He has her.
He has to. The timing is too perfect. The confidence too real. Dmitri doesn't call to schedule meetings unless he thinks he's holding all the cards.
And right now, he's holding the only card that matters.
Lila.
"Boss?" Misha's voice is rough, damaged. "What do we do?"
What do we do?The eternal question. The one I'm supposed to have answers for.
"We go to the meeting."
"He said alone?—"
"I said WE go." I turn to face them. Both of them. Misha with his bruised throat. Pyotr with worry written across his scarred face. "He has her. I know it. You know it. This whole setup—taking her, calling immediately, demanding a meeting tomorrow. Classic hostage play. And he thinks that gives him leverage."
"Does it?" Misha asks. He’s not challenging but genuinely asking.
Does it?
"Yes." The admission tastes like blood. "It fucking does."
Misha and Pyotr exchange glances. That silent communication again. Loyalty balanced against logic. Trust balanced against survival instinct.
"Then we plan," Pyotr says. "We prepare. We find her before the meeting, or we go in ready for war. But he say no weapons"
"When do we ever do what that piece of shit says?" Misha rubs his throat and winces. "We bring weapons. We bring men. We end him."
"Get everyone." My voice is steady now. Clear. The rage has sharpened. "Every soldier we trust. Every weapon we have. I want eyes on every property Dmitri owns. Every warehouse, every safe house, every shithole apartment he might keep her."
"Boss, that's?—"
"I don't care what it costs." I cut him off. "I don't care who we have to pay or threaten or kill. Find her before tomorrow night. Find her or bring me enough firepower to level that warehouse."
They nod and get to work. Calls. Planning. The machinery of the Bratva grinds into motion. Resources deploy. Favors are called in. Every connection my father ever made, every alliance I've carefully maintained, all of it focused on one goal: Get her back.
I look around the penthouse, taking in the destruction I caused. Broken art and shattered furniture. Evidence of a lossof control. Evidence of weakness. My father would be disgusted.
I pull out my phone. The screen is cracked, but it still works. I dial.
"Boss?" Sergei's voice.
"I need you to do something for me."
"Anything, Boss."
"Dmitri has the girl. I want you to prepare for war. Real war. Not skirmishes. Not territory disputes. Fucking war."
Silence hangs on the other end, followed by, "How big?"
"Big enough to burn Dmitri’s empire to ash." I walk to the windows and gaze out at Chicago. My city. My responsibility. "Big enough that everyone knows what happens when you touch what's mine."
"Understood, Boss."
I hang up and make another call. Then another. Mobilizing. Preparing. Building toward tomorrow's meeting, where either everything gets resolved, or everything goes to hell.
Probably the latter.
