"She's comfortable," Anton said, his voice dropping into something more intimate. More threatening. "We're treating her very well. Like family, you could say."
Then—muffled but unmistakable—Sophie's voice in the background.
I couldn't distinguish words. But the tone was clear: defiant, angry, fighting. My girl refusing to submit even when she was terrified, even when she was surrounded by enemies. The courage in her voice made my chest tight with pride and terror simultaneously.
Then a sharp sound. Flesh hitting flesh. The crack of a palm against a face.
Sophie screamed.
The sound cut through me like a blade, made my vision go red, made every strategic thought dissolve into pure rage. Someone had hit her. Had hurt her. Had put their hands on Sophie while she was defenseless and made her scream in pain.
I was standing without remembering the decision to stand, my chair slamming back against the wall. Kostya's hand found my arm—restraining, grounding, reminding me that I couldn't reach through the phone line and kill Anton with my bare hands even though every cell in my body was demanding exactly that.
"Don't fucking touch her—" The words tore out of me, all the careful control stripped away.
Anton talked over me like I hadn't spoken. "Mikhail sends his regards, by the way."
Maks leaned forward, his voice controlled despite the tension radiating through his frame. "You promised us Mikhail. When can we collect?"
The question was tactical. Precise. Attempting to salvage something from this disaster by at least securing my grandfather's release.
Anton laughed. The sound was genuine amusement, like Maks had just told an excellent joke.
"You can't. The old man stays. Sophie stays. And you—" A pause, letting the words sink in. "You get to live with knowing you failed both of them."
Failed both of them. The words landed in my chest like bullets.
"That's not—" I started, but there was no point. No negotiation possible when Anton held all the advantages. He had Sophie. Had Mikhail. Had everything that mattered while I stood here helpless and raging.
"I have a meeting to attend," Anton said, boredom creeping into his voice now that the taunting was complete. "But I'll be in touch. Maybe I'll send you photographs. Maybe a video of your sweet Sophie saying hello. Maybe—" He paused, and the pause carried enough weight to crush bones. "Maybe I'll invite you to the wedding."
Wedding. The word hit like acid. Anton planning to marry Sophie, his own half-sister, using genetics and power as justification for something that should be unthinkable.
"Twenty-four hours," Anton said, and his voice had gone flat now. Business instead of pleasure. "That's how long Sophie has to agree to marry me. After that—well. Accidents happen. Sisters can be very clumsy, especially when they have old knee injuries that never healed right."
The threat was specific. Deliberate. He knew about Sophie's knee, about the ballet career that ended with surgical screws and reconstructive surgery. Was threatening to damage it further, to hurt her in ways that would destroy what was left of her mobility.
"You touch her again—" My voice came out deadly quiet, the kind of quiet that preceded violence. "You so much as look at her wrong, and I will end you. Slowly. Painfully. I will make your death last days, Anton. I will make you beg for mercy I won't give."
The threat should have carried weight. Should have meant something. But I was in Brooklyn and Sophie was in Red Hook and Anton had all the power while I had none.
"Such passion," Anton said, and he was smiling again. I could hear it in his voice. "I look forward to watching you try. Goodbye, Nikolai Dmitrievich. Give my regards to the Pakhan of the Besharov bratva—oh wait. That's you. The Pakhan who lost his woman and his grandfather in the same morning. I'm sure history will remember this fondly."
The line went dead.
The silence after Anton hung up was absolute. Not peaceful—the kind of silence that came before explosions, before violence, before everything changed irrevocably. I stood at the war room table with my brothers flanking me, and the only sound was our collective breathing. Three men processing the same impossible situation, calculating the same terrible odds.
They needed to rescue Sophie. And Mikhail. Both of them, from separate locations probably, with the Belyaevs now on high alert knowing retaliation was coming. The logistics were impossible. The timeline was impossible. Everything was completely, utterly fucked.
Kostya moved first. He always did when situations required immediate action instead of careful planning. His massive frame shifted away from the wall where he'd been standing, and for the first time in our entire lives, his voice carried command that superseded my authority as Pakhan.
"We plan extraction." Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered with the kind of tactical certainty that came from years of being the family's enforcer. "Two teams. One for Sophie, one for Mikhail. Simultaneous assault. We coordinate with the Volkovs—they've got men and resources we need. We hit them hard and fast before they can relocate either hostage."
The plan was solid. Basic, brutal, exactly the kind of strategy Kostya excelled at. Overwhelming force applied at critical points. No subtlety, no careful negotiation. Just violence executed with precision.
Maks was already on his tablet, pulling up files with the speed of someone whose brain processed information faster than most people breathed. "The Red Hook facility has multiple entry points. Minimal security on the south side based on satellite imagery from last month. If we can get updated floor plans—"
"I have contacts in city planning," Kostya interrupted. "Can have blueprints in twenty minutes. Old construction, so probably hasn't been updated since the eighties. That gives us—"
