Misha gasps and staggers. His hand goes to his throat, but his expression stays composed. Bold even. A good soldier accepting his punishment. A better soldier for surviving it.
"Why are you here?" I ask Pyotr.
"Boss, I—" He glances at Misha, and some silent communication passes between them. "I check with Dave. And Mick. She not come back."
Is he fucking serious?That's his intel?
"Well, no shit she's not going back to the diner." I turn away, unable to look at either of them.
"I also check with landlord," Pyotr continues, undeterred. "She not back to apartment. Empty since you took her, Boss.Landlord say he could call police but..." He shrugs. "He has things to hide. Drugs maybe. Doesn't want cops asking questions."
The words feel like hope and terror wrapped in barbed wire.
Empty since I took her.
She didn't run home. She didn't go back to her apartment to pack, hide, or plan her escape. She didn't return to her old life.
Which means… relief and dread flood through me. My knees go weak for a second before I lock the emotion down. Before I remember, I'm Pakhan, and a Pakhan doesn't show weakness even when he’s drowning in it.
She didn't run away. If she did, she didn't make it far. She didn't make it home.
Last night, I was distracted cleaning up Fyodor's corpse. I was dealing with cops and witnesses and making a body disappear. I’d trusted my men to secure the goddamn perimeter.
How the fuck did I not check on her? What kind of idiot lets his woman out of sight when there's a war on? I’m stupid. So fucking stupid.
She might've been taken. Right then. Right there. While I was playing cleanup crew, someone else moved in and grabbed her off the street.
Dmitri.
That cockroach. That fucking roach took her while I was distracted.
My phone rings. The sound cuts through the destruction. Through the scattered glass and overturned furniture.
I look at the screen.
Dmitri Volkov.
Of course, it's him. Calling to gloat. To twist the knife. To hold her life over my head until I give him what he wants.
I answer, putting it on speaker so Misha and Pyotr can hear.
"Petrov." Dmitri's voice is smooth and confident. The voiceof someone who thinks they've already won. "About that second meeting."
I say nothing, not trusting what might come out if I open my mouth.
"Had time to think about our conversation?" He pauses, ever the theatrical bastard. He’s enjoying this. A rare victory. "The alliances. The arrangements. The sensible solution to our little... disagreement."
My hand tightens on the phone hard enough that the screen cracks under my fingers. I want to reach through it and wrap my hands around his throat like Misha's, only this time, I’d squeeze until bone breaks.
"Tomorrow," he continues as casually as discussing lunch plans instead of my woman's life. "Same warehouse. 10 p.m. I assume you'll be there?"
"I'll be there."
"Good." Another pause, twisting the knife deeper. "And Petrov? Come alone. No soldiers. No weapons. Just you and me. A civilized discussion. Like reasonable men."
The line goes dead.
I stand in a daze, phone cracked in my hand. I’m surrounded by destruction. By evidence of rage that solved nothing. Fixed nothing.
