Page 6 of Hostage of the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #7)

Kostya glanced at his watch, satisfied. Three days had passed since he’d brought Azriel to the mansion, and the past forty-eight hours had been surprisingly peaceful.

After their initial confrontations, her fierce defiance when he’d first explained the terms of their arrangement, the way she’d thrown the signed marriage certificate back in his face, she’d settled into a quiet routine, remaining in her room except for meals, which she took alone in the smaller dining room adjacent to the kitchen.

The staff reported that she ate everything sent to her without complaint, although Elena mentioned that she often stared out the window during meals, her expression distant and unreadable.

Mrs. Chen, the housekeeper, had noted that Azriel kept her room meticulously clean, making her own bed each morning despite being told it wasn’t necessary.

She’d also requested books from the mansion’s extensive library, specifically volumes on literature and psychology.

Perhaps she’d finally accepted her situation. Smart girl. He’d chosen well, despite the circumstances that had brought her here.

The morning had started typically; reports from Viktor about their various operations, a conference call with associates in New York, reviewing financial statements that showed their legitimate businesses were thriving alongside their less legitimate ones.

Kostya had built an empire that operated on multiple levels, each one carefully insulated from the others.

It was a delicate balance, one that required constant attention and absolute control.

Control he thought he’d established over his newest acquisition.

He knocked on her door, waiting for a response that didn’t come. Odd. According to Elena, Azriel had requested breakfast early this morning: fresh fruit, yogurt, and coffee. However, she hadn’t emerged from her room since it was delivered at seven-thirty.

“Azriel,” he called, knocking again with more force. The sound echoed in the hallway, but no answering voice came from within.

Silence.

An uncomfortable feeling began to settle in his chest, something between irritation and genuine concern. In his world, silence often meant trouble. People who went quiet were either planning something or had already gone.

Kostya tried the handle and found it unlocked.

That should have been his first warning.

In the three days she’d been here, Azriel had locked her door religiously, a small act of defiance that he’d allowed because it gave her the illusion of privacy without actually providing any real security.

He had keys to every door in the mansion.

The bedroom was immaculate, the bed perfectly made with hospital corners that would have impressed a military drill sergeant.

The morning light streaming through the tall windows revealed every detail in sharp clarity: the untouched breakfast tray on the small table by the window, the carefully arranged toiletries on the dresser, the stack of library books with bookmarks protruding from their pages.

But no Azriel.

The bathroom door stood open, revealing pristine white marble and gleaming fixtures, but no one was there.

A quick check of the walk-in closet revealed several outfits were missing—practical clothes, jeans, sweaters, and sturdy shoes.

Also gone was the small duffel bag of personal items that had been delivered to her apartment yesterday, retrieved by his men along with her academic materials.

Cold fury washed over him, starting as a trickle and building to a flood.

She’d run. After three days of apparent compliance, of eating her meals and reading her books and maintaining that careful, distant politeness whenever they’d encountered each other in the hallways, she’d planned and executed an escape.

How had she gotten past his security? The mansion was equipped with state-of-the-art surveillance systems, motion sensors, and a rotating guard schedule that ensured someone was always on duty.

His men were professionals, handpicked for their competence and loyalty.

The idea that a twenty-two-year-old literature student had outsmarted them was almost insulting.

“Viktor,” he snapped into his phone, not bothering with pleasantries when his lieutenant answered on the first ring.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Find her. Now. Check airport security cameras, train stations, bus terminals, and rental car agencies. And get someone to her father’s last known location immediately.”

“Her, Sir?”

Kostya’s jaw tightened. “My wife has decided to take an unauthorized vacation. I want her found within the hour.”

“Understood. Should we—”

He ended the call before Viktor could finish the question, already striding toward the garage.

There would be time for detailed explanations later.

Right now, every minute Azriel remained missing was a minute she could be getting further away, could be making plans that would complicate his life considerably.

Danny Hartford was the obvious destination.

Where else would she go? Despite her apparent fear of the man, despite the subtle relief that had crossed her face when Kostya had promised she’d never have to see her father again, blood ties ran deep.

People returned to what they knew, even when what they knew had hurt them.

The thought rankled more than it should have.

He’d seen the way her shoulders had relaxed when he’d made that promise, the first genuine emotion she’d shown since arriving at the mansion.

Had it all been an act? Was she a better actress than he’d given her credit for, or had desperation driven her back to the man who’d sold her to pay his debts?

Kostya’s Aston Martin roared to life, the engine’s purr doing nothing to calm his growing anger.

He’d been careful with her, more careful than he’d been with anyone in years.

He’d given her space, respected her need for solitude, and ensured she was comfortable.

The mansion’s staff had strict instructions to treat her with utmost courtesy, anticipating her needs without being intrusive.

And this was how she repaid his consideration.

The drive to Danny Hartford’s last known address took him through increasingly shabby neighborhoods, a visual representation of the man’s steady decline.

From the suburban middle-class home where Azriel had grown up, to a series of progressively smaller apartments, and finally to the current location, a motel on the outskirts of the city that rented rooms by the week and asked no questions about its tenants’ circumstances.

Thirty minutes later, Viktor called back, his voice carefully neutral in the way that meant he was delivering news his boss wouldn’t want to hear.

“She’s not at any transportation hubs,” he reported.

“Security footage shows no sign of her at O’Hare, Midway, Union Station, or Greyhound.

And our men confirm Danny Hartford hasn’t seen her.

He’s been at the motel since yesterday afternoon, drinking alone in his room.

Neighbors confirm he hasn’t had any visitors. ”

Kostya’s grip tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. If she wasn’t running to her father, if she wasn’t trying to flee the city entirely, then where the hell was she?

“What about her student apartment?” The lease had expired, but perhaps she’d had a key made for somewhere familiar to hide while she planned her next move.

“Empty. Landlord confirmed the locks were changed after she moved out last month.”

He considered the possibilities, running through everything he knew about Azriel Hartford.

Literature major, psychology minor, senior year.

No close friends that his investigation had revealed, her father’s reputation had seen to that, creating an isolation that Danny had probably never even noticed.

No boyfriend, no significant relationships beyond casual classroom interactions.

But there was one place she might go, one environment where she’d felt confident and in control.

“Check the university,” he ordered.

A brief pause. “Sir?”

“She’s a student,” Kostya explained, his impatience bleeding through despite his efforts to remain calm. “Finals week starts soon. Students don’t just abandon their degrees, especially not someone who’s worked as hard as she has. Check the university.”

“Right away.”

Kostya ended the call, executing a sharp U-turn that drew angry honks from other drivers.

Chicago University was twenty minutes away in current traffic, fifteen if he ignored a few speed limits.

If Azriel thought she could simply resume her normal life, pretend that nothing had changed, she was about to receive a harsh education in the reality of her situation.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d spent considerable time and resources investigating her academic record, her professors, and her thesis project.

Azriel Hartford was brilliant, focused, driven, exactly the kind of woman who would refuse to let circumstances derail her carefully planned future.

Perhaps he should have anticipated this move.

As he drove, Kostya found himself remembering their few direct interactions over the past three days.

She’d been polite but distant, answering his questions with economical precision, never volunteering information or opinion.

When he’d asked about her comfort, whether she needed anything, she’d simply said no, thank you, in a tone that managed to be both respectful and dismissive.