Page 24

24

Lev

"She’s pregnant with your child."

Those words keep haunting me, and the floor tilts beneath me. My breath catches mid-chest, lodged like a jagged piece of glass. I grip the edge of the counter, the cold surface grounding me just enough to stop me from falling apart.

My mind reels, searching for something solid, something real to hold on to—but all I see is her face the night we were together. The way she looked at me, the emotion in her touch, the way her fingers lingered, like she was memorizing me. Like she knew I would leave.

The call has ended, but the weight of Viktor’s voice still hangs in the air like a noose tightening around my neck. I stare at the screen until it fades to black, my hand still clenched around the phone like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality. But everything has tilted off its axis. My knees buckle before I can stop them, and I drop to the floor, back against the cold concrete wall of my safe house.

The girl I walked away from. The girl I told myself I didn’t deserve. The girl I’ve been trying like hell to forget is carrying my child. And someone has taken her.

A deep, guttural sound tears from my chest. I don’t recognize it at first—it’s not rage, not entirely. It’s grief. Raw, blinding grief laced with guilt so heavy it might crush me.

I dig my fingers into my scalp, trying to breathe. The night we spent together at the hotel plays on an endless loop in my mind—her softness, the way she clung to me like I was the only safe place in the world. The way I held her… and left her before dawn.

I was a coward who snuck away while she was still sleeping. And now she’s gone. I slam my fist into the floor so hard that pain shoots up my arm. But I welcome it. I need to feel it because I deserve it.

But I can’t sit here drowning in guilt. I need to find her. Now.

Dragging myself to my feet, I grab the second phone—my untraceable one—and start dialing. Old contacts. Former allies. People I haven’t spoken to in years. I burn through names like matches, lighting one fire after the other.

“Yo, Lev. Long time—”

“Cut the reunion crap. I need intel. Girl’s gone missing. Bratva royalty. Alina Makarov.”

“Fuck… Isn’t that your boss’s sister?”

“She is also my girl.”

A pause. “Damn. Alright, I’ll ask around.”

I hang up before he can say more. No time for explanations. No room for anything except the mission.

I repeat the process of calling anyone who can provide me with intel. I contact friends and foes; I make demands and issue threats. Whatever it takes. I don’t care if I have to break every code I've ever lived by—I’ll crawl through hell to find her.

But hour after hour, the messages come back the same: nothing. No movement. No chatter. No suspicious activity among the Bratva's enemies or the Cartel. No one is claiming responsibility. It’s like she vanished into thin air.

I slam my palm against the wall, the crack echoing through the empty room. Then again. Harder. Until the plaster splinters and my hand goes numb. Still, I punch again and again.

Blood stains the wall, trickling down my wrist, but I don’t stop. The pain keeps me grounded. Reminds me that this is real. That Alina’s gone. And I wasn’t there to protect her.

I stagger back and sink onto the edge of the bed, head in my hands. For a moment, all I can do is take shallow, broken breaths.

The silence in this room is maddening. The walls feel as if they’re closing in. I can still hear her voice: soft, curious, laughing.

And now maybe screaming.

No. I won’t think like that. I can’t. She’s alive. She has to be, both she and my child.

I push up to my feet and begin pacing. My mind sifts through every possible lead. Could it be someone from Viktor’s past? One of the old enemies we buried but didn’t kill? Could it be the Cartel?

My eyes scan the walls of the safe house. I rip down a dusty map and slap it against the largest empty space. Red pins. Blue pins. Yellow pins. I mark Bratva rivals, cartel factions, and independent players.

Every connection I can think of.

Then I start printing surveillance photos. Pictures from years back. Faces of those who once had power and those who are rising now. I tape them up like ghosts watching me work. Names. Dates. Territories.

I cross-reference every location, trace black market arms deals, and flag every unexplained movement of product across the docks. Nothing fits. Nothing leads to her.

Just as I am about to give up, I remember a number I swore I’d never call again: a hacker named Felix who owes me for saving his sorry ass in Miami. He answers on the first ring.

“Lev. Wow. You’re still alive.”

“Track a phone. Girl named Alina Makarov. She had her personal phone on her when she went missing from around JFK airport. Can you ping it?”

There’s a beat of silence. “You know if she had any trackers installed?”

“She didn’t.”

“Then this might take a miracle. But I’ll try.”

“Don’t try. Do it.”

I hang up.

The hours drag. The wall fills. My hand throbs. My eyes burn.

Still nothing.

I sit on the floor surrounded by shadows and paper ghosts and feel the walls inch closer again. My head tilts back, eyes on the ceiling.

A call cuts through my thoughts and I rush to pick up my phone. Felix.

“I got something.”

My heart skips. “Where?”

“Wait—it’s not her phone. But someone who might be close to her. A burner pinged near the airport. Belongs to a known associate of the Cartel. Low-level. Juan DeSantos. Ring a bell?”

My blood turns to ice. Juan. “He’s still in New York?”

“No. He bounced a few hours after the ping. It could be a dead end. But I’m still digging.”

“Dig faster, and see if you can find Juan’s current location,” I command, ending the call.

No one has been able to give me feedback, and Felix has picked Juan in the same proximity as Alina. Maybe outside players came in to pull this job off, which is why I do not have any leads yet.

It’s not much, but it’s something. I stare at the wall. My war board. My altar of fury. Whoever took her, whoever dared touch her, didn’t understand yet. They don’t know what they’ve unleashed.

My phone rings again, and this time around it is Viktor.

"Lev?" Viktor’s voice sounds tired and distressed, as though it is coming from underwater. “Any news?”

“Nothing, but I’m close to finding a lead.”

“Damn.”

"Have you been sent any surveillance footage? Routes? Details?" I ask.

"Not yet," Viktor says, frustration bleeding through. "But Zasha’s on the phone with Anton. He’s working on it. I’ll have him send everything to you too."

I nod, even though he can’t see me.

"Tell him to move fast. We don’t have time."

I hang up. My fingers move before my mind catches up—years of instinct taking over. I start calling in every favor owed to me, reaching out to old contacts, black market trackers, and informants who owe me blood or money. My voice is calm and lethal. The message is always the same: let me know if you hear anything concerning her.

I open the gun safe, and the click of the lock sounds like a war drum. Inside, my old tools stare back at me: cold steel, precision, and power. I shrug on the holster, checking the slide of my Glock with a cold detachment that comes naturally.

I pause for only a second, staring at my reflection in the black glass of the window. The man looking back at me is someone I thought I buried. But maybe he was never really gone.

Alina changed everything. She softened the sharp edges I never thought would dull. She made me believe there was something more than blood and survival. Something worth holding on to.

And I left her.

I let my fear of losing Viktor, of betraying the only family I'd ever known, blind me to the one person who saw me. Who loved me, even when I didn’t deserve it. But I won’t fail her again. Not this time. This time, I’ll walk into hell, and not even the devil himself can keep her from me.

I grab my coat, shove my phones into my pocket, and head for the elevator. My boots echo on the marble floor like war drums. The air outside is sharp and biting, and it clears the last fog from my mind.