Page 13

Chapter 13

RADOMIR

Leigh is everything .

Soft, warm, mine.

She arches beneath me, her body curving into every touch, every kiss, every slow drag of my hands across her skin. She’s breathless , her lips parted on a quiet moan, her fingers threading through my hair, tugging, urging me closer.

I give in.

I bury my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of vanilla, heat, her. My lips trace a slow path down the delicate curve of her throat, and she shudders, writhing beneath me .

“Radomir…” Her voice shakes, but it’s not fear— it’s need.

Her name is a growl in my throat as I take her breast in my mouth, teasing her nipple with my tongue. Her back arches, pressing herself into me, her body pleading for more without a single word.

I’m more than happy to oblige.

My hands roam lower, fingers tracing the dip of her waist, the soft swell of her hips. She’s warm, wet, ready. I spread her thighs, my fingers teasing, circling, until she gasps, her body trembling beneath me.

She’s already close, already lost in the sensation, but I want to take my time. I slide a finger inside her, groaning as she grips me, desperate, tight. Another joins, stretching her, stroking slow, deep and slightly bent, hitting the spot just right to ensure pleasure.

She shatters .

A sharp gasp before her body tenses and her release is all-consuming. I watch, mesmerized, as she breaks apart beneath me, her thighs trembling, her breath uneven.

Only then do I push inside her, sinking deep, filling her completely.

She gasps, her hands clutching at my shoulders, nails pressing into my skin. For a second, I don’t move—just savor the feeling of being buried inside her, of claiming her in the most primal way.

Then I do .

I use slow, deliberate thrusts at first, then harder, deeper, until we’re lost in it—chasing the inevitable, a raw, unrelenting rhythm that neither of us can control.

Her body grips me, tight, perfect, pulling me deeper with every movement. Her nails drag down my back, her moans broken, breathless, each one unraveling whatever restraint I have left.

She’s close again—I can feel it in the way her pussy tightens around my throbbing cock, and the way she gasps my name like a prayer.

“Come for me,” I murmur against her ear.

And she does.

A strangled cry, her release pulling me over the edge with her, my own pleasure blinding, unstoppable as I fill her with my seed.

I don’t let go.

Her legs stay locked around me, her body still trembling, still wrapped in the heat of our release.

But just as satisfaction starts to settle—

Everything changes.

Leigh’s moans twist into something else.

A broken sob. A cry for help.

I blink, but she’s not beneath me anymore.

She’s strapped to a cold metal table.

Exposed.

Writhing—but not from pleasure.

Terror shines in her green eyes.

“Radomir, please… help me.”

I lunge for her—

But I can’t move.

A cruel laugh echoes around me.

I know that voice.

Gunther.

Then another.

Vladimir.

And the last— Vivienne.

"You let this happen," she hisses, stepping into view. Her face is twisted with malice, with triumph. "She’s suffering because of you."

Leigh screams.

I wake up roaring .

Bolting upright, gasping, drenched in sweat.

The sheets are tangled, the air thick and suffocating. My pulse thunders in my ears, my muscles tight, and coiled.

I shove a hand through my hair, trying to ground myself.

I reach over touching the bed. I know deep down she’s not there, but the dream was so real. I look down and stickiness oozes through my boxes— Fuck when last did I have a wet dream ?

I scan the room again looking through the darkness.

She’s not here.

I have no idea where she is.

I push myself from the bed to get cleaned up.

And for the first time in my life—I’m terrified.

It’s taken another good two hours since my wet dream about Leigh turned into a motherfucking nightmare that have my gut twisted in knots.

I’m halfway between sleep and a killing rage when something prods my cheek.

I snap awake instantly, my hand closing around the wrist of the intruder.

Sabrina yelps. “Jesus, Radomir! It’s me.”

I release her immediately, and sit up only to get blinded by the small flashlight light in her hand. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Get dressed.” She keeps her voice low. “We need to go.”

I blink at her. “Is this some fucked-up nightmare?”

“No, but it’s about to be.”

I glance at the clock. It’s the dead of night. My senses sharpen instantly.

Something’s wrong .

I sit up. “Explain.”

“Not here.” She gestures toward the bag she’s already packed. “Just trust me.”

I hesitate for a second. Then I nod.

Ten minutes later, we’re dressed in dark clothes, hoodies drawn up, slipping out of the compound like shadows.

Sabrina moves like she’s done this a hundred times. She probably has.

We stay off the road, sticking to the trees until we reach a small village about three miles out. Cars line the quiet street. Not a creature is moving. It’s unnerving.

Just like the tiny woman scanning the cars like a seasoned pro until she zeroes in on an older model VW Beetle.

“This one.”

I stare at her. “That piece of shit?”

“It’s a classic.” She rolls her eyes. “It has no GPS and is easy to boost.”

I exhale sharply. “You’re really going to steal a car?”

“You have a better idea?” She raises a brow. “What, you thinking of ordering an Uber?”

I scowl. “No. I’m not dumb, you know.”

“No,” she agrees. “Just a spoiled Bratva boss used to having brute force at his disposal.”

She’s not wrong.

She slides into the driver’s seat, hot-wires the car in under a minute.

It purrs to life.

I shake my head as I climb into the passenger seat. “You’re frightening.”

She grins. “So you’ve said.”

One Hour Later – just outside of London Sabrina pulls into a gas station, parking near the convenience store.

“The tank is full,” I point out.

“We don’t need gas,” she says. “We need a map.”

I pause. “Isn’t that why we have—” Then I remember. Our phones were taken. “Fuck.”

“Yep.” She slides out of the car. “Old-school map it is.”

Inside, she grabs a handful of supplies—water, snacks, a flashlight, and a huge map book.

I pay in cash.

Back on the road, she navigates while I drive.

Correction —while I attempt to drive this toy car on wheels.

The steering wheel feels like it’s going to wobble off in my hands, my knees are practically at my chest, and every time I shift gears, I’m afraid the gear shift is going to come off.

Sabrina, of course, finds this hilarious.

“I swear to God,” I growl, trying to adjust my position. “If I hear one more fucking giggle—”

“You’re just mad because you look ridiculous in this thing.” She tosses a bag of Skittles into my lap. “Here. Have some candy. It’ll help.”

I glare at her. “Do I look like I eat Skittles?”

She smirks. “No, but I think you should. Sugar might help with your delicate mood.”

I toss the bag onto the dash without opening it. “I don’t need sugar. I need a real car.”

She sighs, opening the bag herself. “Tough luck. We’re rolling in this beast until we reach the ferry.” She pops a handful into her mouth, then offers me one. “C’mon. Just one.”

“I’d rather choke.” I keep my eyes on the road, jaw tight.

She shrugs. “Your loss.”

The damn Beetle rattles as I push it over sixty. I have to fight every instinct not to put my fist through the dashboard. I swear I can feel the chassis swaying every time a truck passes us on the highway.

This is a fucking insult.

I’m Radomir Molchanov. Heir to a Bratva empire. Feared across three continents. And here I am, getting overtaken by a Prius while Sabrina hums along to Ice Ice Baby, which is blaring from the car’s ancient, stuck cassette player.

Kill me now.

I grind my teeth. “Turn that shit off.”

“I can’t.” She taps the radio. “The eject button is jammed. Guess we’re stuck with Vanilla Ice.”

I stare at her. “You did this on purpose.”

She grins. “What, hot-wired a car just to torture you with bad ‘90s music?” She gasps in fake innocence. “That’s crazy, Radomir.”

I mutter a curse under my breath, focusing on the road ahead.

We need to reach the coast before sunrise.

The ferry to Calais, France leaves in two hours. Once we’re across, we can disappear into Europe and find another way to Russia that won’t have every security checkpoint scanning for us.

I grip the wheel tighter.

Sabrina’s words replay in my head.

We’ve been used as decoys.

The truth stings like a knife to the ribs.

Sabrina wasn’t supposed to overhear those men talking, but she did. And once she put the pieces together, she knew we had to get the fuck out of England.

“They played us,” she mutters, like she can read my thoughts.

I nod grimly. “Nikolas.”

She tosses another Skittle into her mouth. “You think he did it on purpose?”

I don’t want to believe it. I want to believe my uncle is on our side. That everything he’s done has been in Leigh’s best interest.

But the timing. The way we were sent chasing shadows for two weeks.

And now, the fact that Oleksi, Syd, and Clyde have disappeared without a fucking trace?

It all lines up. Too well.

“I think,” I exhale sharply, gripping the wheel tighter, “he knew exactly what he was doing.”

Sabrina nods. “That’s what I thought too.”

I glance at her. “But why? Why go through all of this?”

“Because he needed time to track Leigh without us getting in the way.” She leans back in her seat, stretching out her legs. “And maybe, just maybe, he also wanted to flush Oleksi out.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

She crunches on a candy before answering. “I think Nikolas knew Oleksi was playing both sides, but he needed proof. That’s why he insisted we bring Oleksi with us. If Oleksi thought we were clueless and distracted, he’d keep doing what he was doing—leaking our location, feeding Dmitri intel. That’s why Nikolas took his sweet time leading us nowhere.” She shrugs. “And when we got too close to figuring it out, Oleksi bolted.”

I shake my head. “That still doesn’t explain why Nikolas kept us out of Russia.”

Sabrina’s expression darkens. “Because according to the Alpha dickwads, we were being followed, and I guess while Dmitri’s men were following us it left Nikolas’s team able to scout out Russia. The classic illusion Mark would say. Keep the people looking here so they don’t see what’s going on behind them.”

We reach the ferry terminal with twenty minutes to spare.

I park the Beetle between two trucks and kill the engine. “This piece of shit is staying here.”

“Fair enough.” Sabrina grabs our bags. “But admit it. You’ll miss her.”

I stare at the car. “I’ll set it on fire first.”

She snickers.

We board the ferry as walk-ons, blending into the sparse crowd of late-night travelers.

I keep my hood up, my stance casual, but my eyes scan every face, every movement, every possible threat.

Sabrina does the same.

We don’t speak much as the ferry pulls away from England, crossing the dark waters of the Channel.

There’s too much left unsaid.

Too much uncertainty.

When we dock in Calais, we move fast. Sabrina pulls more cash from a hidden pocket in her bag, and we rent another car—a nondescript sedan this time.

We drive.

France to Belgium.

Belgium to Germany.

Germany into Poland.

By the time we reach our destination—a small border town with an under-the-table flight to Russia—we’re both exhausted.

“Last stop,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders. “If this plane is a piece of shit like that Beetle—”

Sabrina pats my arm. “Don’t worry. No Ice Ice Baby this time.”

We board a cargo plane with minimal security. Within a few hours, we’re finally in Russia—far from Moscow, in a small industrial airport where no one is asking questions.

The moment we land, I feel it.

Like a wire pulled tight inside my chest.

We’re here.

And Leigh is close.

We rent another car—an old but sturdy SUV—and start the final leg of our journey.

The closer we get to Dragunov Village, the thicker the tension gets.

Sabrina reads the map, guiding us toward the outskirts of town, near where Wanda Manning’s so-called palace is located.

“Two mile to Golubaya Laguna.” Sabrina yawns. “According to the travel book-there’s no accommodation and the place doesn’t fucking exist. So I do hope we find something, or I call dibs on the back seat.”

Sabrina has been a champion. The entire trip she’s kept me going. I know she’s just as fucking worried about Leigh as I am and as we draw closer to our destination we’re both trying not to think of the worst. I keep my hands on the wheel, my mind locked on one thing.

Leigh.

I don’t know what I’ll find when we get there.

But I do know one thing.

Whoever stands between me and my wife?

They’re already fucking dead.

We finally arrive at Blue Lagoon, a shadowy little fishing village clinging to the Black Sea’s edge. The air is thick with brine, diesel, and the faint scent of smoked fish. The streets are narrow, winding through clusters of old, weather-beaten buildings that look like they’ve stood against centuries of storms—and men with secrets.

Near the docks, a pub squats low against the tide, its timbered frame sagging under years of wear. The windows glow dimly, shadows moving behind the thin curtains. A sign out front, half-hidden by rust and peeling paint, advertises rooms available.

“It’s shady and sleazy,” Sabrina mutters, eyeing the place like it might give her tetanus just from looking at it. “We’re probably going to catch something, and it’s not fish.” She sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. “But I’m so fucking tired right now, I’d sleep on one of those fishing boats.”

I cut the engine and climb out of the SUV. “Come on. Let’s see if there’s room at the inn.”

She doesn’t follow immediately. When I glance back, she’s hesitating, shifting on her feet. For the first time since we left England, I see a flicker of something close to fear in her eyes. It’s gone just as fast, masked under her usual sharp wit, but it twists something in my gut.

“I’m not being funny or forward,” she says, her voice quieter than usual. “But… can we share a room? Twin beds, maybe.” She clears her throat, eyes darting around the darkened streets before locking onto mine. “I—uh—don’t do well in strange places.”

That explains a lot. The light in her room was on every night in England. She never said anything, never let on, but I should’ve noticed.

I nod, keeping my voice even. “I was going to suggest it.” A lie, but one that lets her keep her pride. This woman has more courage, more honor, more fucking loyalty in her little finger than most of the so-called men I’ve trusted. If admitting something like this took effort, I’m not about to make her regret it.

“It’s safer this way anyway,” I add. “We don’t know what we’re walking into here, and it’s best if we stick together.”

Her shoulders relax slightly. She nods once. “Good.”

Without another word, we head inside.

The interior, it’s dimly lit, thick with cigarette smoke and the low murmur of Russian and Ukrainian. A few grizzled men sit at scattered tables, nursing vodka like it’s the only thing keeping them alive. Sabrina leans against the counter, doing what she does best—blending in, reading the room.

A woman with sharp cheekbones and tired eyes stands behind the bar. “Rooms?”

“Da,” I answer, keeping my voice low. “We need one.”

She doesn’t ask for details. Just names a price. Sabrina hands over cash before I can, and a key is slid across the counter.

“There is still food being served and breakfast at six,” she tells us in Russian.

I nod and am painfully aware of how bone-weary Sabrina is. We both are. Running on fumes and tension. This isn’t over, but we need rest if we’re going to save Leigh.

We find the room. It’s small, spartan, but surprisingly clean. Even the bed linen is crisp and fresh. The locks are sturdy. It’s good enough.

Sabrina tosses her bag onto one of the beds and turns to me. “You can have the one closest to the door.” She yawns. “I’m going to shower.”

I nod. “I’ll get us food.”

She disappears into the bathroom, and I step out, making my way back to the bar.

I’m standing waiting for our order leaning against the bar when I notice a man coming down the stairs.

Surprise jolts me when I see his face— Nikolas?

No.

That’s not Nikolas.

Now that I know what to look for, the differences are glaring. He’s a bit shorter and stockier. The set of his mouth isn’t right, the shoulders slightly narrower. His face—a near-perfect mirror of my father-in-law’s, but not quite and his missing the scar that runs down the hairline on the side of Nikolas’s face.

My heart slams against my ribs. Carlos.

Fucking Carlos Vasilikis .

The man I shot a few weeks ago at Sabrina’s cabin—the cockroach as Sabrina calls him.

He doesn’t see me.

He moves to the bar, speaking in low Russian to the bartender, who nods and hands him a folded slip of paper.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Carlos says, his voice smooth. “Make sure the usual order of vodka is ready Stefanos.”

The bartender grunts in response. Carlos slides over a thick stack of rubles. Obviously paying for whoever he was fucking upstairs.

He turns—and my hands clench into fists.

Every muscle in my body coils tight, a killing rage rising in my blood like wildfire.

He’s right fucking there. I could end him.

Rip his fucking throat out, make sure he never breathes another breath, never touches Leigh.

But my body refuses to move.

Because one thought cuts through the fury like a blade to my gut—

Leigh.

She’s valuable to them.

They won’t kill her.

But if I make the wrong move, if I tip him off… they might do something worse.

I force myself to stay still.

My vision tunnels, my heartbeat pounds in my ears. It takes everything in me not to tear across the room and end this motherfucker here and now.

He finishes his drink, turns, and strides out of the bar into the cold night.

I exhale slowly, dragging myself back under control.

The bartender slides my order across the counter—two plates of food, two bottles of water, and a small bottle of vodka.

I grab it all, nod once, and head back upstairs.

My hands are still shaking when I reach the door.

I knock. “Hey. You decent?”

No answer.

A different kind of fear slams into my gut.

I shove the door open, ready for anything.

But Sabrina is curled up in one of the twin beds, fast asleep.

Her hair is still damp, strands curling around her face. One arm is tucked under her pillow, the other curled up near her chest like a kitten burrowing into warmth.

The fight drains out of me.

For the first time in days, she looks small. Young. Vulnerable, even.

I tuck the blanket around her shoulders.

Then I lock the door. Twice.

For extra precaution, I drag the rickety wooden chair beneath the handle. If anyone tries to get in, they won’t do it quietly.

After a quick, scalding shower, I eat, drink a few slow sips of vodka, then stretch out on the bed.

My mind should be racing, but the exhaustion finally catches up.

As my body gives in, one thought drifts through my mind.

Tomorrow, Leigh.

We’ll find you.

And when we do—they will fucking pay.