"Oh, they fucking knew," Kostya agreed, his voice carrying edges that meant someone was going to bleed for this.
The sixth and seventh photos were from the boardwalk. Me winning her the unicorn at the ring toss, her face bright with joy. Her clutching the oversized plush to her chest while we walked,that particular skip in her step that only happened when she was little. Moments that were supposed to be private, sacred, ours—all captured and cataloged like evidence.
But the eighth photograph was the one that made my hands curl into fists.
Sophie in my lap on the beach blanket. Her body curled small against my chest, my arms around her, her face pressed into my neck. The angle caught her mouth moving—saying something. And based on the timestamps, the context, the way I was looking down at her with absolute devotion, I knew exactly what she'd been saying.
Daddy.
She'd called me Daddy on that blanket. Had slipped fully little while I held her, safe enough to let go completely. And someone had photographed it. Had documented the moment when my carefully constructed Pakhan armor cracked to reveal the man who would burn the world to keep this girl safe.
"How close were they?" I asked, though I could estimate from the image quality. Close enough to hear us if they had directional microphones. Close enough to document every word, every gesture, every moment of vulnerability.
"Close enough," Kostya said. "Military-grade surveillance equipment. Professional technique. They've done this before."
Of course they had. The Belyaevs didn't hire amateurs.
Maks tapped his keyboard, bringing up technical analysis. "The files were sent to Anton Belyaev's private server three hours ago. Our informant intercepted the transmission before it could be distributed to the full Belyaev leadership."
Three hours. Which meant we had maybe six hours before every Belyaev soldier knew that the Pakhan of the Besharov bratva had a weakness. Before they knew Sophie was Little, that she regressed, that she called me Daddy while sucking herthumb in public places. Before this became a full organizational incident instead of contained intelligence.
My mind was already running scenarios. Probabilities. Outcomes.
Option one: Kill Anton before he could distribute the photos. Probability of success: forty percent. Probability of starting a war: ninety-eight percent. Probability of finding all copies of the surveillance: twelve percent.
Option two: Negotiate. Offer something Anton wanted more than leverage. Probability of success: thirty percent. Probability of maintaining Sophie's privacy: next to zero.
Option three: Disappear. Take Sophie underground until the heat died down. Probability of success: sixty percent. Probability of Mikhail forgiving me for abandoning my position: zero percent.
None of them were good options. All of them ended with Sophie's vulnerability exposed, with her private regression becoming bratva gossip, with the sanctity of what we'd built together violated for political gain.
"We need to move her," Kostya said, pushing off from the wall. "Safe house in Jersey. Maybe upstate. Somewhere the Belyaevs can't reach."
I was already shaking my head before he finished. "Moving her now exposes her. The compound is the most secure location we have. Walls, guards, controlled access points. Out there—" I gestured vaguely toward the windows, toward the city beyond. "—we're vulnerable. Ambush points at every intersection."
"So we keep her here and wait for them to come to us?" Maks asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer.
"We fortify. Double the guards. Lock down access. And we—"
The alarm cut through my words like a blade through silk. Not the gentle chime that announced expected visitors. The sharp, blaring shriek that meant breach. Unauthorizedentry. Someone coming into the compound without permission, without clearance, without respect for the protocols that kept us all alive.
My hand went to the gun at my back before conscious thought. Kostya was already moving toward the door, his weapon drawn. Maks slammed his laptop shut, fingers flying across his phone screen to pull up the security feeds.
"Front entrance," he said, his voice tight. "Six heat signatures. Armed."
Six. In my compound. In my home. Where Sophie was upstairs, locked in my bedroom, vulnerable despite every protection I'd tried to build around her.
The rage that had been building since I saw the first photograph crystallized into something cold and lethal. Someone had violated my territory. Had brought weapons into my home. Had threatened everything I was trying to protect.
"Stay behind me," I told Maks, though he was already moving. Kostya was ahead of us, his massive frame filling the hallway, weapon ready.
We moved through the compound like a unit. Brothers who'd trained together, fought together, survived together. My mind was cataloging trajectories and angles, counting steps to the foyer, calculating how many seconds until violence became inevitable.
The compound's layout was burned into my memory—seventeen steps from the war room to the main hallway, thirty-two steps to the foyer, sight lines from the balcony that overlooked the entrance. Every advantage I had, every tactical position, every piece of home-ground knowledge.
But someone had still gotten inside. Had bypassed security, avoided detection long enough to reach the front entrance with six armed men.
That wasn't carelessness. That was a message.
