"Your woman is quite charming when she's little," Anton said, and his voice carried to every man in the foyer. To Kostya and Maks who were seeing these photos for the first time. To the Besharov guards. To everyone who needed to know that their Pakhan had a weakness that could destroy him.
"Three years old, would you say? Maybe younger? Hard to tell from the photographs, but the thumb-sucking is quite distinctive."
My vision went red at the edges. The casual cruelty in his voice, the deliberate shaming, the attempt to humiliate Sophie through me—it took every ounce of control not to put a bullet in his skull right here, right now, consequences be damned.
"Careful," I said, and my voice dropped to something dangerous. Something that made Kostya shift positions slightly, ready to back whatever play came next. "You're discussing my woman. My future. Keep talking, and this becomes about blood instead of business."
Anton held up his hands in mock surrender. "No offense intended. I'm simply observing that your acquisition has interesting tastes. Makes her more valuable, actually." He paused, let the words sink in. "The Pakhan of the Besharov bratva, brought to his knees by a girl who plays with stuffed animals."
The insult hung in the air like smoke. Like poison. Like the kind of words that required blood to answer.
My hand was on my gun. Three steps forward and I could end this. End him. But the chess player in me was seeing the trap. Seeing that Anton wanted me to shoot. Wanted me to start a war over Sophie, wanted me to prove that she was exactly the weakness he claimed.
"She's of no use to you," I forced out, every word costing me. "She won't share her father's information. Won't tell you about his debts or connections. I've made sure of that. So take your photographs, take your insults, and leave my compound before I forget we have a peace treaty."
Anton tilted his head, studying me like a specimen under glass. Like I was fascinating in my predictability, entertaining in my desperation.
"You really don't know, do you?"
The question landed like a physical blow. The way he said it—like I was missing crucial information, like I was playing chess without seeing half the board, like everyone else in this room knew something I didn't.
"Know what?" I asked, though I was already dreading the answer.
"Why we want her. Why the Besharov family has been so interested in Volkov's daughter since before her father even died."
"This isn't about information," Anton continued, watching my face with satisfaction. Reading every micro-expression, everytell, every moment of realization crossing my features. "It never was. We don't give a fuck about Alexei Volkov's gambling debts or who he owed money to. This is about something much older. Much more valuable."
He paused, let the words sink in.
"Your dedushka knows the real reason. I'm surprised he didn't tell you. But then, Mikhail Besharov has always played the long game, hasn't he? Always thinking seventeen moves ahead, just like he taught you. That’s what he says, anyway."
Suddenly, panic overwhelmed me.
"Where is he?" I asked quietly, and the question carried weight that had nothing to do with volume. "Where's my grandfather?"
Anton's smile was all teeth now, victorious, and I knew—absolutely knew—that everything had been leading to this moment. Every photograph, every provocation, every deliberate insult had been building toward this exact question, this precise instant when I'd have to ask about Mikhail's location and reveal that I didn't know where my own grandfather was.
"Where is Mikhail Besharov?" Anton repeated my question like it was delicious. Like the taste of it satisfied something deep and hungry in him. "That is an excellent question."
"You have sixty seconds to tell me where he is," I said, and my voice came out deadly calm despite the fear turning my blood to ice. "Before I start executing your men one by one until you remember."
The threat was real. I could feel Kostya shifting behind me, ready to make good on it. Maks would have already calculated optimal firing order, which Belyaev soldiers to drop first for maximum psychological impact.
"So violent," Anton chided, like I was a child throwing a tantrum instead of a Pakhan promising bloodshed. "Just like Konstantin. But unlike your brother, you're capable of thinking strategically, aren't you? So let me make this very simple."
He took a step forward. Just one. But it was enough to shift the dynamic, enough to make the Belyaev soldiers tense, to make the Besharov guards raise their weapons slightly, safeties clicking off with sounds that echoed in the marble foyer like hammer cocks.
The compound was a powder keg. One wrong move, one nervous finger on a trigger, and this became a massacre. My home would be soaked in blood—Belyaev and Besharov both—and Sophie was upstairs, locked in my bedroom, vulnerable despite every protection I'd tried to build around her.
"We have Mikhail Besharov," Anton said clearly, his voice carrying to every man present. Making sure the words were witnessed, recorded in collective memory. "Alive. Comfortable. For now. He's been our guest since Saturday morning."
The words hit like bullets.
"Whether he remains comfortable—" Anton continued, and his voice carried casual cruelty that made my trigger finger itch. "Whether he remains alive—depends entirely on your next decision."
My mind was fragmenting, splitting into the chess player who saw the trap and the grandson who'd just learned his dedushka was in enemy hands because of his own negligence. The Pakhan who needed to maintain control and the man who wanted to empty his magazine into Anton's skull regardless of consequences.
"Here's what's going to happen," Anton said, and I could hear satisfaction in every syllable. The pleasure of a perfect strategy executed flawlessly. "You're going to give us Sophie Volkov. Willingly, peacefully, with no resistance. In exchange, we return Mikhail unharmed. You have twenty-four hours to decide."
