"Ventilation systems," Maks finished. "Service tunnels. Ingress points they won't be monitoring because the building is old enough that modern security wasn't designed into the original structure."
They were good. Were already building a tactical plan that might actually work despite impossible odds. Were doing exactly what they'd been trained to do—turn chaos into strategy, turn disaster into operational planning.
But I wasn't listening anymore.
Something was crystallizing in my mind. Sharp and clear as broken glass, cutting through the panic and rage and helpless terror that had been drowning me since I'd found Sophie's phone in that coffee shop trash can.
I'd been playing this wrong from the beginning.
I’d been respecting the rules of the game, when the Belyaevs hadn’t been playing a game at all. I’d been looking for the best move, when I should have been looking at how to break the fucking board.
Sophie had done that. She had sacrificed herself—her safety, her freedom, possibly her life—because she thought it wouldsave me. Save Mikhail. Save everyone she loved at the cost of herself.
I was done being careful. Done calculating odds and planning contingencies and trying to control outcomes through strategic thinking. Done being the Pakhan who never lost because he never risked anything that mattered.
It was time to burn it all down.
"Nikolai?" Maks's voice, cautious. He'd probably noticed that I wasn't participating in their planning, that I'd gone still and quiet in ways that usually meant I was processing something important.
I looked up at my brothers. At Kostya's brutal face showing concern despite his tactical focus. At Maks's analytical expression that was trying to read what I was thinking through micro-expressions and body language.
They were family. Not just by blood but by choice, by survival, by years of building the Besharov organization together. They'd follow me into whatever came next. Would trust my leadership even when they didn't understand the strategy.
And I was about to ask them to trust me in ways that went against everything we'd built. Everything I'd been as Pakhan. Every careful rule I'd followed about maintaining control and calculating outcomes and never, ever betting everything on a single desperate move.
"I know how to get them both back," I said, and my voice was steady now. Certain. The panic attack had burned through me, leaving clarity in its wake. "I know exactly what to do."
Kostya stopped mid-sentence, his tactical planning forgotten. Maks set down his tablet, giving me his full attention.
The war room felt smaller suddenly. More focused. Like the entire compound, the entire organization, the entire future was converging on this single moment where I'd either save everyone or destroy everything trying.
“What, brother?”
“We take all the pieces,” I said. “Every. Last. One.”
Chapter 17
Sophie
Thechaircostmorethan my childhood home—I knew it the second Anton's guards shoved me into it three hours ago. Red velvet, carved mahogany arms, the kind of antique that belonged in museums instead of what Anton called "the family room." The Belyaev compound in Red Hook was all dark wood paneling and oil paintings of stern Russian ancestors who stared down at me with judgment in their painted eyes. Men with thick beards and military medals, women in high collars and expressions that suggested they'd survived horrors I couldn't imagine. They'd probably be disgusted by what their descendant was planning. Or maybe they'd approve. Hard to tell with bratva families.
My wrists weren't bound. Small mercy. But two guards flanked the door—young, brutal-looking, the kind of men who'd follow orders without questioning whether those orders included hurting a woman. My bad knee throbbed where one of them had shoved me into the SUV this morning after I'd walked up to theirfacility like an idiot with a death wish. The surgical screws that held me together were making their presence known, sending sharp pains up my thigh every time I shifted weight.
Walking into danger had seemed brave at dawn. Now it just seemed stupid.
Anton circled me like a shark scenting blood. He held fabric swatches in his hands—cream and ivory, expensive silk that caught the light from the crystal chandelier overhead. Each sample was pinned with a label in elegant script. "For the wedding," he said, his Russian accent making the English words sound obscene. Like he was discussing funeral arrangements instead of marriage. "I'm thinking spring. April, maybe. Cherry blossoms are beautiful that time of year. Very romantic, don't you think?"
My stomach turned violently. He was talking about marrying his half-sister like it was a merger negotiation. Which maybe in his mind it was. Consolidating Belyaev bloodline. Eliminating competition. Using shared genetics as justification for something that made my skin crawl.
I disassociated, cataloging details instead. Survival mechanism. Information I could use later if—when—I got out of here.
Three exits. One behind me leading to the hallway I'd been dragged through. One to my left, partially obscured by a bookshelf, probably connecting to other rooms. One straight ahead blocked by the guards, leading to what looked like a main corridor based on the light coming through.
The windows were reinforced with security bars. Decorative on the outside—wrought iron in floral patterns—but functional. Keeping people in, not out.
The oil paintings were bolted to the walls. I could see the hardware when light hit at the right angle. Everything designed for security. For imprisonment disguised as luxury.
Anton knelt in front of my chair. The movement was deliberate, almost reverent, and wrong in every possible way. His hands found my knees—both of them, palms warm through the jeans I'd worn this morning when freedom was still possible. It was a mockery of how Nikolai touched me when I was Little. When I needed grounding. When gentle hands on my knees meant safety instead of violation.
