Page 39 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)

I panic for all of fifteen minutes.

The kind of bone-deep, soul-splintering panic that sinks its claws into your lungs and refuses to let go.

But then— I slap myself.

Literally.

“Ouch,” I mutter and rub my cheek.

But fuck no. This isn’t who I am.

Two things are dead wrong with this picture where I just sit here, waiting by the window like some weeping debutante from a tragic Russian novel.

First, I’m not a patient person.

I don’t like to wait for anything, and I really hate surprises.

Second, I’m a fucking Volkov.

I was born with privilege, wealth, and a pair of parents who wrote the book on attitude problems— seriously, look it up.

So, if Nico thought he married some pampered little socialite who’d fold when the world turned dark, he thought wrong.

I pace once.

Twice.

Then I grab my phone and stab my father’s number like I’m drawing a blade.

“Leanna,” he answers instantly, voice tight. “I’m handling it?—”

“that’s fine, but so am I. Now, I want a team. Wheels up in ninety minutes.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, my father curses in about six languages.

I am not impressed.

I can curse in seven.

“No, Doshka! Absolutely not?—”

“I’m not asking for permission,” I snap, spine straight, voice steel. “I’m asking for help.”

“Leanna, this is crazy?—”

“You’re not hearing me, Dad,” I bite out, fury twisting behind my ribs like a blade unsheathed. “And if I am crazy? Look in the damn mirror—because I got it from you!”

“You’re my daughter?—”

“Exactly!” I say, my voice echoing off the marble walls of my hallway like a war cry. “I’m a Volkov. And now, I’m a Fury. Nico is mine, and I’m getting my husband back. Do you hear me? He’s coming home.”

There’s a breath on the other end. Sharp. Stunned. Like he’s realizing that the girl he raised now wields her voice like a weapon.

Good.

“And you can help me, Daddy,” I continue, lower now. Deadlier. “Or you can get the hell out of my way.”

Another pause.

Then something shifts—so small most people wouldn’t catch it.

But I do.

Because it’s the sound of a man recognizing his child has become his equal. Of power folding in on itself to make room for respect.

“I’ll send a car,” he finally says, his voice rough with something unspoken. “We’ll take the Atlantic City airport.”

“We?” I ask, not quite ready to hope.

“You do not think I’ll let you go alone, do you?”

I breathe. The first real breath I’ve taken since that damn call.

“Okay,” I whisper. And then I stop him before he hangs up. “And Dad?”

“Yes, Doshka?”

“Thank you.”

I don’t need to see him to know he’s still there. Holding the phone. Processing. The hum in my ear says it all.

He heard me. Really heard me.

“Always, Doshka,” he murmurs.

I feel different. Better.

But I hang up before either of us can ruin it.

Then I go to my closet.

Past the silk dresses and designer shoes. Past the curated wardrobe my husband’s tailor has crafted to turn me into a Fury wife fit for the cover of Forbes.

And I reach for the box marked “workout stuff” at the back.

The one I packed quietly. Secretly.

Before Nico.

Before the mansion.

Before I knew what kind of woman I’d need to become.

I pop the lid.

Not gym gear.

Not yoga pants.

This is real state of the art Sigma International training gear.

The kind my father and Uncle Josef drilled into me between boarding school and business classes.

Black tactical pants. Kevlar vest. Tactical belt.

A dagger that once belonged to my Uncle Marat. Custom-made gloves with reinforced knuckles.

A slim matte-black handgun with my initials carved into the grip.

Mom never knew about any of this.

And that’s okay.

It was something just between me and Dad.

A quiet, unspoken understanding that started the night I took down the dirty goalie from North Academy.

She’d side-tackled my best friend, Morgan Wells, in the semifinals—illegal, intentional, and brutal.

I watched Morgan scream on the field, her knee buckled in the wrong direction.

I watched the ref pretend it was nothing.

I watched that smug little bitch smirk like she was proud of it.

I didn’t react right away. That would’ve been too obvious.

I waited.

Plotted.

Made it look like an accident during the final minutes of the game.

One wrong step. One well-timed bump. A fall that seemed innocent enough.

But her elbow was never the same.

No one suspected a thing. Not even the coaches.

Except for my father.

That night, he knocked on my bedroom door. Said we needed to talk.

I thought I was in trouble—until I saw the smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

He didn’t scold me. He handed me a blueprint.

“Some people are born to lead, Doshka, ” he told me. “Others are born to protect. You? You were born to do both.”

I was sixteen.

And I trained with him for years after that.

Early mornings. Late nights.

Quiet weekends spent sparring in private training rooms, learning Krav Maga and disarmament techniques from ex-Special Forces, studying strategy with Uncle Josef and Uncle Andres, and learning how to shoot with my pulse steady and my hands clean.

Not even my sister knew.

It was mine.

Mine and Dad’s.

A secret strength, waiting for the moment I’d need it.

And that moment is now.

Even though the world might think I’m just a pampered little princess.

A porcelain blonde with a trust fund and a Chanel addiction.

A girl who spends more time curating her closet than sharpening her instincts.

I’m not Sleeping Beauty.

I’m not waiting around for a rescue.

I’m the girl who trained with mercenaries on school breaks and knows how to break a man’s nose with her elbow.

I’m the girl who just negotiated a six-figure sculpture deal during a panic attack and made it look easy.

I am Leanna Volkov Fury.

I am my father’s daughter.

And I am Nico Jr.’s wife.

And nobody— nobody —steals from a Viper and a Wolf and gets away with it.