Page 1 of Hostage of the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #7)

The Irish problem had finally been resolved.

Months of negotiation, bloodshed, and ultimately, a strategic marriage between Fedya and Maeve O’Rourke had sealed the alliance that would keep peace between the Nikolai Bratva and the Irish mob.

Kostya Nikolai leaned back in his leather chair, fingers drumming against the polished mahogany desk as he surveyed the stack of files before him.

With that particular headache managed, he could finally redirect his attention to other matters that had been festering while they handled the Irish situation.

“Danny Hartford,” he murmured, opening the topmost file.

The name had become increasingly problematic over the past several months. Hartford oversaw one of their more lucrative distribution channels in Chicago, a position that required trust and loyalty—two qualities the man had apparently abandoned in favor of greed.

Kostya’s dark brown eyes scanned the documents detailing Hartford’s recent activities.

The evidence was damning—skimmed profits, mysterious “losses” in inventory, and most recently, a shipment that had completely disappeared.

The man had started small, testing the waters perhaps, but had grown bolder with each successful theft.

A dangerous game to play with the Nikolai family.

“Idiot,” Kostya muttered, closing the file with a decisive snap.

He reached for his phone and dialed a familiar number. “Bring him in,” he instructed when the call connected. “Tonight.”

The office door opened, and Viktor entered, his expression characteristically stoic. At thirty-five, his brother maintained the serious demeanor that had earned him respect within the organization, a stark contrast to Kostya’s more mercurial nature.

“You’re handling Hartford personally?” Viktor asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

Kostya nodded, standing to pour two fingers of premium vodka into crystal tumblers. He handed one to his brother before taking a slow sip from his own.

“The Irish situation took too much of our attention. Hartford got comfortable.” Kostya’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Time to remind him who he’s dealing with.”

Viktor accepted the drink with a slight nod. “The numbers suggest he’s taken just over two million. Plus the missing shipment.”

“Ambitious for a dead man,” Kostya remarked casually, turning to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office suite.

The Chicago skyline glittered beneath him, a kingdom of glass and steel that functioned, in part, because of the Nikolai family’s operations.

“Mikhail wants it handled cleanly. Hartford manages too many connections to create unnecessary complications.”

“And you?” Viktor inquired, knowing his brother often had his own ideas about punishment and retribution.

Kostya’s reflection in the glass showed the dangerous gleam in his eyes that appeared when his ruthless side emerged. “I think Mr. Hartford needs a reminder that the rumors about us are true. That you never cross a Nikolai.”

The warehouse on the outskirts of the city had served the Bratva well for many years. Isolated enough for privacy, functional enough for business, and equipped with the necessary amenities for situations requiring special attention. Like tonight’s meeting with Danny Hartford.

Kostya arrived just after midnight, pulling his sleek black Mercedes alongside Viktor’s vehicle.

The warehouse lights cast stark shadows across the concrete as he entered, shrugging off his expensive suit jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt.

Hartford was already there, flanked by two of Kostya’s most trusted enforcers, his face showing the early signs of persuasion—a split lip, the beginning of a black eye.

“Danny,” Kostya greeted warmly, as though welcoming an old friend to dinner. “I’ve been looking forward to our chat.”

Hartford’s eyes widened, fear replacing any defiance he might have harbored. The Nikolai family’s enforcer had a reputation that preceded him, charming and lethal in equal measure.

“Mr. Nikolai,” Hartford stammered, “there’s been a misunderstanding.“

“Has there?” Kostya replied, circling the man like a predator sizing up wounded prey.

“Because my understanding is quite clear. Two million dollars of my family’s money.

A shipment of weapons. Both gone.” He stopped directly in front of Hartford, brown eyes darkening as they often did when his mood shifted.

“Gone like your future, unless you can explain yourself very convincingly.”

Hartford’s shoulders slumped, defeat evident in every line of his body. “I got in over my head,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Gambling debts. They were going to kill me if I didn’t pay.”

Kostya laughed, the sound echoing off the warehouse walls. “And what do you think I’m going to do?”

The question hung in the air, rhetorical and menacing. Kostya nodded to his enforcers, who stepped back, understanding the signal. This was personal now.

With lightning speed that belied his muscular frame, Kostya struck, his fist connecting with Hartford’s solar plexus. The man doubled over, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

“Where’s my money, Danny?” Kostya asked conversationally, as though inquiring about the weather.

“Gone,” Hartford wheezed when he could finally speak. “All of it. The loan sharks took everything.”

Kostya’s expression hardened. “Then you have nothing of value to offer me?”

“My house.”

“In foreclosure,” Viktor interjected from his position near the door.

“My car.”

“Not worth what you owe on it,” Kostya responded.

Desperation contorted Hartford’s features as he realized the gravity of his situation. His eyes darted around the warehouse as if seeking escape, but finding none, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Please,” he begged. “I need time. I can work it off…”

“Time,” Kostya repeated, his voice dangerously soft. “You’ve had time, Danny. Months of it while you stole from my family.” He withdrew a pistol from his waistband, the metal gleaming under the harsh lights. “Time’s up.”

Hartford’s breathing quickened, panic setting in. His eyes fixed on the weapon, and something broke inside him, the last vestige of dignity crumbling in the face of mortality.

“My daughter,” he blurted out.

Kostya, who was just about to deliver his final judgment, paused. “What?”

“My daughter,” Hartford repeated frantically. “Azriel. She’s in Chicago. Smart girl. College student. Pre-law at Northwestern.” His words tumbled out faster now, desperation evident in every syllable. “Beautiful, too. Young. Just turned twenty-one.”

Kostya’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly, disgust flickering across his features before being replaced by cold calculation. “You would offer your own daughter to save your skin?”

“Not offer,” Hartford backpedaled, sensing disapproval. “An arrangement. A marriage. She’d make a good wife for someone like you. Educated. Could help with legitimate businesses. Generate income.”

For a moment, the warehouse fell silent. Then Kostya threw back his head and laughed, the sound carrying no warmth at all.

“You think I need help finding women?” he asked incredulously. “That I would marry some girl I’ve never met because her father can’t pay his debts?”

Hartford’s desperate eyes fixed on Kostya. “She’s all I have left that’s worth anything.”

The amusement drained from Kostya’s face, replaced by something colder. “And that, Danny, is why you deserve what’s coming. A man who would trade his daughter to save himself deserves no mercy.”

He raised the pistol again, aiming between Hartford’s eyes.

“Wait!” Hartford shrieked. “She doesn’t know anything about me! About what I do! I haven’t spoken to her in years; she ran away. Hates me.” His breathing grew erratic, panic setting in. “But she’s still my flesh and blood. Taking her would hurt me more than killing me.”

Kostya paused, head tilting slightly as he considered Hartford’s words. “You haven’t spoken to her in years, yet you know she’s at Northwestern?”

“I keep tabs on her,” Hartford admitted, desperation making him reckless with information. “From a distance. Know where she lives. Got a scholarship. Works part-time at a coffee shop near campus. Has an apartment off-campus with two roommates.”

Slowly, deliberately, Kostya lowered his weapon.

His eyes, typically warm when he was among family or charming women at social functions, had taken on the light, mischievous gleam that his inner circle recognized as a sign of danger.

The look that emerged when he found something particularly interesting, or when he’d decided on a course of action that would satisfy his more merciless instincts.

“Tell me more about her,” he instructed, holstering his weapon.

Hartford blinked in confusion. “About Azriel?”

“Is that not what I just asked?” Kostya replied, his voice carrying an edge that made Hartford flinch.

“She’s smart. Top of her class. Pre-law. Quiet, keeps to herself mostly. Stubborn. Independent since she was sixteen.” Hartford spoke quickly, seizing what he perceived as a chance at survival. “Works hard. Never asks for help, even when she should.”

Kostya processed this information as a plan began to form in his mind. Hartford had inadvertently provided the perfect punishment for his betrayal—something that would cause far more suffering than a quick death.

“Where exactly does she live?” Kostya asked, his tone casual as though inquiring about a restaurant recommendation.

Hartford’s eyes widened as he realized what he’d done. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said quickly. “Just kill me.”

A slow, predatory smile spread across Kostya’s face.

“Oh, Danny,” he said softly. “That’s not how this works.

You don’t get to change your mind.” He nodded to Viktor.

“Find everything about Azriel Hartford. Where she lives, her schedule, her friends. I want to know what she eats for breakfast by tomorrow.”