"The probability of success is less than fifteen percent," Ivan said, because of course he'd already run the numbers.
"Better than the zero percent if we try anything else."
Silence settled over the war room while my brothers processed what I was suggesting. A suicide mission with a prayer of success, banking everything on Chenkov's personality, on my ability to hide weapons, on timing that had no margin for error.
"I won't authorize this," Alexei said finally.
"I'm not asking for authorization." I met his eyes, enforcer to Pakhan, brother to brother. "I'm telling you what I'm doing. You can either have backup ready or let me die alone. Your choice."
His jaw clenched, that tell that meant he was fighting between logic and emotion. The Pakhan knew this was foolish, would likely cost him his enforcer. The brother understood that I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try.
"If you're doing this," he said finally, "you're doing it right. Full wire, backup weapons, soldiers positioned at every exit. Ivan runs overwatch, I lead the breach team. The moment you confirm she's alive, you signal. Don't try to be a hero, don't try to take them all yourself. Your job is to create enough chaos for us to reach you."
"Understood."
But we both knew I was lying. My job was to keep Eva alive by any means necessary. If that meant taking on thirty men alone, if that meant dying to buy her seconds, then that's what would happen. She'd trusted me with her safety, and I'd failed. The least I could do was try to correct that failure with my life.
"We have four hours," Ivan said, pulling up equipment lists. "We need to move."
Four hours to plan the impossible. Four hours to figure out how to walk into death and come out with Eva. Four hours to become the Beast that even monsters feared.
I looked at my brothers—Alexei already shifting into tactical mode, Ivan calculating approaches and probabilities—and felt something that might have been gratitude. They'd help me save her or help me die trying. Either way, they'd be there.
"One more thing," I said, remembering Chenkov's words. "He has collectors interested in buying her eyes. That means transport arranged, probably medical equipment for . . . harvesting. He's planning to keep her alive for a long time."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"Then we make sure he doesn't get the chance," Alexei said, and his tone carried the kind of promise that had built our empire on bones. "We make sure he doesn't survive long enough to touch her again."
Chapter 18
Eva
Themetalchairhadworn grooves into my wrists after three hours of testing the zip-ties, each shift grinding plastic against raw skin that had given up bleeding and moved on to something worse—that deep tissue ache that meant real damage, the kind that would scar if I lived long enough for scars to matter. My jaw throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a steady percussion from where Chenkov's rings had split the inside of my cheek. The taste of blood had become so constant I barely noticed it anymore.
Bear whimpered from his crate again and the sound cut through me sharper than any physical pain. He'd gone quiet after the first hour, probably understanding in that mysterious way dogs did that making noise brought attention we didn't want. But every so often, a small sound escaped, reminding me I wasn't alone in this concrete tomb.
The warehouse stretched around us, all exposed beams and water-stained concrete, the kind of place where screamswouldn't carry past the walls. Industrial lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that harsh fluorescent white that made blood look black and skin look dead. Chenkov's men moved through the space with boredom, rotating positions every thirty minutes like clockwork. Professional. Organized. The kind of discipline that meant Dmitry couldn't just burst through the door guns blazing.
Which is why my heart stopped when the commotion started outside.
Car doors slammed—multiple vehicles from the sound of it. Russian voices raised in question, then sharp commands that had every guard in the warehouse reaching for weapons. The energy shifted from bored vigilance to electric alertness, bodies moving to defensive positions with the fluid grace of men who'd done this before.
Hope and dread tangled in my chest, fighting for dominance. Dmitry had gotten the video three hours ago. Enough time to mobilize the cavalry, to plan an assault, to—
The warehouse door opened, and my worst fear walked through it.
Dmitry entered.
Alone.
No backup. No weapons. Just him in dark clothes, hands held out to show they were empty, a briefcase in his right hand that presumably held whatever Chenkov had demanded. He moved with that particular calm that I'd learned meant he was calculating violence, every step measured, every gesture controlled. To anyone else, he might have looked submissive. Defeated, even.
But I knew him. Knew the way his shoulders carried tension like a loaded spring. Knew how his eyes moved in controlled sweeps, cataloging every guard, every exit, every potential weapon. The Beast hadn't come to surrender. He'd come to hunt.
"No, you idiot," I whispered, the words escaping before I could stop them.
His eyes flicked to mine for just a fraction of a second—long enough for me to see the fury there, the kind of rage that would paint these walls red if given the chance. Then he looked away, returning to his performance of the beaten man come to negotiate.
