Page 96 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

But first, I need to find her.

***

The Bratva dive bar looks exactly like what it is—a hole in the wall where men like me go when we need something done quietly. The kind of place normal people walk past without a second glance, their eyes sliding away from the unmarked door like it doesn’t exist.

Inside, the air smells of cigarettes, stale beer, and secrets for sale.

I spot him immediately—Petrov, a rat-faced information broker who makes his living selling other people’s business to the highest bidder. He’s nursing a vodka at the far end of the bar.

“Pakhan,” he nods as I slide onto the stool beside him. “Heard you were laid up.”

“Rumors of my incapacitation have been greatly exaggerated,” I say dryly. “I need information.”

His lips twitch. “Don’t we all?”

I place a thick envelope on the bar between us. “The Fyodorovs have a safehouse in the city. I need the address.”

He shrugs. “Might know something. But information on the Fyodorovs comes at a premium these days. Everyone wants to know their business.”

I add another stack of bills to the envelope. “Everyone isn’t me.”

That gets a nervous laugh. “True enough.” He finally takes the envelope, tucking it inside his jacket without counting it. He knows I’m good for it.

“They’ve got a place in Beacon Hill. Brownstone on Chestnut Street. Number 42. Very respectable.”

“Security?”

“Minimal. They’re not expecting trouble. At least, not the kind that would come looking for them in Beacon Hill.”

I nod my thanks and stand to leave.

“Pakhan,” Petrov calls after me. “Word is the Zakharovs have been sniffing around, too. Looking for the same information.”

I turn back. “The Zakharovs?”

He shrugs. “Just what I heard. Thought you might want to know.”

I toss him another bill. “You didn’t see me.”

“See who?” he smiles, pocketing the money.

Outside, the late afternoon sun slants between buildings, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. I walk quickly back to my car, parked two blocks away, to avoid being seen. My shoulder throbs dully, a reminder that I’m not at full strength yet.

But it doesn’t matter. I’ll crawl to her if I have to.

Beacon Hill is old money, old architecture, old secrets. The kind of neighborhood where everyone minds their own business because they’ve got plenty to hide. The brownstone at 42 Chestnut Street is indistinguishable from its neighbors—four stories of red brick and white trim, black shutters, brass door knocker.

I park in an alley a block away, out of sight of the main street. It’s better to approach on foot, circle the building, and look for the best entry point.

I’m not planning to fight my way in—just to talk to her. See her face one more time. Tell her the truth and then let her go, if that’s what she wants.

I check my gun out of habit, then slide it back into its holster. I won’t need it. Not for this.

I’m halfway down the alley when I notice something’s off. A reflection in a window. Movement where there shouldn’t be any. I turn, hand already reaching for my weapon.

But it’s too fucking late.

They step out from doorways, from behind dumpsters, from the shadows themselves. Five, no, six men. All armed.