lips. For a heartbeat, the storm seemed to pause around us.

Surprise was not my predominant reaction. Fury was. Not at her, but at the world that dared to rip Pavel away from his wife and unborn child.

“I’m getting him back.” My jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as I bit out a curse. “No matter what it takes.”

I moved around to her side of the car and tore the door completely off its hinges. Making sure to soften my grip, my hands framed her face as I leaned in and tilted her chin, examining the damage. “Are you hurt?” I asked, my voice deceptively quiet. This was as close to gentle as I could manage.

She swallowed hard, clearly overwhelmed. “Pavel?—”

“I know.” My expression turned murderous. “I'm going after him. But first, I need to make sure you're okay. I'm not rescuing him just to have him put a bullet in my head for abandoning you.”

“I'm fine,” she said, struggling to sit up and fumbling with her seat belt. I gave her a curt nod before straightening and drawing a gun from my coat, checking the chamber with the fluid precision of a man who lived by violence.

When our eyes met again, her desperation was reflected in hers. “You're his now,” I reminded her. “That makes you family. And no one fucking touches what belongs to the Ivanovs.”

She stood by the wreckage, one hand clutching torn pieces of Pavel's shirt, the other pressed protectively over her stomach.

I knew exactly what was at stake now. And I knew what that child would face if Pavel didn’t come home. After losing both of my parents, I was raised by my paternal grandmother, a bitter, cold woman who never let me forget I was only half of what she thought I was supposed to be.

Pavel’s child wouldn’t grow up like I did, without a father to provide protection from our cold, violent world. Not on my fucking watch.

I had my mission.

And I would burn down the goddamned world to bring him home.

No child of Pavel’s was growing up fatherless.

Not while I still drew breath.