Page 25

The room is cloaked in half darkness.

Heavy curtains drown out the evening light, casting long, sluggish shadows across the walls.

Only a single lamp burns, its weak glow barely touching the corners of the space.

Dust motes float lazily in the air, stirred by the faintest movements, suspended like ghosts.

The scent of old leather, aged paper, and cold vodka seeps into everything, thick and permanent, clinging to the wood, the drapes, the very breath of the place.

I sit behind the broad oak desk, head bowed over a photograph I haven’t allowed myself to look at in years.

My thumb brushes lightly over Maxim’s face—the smiling boy he once was, frozen forever in a moment the world can’t steal back. His grin is lopsided, full of life and arrogance, the kind of arrogance that says you think you’re invincible.

He looks so young in the picture.

The man he became—the fighter, the sharp-tongued bastard who never hesitated to laugh in the face of danger—that Maxim feels so far away now. A memory dulled by time, by loss, by rage.

I shut my eyes, the weight of it settling deep in my chest.

I remember the silence first. The gut-sick certainty that something had gone wrong.

We had contacts everywhere. Eyes on every port, every street. Maxim was supposed to be safe, even when he played too close to the fire. He was supposed to have backup. A plan. A way out.

Instead, he disappeared like smoke between my fingers.

No body. No funeral.

The whispers were everywhere—quiet at first, cautious, then louder as months passed. Stories of a deal gone bad. Of betrayal. Of a bullet fired in the dark and a body dumped into the sea.

So the rage never left me.

It burned in me, day after day, year after year, growing sharper, harder, more necessary. It shaped the man I became. It carved out the space in my chest where grief should have lived.

I stare at Maxim’s face, feeling that old fury ignite low in my ribs, a familiar, terrible fire tempered now by grief that never dulled.

Maxim should be standing here beside me.

He should be laughing, drinking my best vodka, mocking the stiff way I run the estate like an old man. He should be my right hand, my blood, my brother.

Not buried nameless at the bottom of some godforsaken ocean because of a coward’s bullet—because of Alina’s father.

My fingers tighten around the photo until it crinkles, the sound loud in the quiet room. I force myself to ease my grip before I tear it in half.

Killing Carter won’t bring Maxim back.

Neither will punishing Alina for sins she didn’t commit.

It doesn’t matter; the truth is simple. Someone has to bleed for this.

The knock shatters the stillness.

I look up sharply, irritation already surging through me. Whoever it is better have a damn good reason for interrupting.

The door creaks open, and one of my lieutenants steps inside—a man I trust, seasoned by blood and war, his face weathered and grave. His body is rigid, every line of him screaming bad news.

He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “She’s gone.”

The words hang there. Suspended. Absurd.

I stare at him, the weight of the photograph still in my hand.

For a moment, the meaning refuses to land, refuses to make sense.

Gone? No. Alina couldn’t have left. Not past the guards, not without my knowing.

The mansion is locked tighter than a fortress, every point of egress watched, every movement monitored.

She couldn’t have left, not without help.

The photo slips from my fingers, landing silently on the desk. The sharp edges curl slightly, forgotten.

Cold logic slams into place, swift and merciless. If she’s gone, someone took her.

I rise from the chair slowly, deliberately, even as my mind accelerates into lethal speed. Pieces align themselves with ruthless efficiency.

Jackson Waters.

The man circling like a vulture, emboldened by a moment’s weakness, by my temporary distraction. Snooping around the party, inserting himself where he didn’t belong. I should’ve buried him that night.

Alina’s fragile emotional state.

I saw it—the cracks, the way she moved like a girl about to break apart in the wind. The revelation about her father had gutted her. Left her vulnerable.

I left her to wander the grounds alone, thinking no one would dare touch what I’d claimed.

I thought I had time.

I was wrong.

“Where?” I snap, my voice low and dangerous.

“We don’t know yet,” my man says, jaw tight. “South garden last. Some guards posted, but….” He hesitates, the shame written clear on his face. “It was quick. No one saw enough to stop it.”

I turn away from him, my hand already reaching for the gun in the top drawer of the desk.

For the first time in years, something jagged flickers at the edges of my control. Not anger. Not even rage.

Panic. Real, gut-deep panic.

It threatens to tear me apart from the inside out. I force it back down with brutal precision. Panic is useless. Panic gets people killed.

Action saves them.

“Mobilize everyone,” I bark. “I want every street watched. Every port. Every private airstrip within fifty miles locked down.”

He nods sharply, already moving before I finish.

“If anyone sees Jackson Waters….” I pause, letting the words hang heavy in the air. “No mercy,” I finish.

None. When I find him—and I will—I’ll make sure he learns the hard way that taking Alina wasn’t just a mistake.

It was a death sentence.

I stand slowly.

No shouting. No wild gestures. Just a deliberate roll of my shoulders, setting every muscle into place, shaking off the useless remnants of emotion clinging to my skin.

The shift is terrifyingly calm.

It always is, right before the storm breaks.

“Find them,” I say.

My voice is low. Lethal. No need to raise it. No need to bark orders when the weight of the words is heavier than any scream.

The men in the room straighten instinctively, something primal flickering in their eyes. They know what’s coming. They know what a command like that means.

I issue orders with brutal efficiency, each one sharp enough to cut.

“Lock down the ports,” I say. “Every private dock, every shipment checkpoint. Same with the airports—charters, helipads, even the ones they think are hidden.”

A nod from one of the men.

“Any known safehouses Waters might have used—burn them. I want ashes before the hour is out.”

Another nod.

“Sweep the city perimeter. Main roads, side streets, back alleys. No one leaves Moscow without my permission.”

The room hums with tension as they process, prioritize, disperse.

I barely notice them. In my mind, all I see is her.

Terrified. Alone. Dragged from the only shelter she had left—even if she hated it. Even if she hated me.

I imagine her struggling, trying to fight, trying to scream against a hand clamped over her mouth. I imagine Jackson’s hands on her, rough, unwelcome, daring to touch something he has no right to even look at.

A flash of pure violence ignites behind my ribs.

If even a hair on her head is harmed—if she sheds so much as a single tear because of him—Jackson will beg for death long before I’m finished with him.

I’ll make him bleed for every second she spends afraid, for every second she spends thinking I didn’t come for her.

My men scatter, the air vibrating with urgency as they rush to carry out my commands. No hesitation. No questions.

They know better than to question me now.

The room empties.

I cross to the sideboard, the motion smooth, unhurried, my pulse steady despite the fire raging inside me.

I retrieve my pistol from the drawer beneath the decanters of vodka and dusty crystal.

A simple, familiar ritual. Check the slide. Eject and reinsert the clip. Chamber a round.

The mechanical clicks are quiet, precise, like a drumbeat marking the start of something inevitable.

I tuck the pistol into the holster at my side, the weight of it a cold comfort.

Tonight, blood will spill.

As I secure the pistol at my side, tightening the strap with a sharp, practiced pull, my mind betrays me.

Images flash without permission, quick and vicious.

The stubborn tilt of Alina’s chin when she stands her ground, even when she knows she’s outmatched.

The way her lips parted, the breathless sound of my name gasping from her mouth the first time I crushed it against mine.

The fire in her green eyes, fierce and burning, refusing to be extinguished even when everything else in her crumbled.

Memories like knives. Sharp enough to cut through the discipline I spent a lifetime forging.

This isn’t about reclaiming property. It isn’t about pride. It isn’t even about the threat Jackson poses to my organization, to my reputation.

It’s about her.

About the unbearable thought of losing the only thing I have started to care about in years. The only thing that slipped past every defense I built, every wall I reinforced with blood and brutality.

If she’s gone, I admit to myself with brutal clarity, I’m already lost.

The thought roots itself deep, sickening and unmovable.

I close my eyes, letting the old steel of my heart crack open just long enough to feel it—the raw, staggering fear.

Not fear for myself. Not fear of failure.

Fear for her.

For what could be happening to her right now. For the possibility that I wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, ruthless enough to keep her safe.

The emotion is foreign, jagged, unwelcome.

It has no place in the life I built. In the man I became, so I crush it.

I slam the door shut on it with the same merciless precision I use to eliminate weakness in others.

There’s no room for hesitation. No room for doubt.

I have a job to do.

I will find her, and I will bring her back.

I will make Jackson Waters—and anyone else foolish enough to think they could take what’s mine—regret the day they first drew breath.

***

Night has fallen fully, cloaking the city in a shroud of misty rain.

Through the tall windows of the mansion, the neon lights of Moscow flicker and blur, distorted by the fine, relentless drizzle.

Reds, blues, yellows—colors pulse weakly against the darkness, painting the world in sickly hues.

The rain slicks the marble steps outside, puddling in cracks, turning the driveway into a mirror reflecting back the storm.

Inside, the mansion feels different now.

Alive. Tense.

I move through the corridors like a blade being drawn from its sheath. Silent. Focused. Sharp enough to cut through anything foolish enough to get in my way.

My top men gather without needing to be summoned. They know.

They feel it too—the shift, the storm about to break. They’re already armed, faces grim, eyes hard. No jokes. No bravado. Only the cold, professional readiness of men who have seen blood spilled and know they will see it again before the night is over.

They stand by the main doors, weapons checked, engines running outside.

Waiting for my command.

The network hums in my ear, my phone alive with updates from men scattered across the city.

One in particular grabs my attention. “Sighted heading west,” the voice crackles. “Black Audi. Plates match Jackson’s. Speeding toward the outskirts.”

Away from the city, away from the safety of the crowds and the eyes of the Bratva.

Coward. It fits.

Jackson always was smarter at running than standing his ground.

I clench the phone tightly before sliding it into my pocket.

I know what every man here expects. Orders. Delegation. A team sent to intercept him, retrieve Alina, bring her back to the fortress I built.

I make my decision before any of them can speak.

I won’t send others. I will go myself.

This isn’t business anymore; this is personal.

Every beat of my heart drives the point home. Every memory of Alina—the heat of her skin, the defiance in her eyes, the way she whispered my name when she thought she hated me—burns hotter than the last.

Jackson didn’t just steal a bargaining chip.

He touched what’s mine. He tore open a wound I spent a decade stitching closed.

I turn to my men, meeting each set of eyes in turn.

“Follow,” I say simply.

No more words are needed. They fall in behind me without hesitation, their steps quiet but sure, weapons tucked against their bodies, coats pulled tight against the rain.

We move toward the waiting cars, the night folding around us like a cloak.

As I step outside, the rain beads on my skin, cold and immediate, but I barely feel it. The wind cuts through the courtyard, tugging at the edges of my jacket.

I pause at the threshold for a single breath.

Then I reach into my inside pocket and draw out the photograph of Maxim.

It’s creased now, worn from too many years of handling, the edges soft and frayed. His smiling face blurs slightly under the thin sheen of rain, but the emotion behind it is still clear.

Pride. Brotherhood. A life that was stolen.

I tuck the photo carefully back into my jacket, pressing it close to my heart where it belongs.

I holster my gun with one smooth, practiced motion, the weight familiar and necessary at my side.

Then I climb into the waiting car, the engine rumbling to life beneath me, and drive straight into the dark.