We rounded the final corner, and I could see them through the archway. Six Belyaev soldiers arrayed with military precision, hands near weapons, watching exits with professional assessment. And in the center, like he'd been invited instead of breaking in—
Anton Belyaev stood in my foyer like he owned it.
Theprotocolviolationwasstaggering. You didn't enter another Pakhan's compound uninvited. Didn't bring armed men into someone's home without it being a declaration of war. Anton Belyaev stood in my foyer like he'd been invited for tea, his six soldiers arranged with the kind of precision that spoke to military training, and every instinct I had was screaming that this was calculated. An insult designed to provoke, a test to see if I'd choose honor over strategy.
I chose strategy. Barely.
Anton was fifty-something, silver hair immaculate despite the Brooklyn humidity, sharp eyes that tracked movement like a predator cataloging prey. His Moscow accent wrapped around words with the kind of comfort that came from never bothering to lose it. A power move. A reminder that he'd come from harder places than I had, survived worse than I could imagine.
"Besharov," he said, my name carrying weight that felt like mockery. "You have something that belongs to us. We've come to collect."
I counted enemies automatically. Six Belyaev soldiers, hands near weapons, positioned to cover exits and angles. Professional. Ready. Behind me, Kostya and Maks were solid presences—Kostya radiating barely contained violence, Maks probably running probability calculations on his phone. Four Besharovguards were converging from other parts of the compound, weapons drawn, bringing our numbers closer to even.
Close enough that this could go bloody in seconds. Close enough that starting a firefight here, with Sophie upstairs, with innocents in the compound, would be the kind of chess move that cost you the game even if you survived it.
"I have nothing of yours," I said, and my voice came out flat. Cold. Pure Pakhan, stripped of everything human. "And you're violating every protocol by being here. Leave. Now. Before this becomes an incident neither of our families can walk back from."
The threat was real. We both knew it.
Anton smiled. The expression didn't reach his eyes, didn't carry anything resembling warmth or humor. Just satisfaction at a move well-played.
"The girl. Sophie." He said her name with false familiarity that made my jaw clench. "You purchased her at auction, yes? We're prepared to reimburse you. Double what you paid. Triple, even. We just want the girl."
The casual way he said it—like Sophie was merchandise, like her value could be calculated in dollars, like she was a commodity to be traded between men who saw her as nothing but leverage—made violence rise in my throat like bile.
"She's not for sale."
The words came out harder than I intended. Sharper. With edges that revealed too much about how I actually felt, about what Sophie had become to me in the weeks since the auction. Not an asset. Not leverage. Mine.
I saw Anton register the tone. Saw the slight widening of his eyes, the microscopic uptick at the corner of his mouth. Recognition. Satisfaction. Like I'd just confirmed something he'd suspected, played right into whatever strategy he'd planned.
Fuck.
"Even if she were available," I continued, trying to recover the slip with logic, with strategic thinking, "she's useless to you now. She won't share information. Won't cooperate. I've seen to that."
It was true. Sophie had no loyalty to her father's memory, no connection to his debts or his business. She'd been sold to settle his gambling losses, treated like an asset instead of a daughter. Why would she help the Belyaevs extract information she probably didn't have about a man she'd barely mourned?
But Anton's smile widened, and something cold slid down my spine. That look. The satisfaction of a chess player who'd just seen his opponent walk into a trap seventeen moves in the making.
"Useless?" He reached into his jacket—slowly, deliberately, making sure everyone saw it wasn't a weapon. Making sure we all understood he wasn't afraid of the six guns currently pointed at his skull.
He pulled out a manila envelope. Standard size, nothing remarkable except for the weight it seemed to carry. The way Anton held it like it contained secrets worth more than the blood about to be spilled.
He tossed it onto the marble floor between us. It landed with a slap that echoed in the suddenly silent foyer, and I knew—absolutely knew—that whatever was inside would change everything.
I didn't move to pick it up. Didn't need to. The surveillance photos from Brighton Beach were probably in there, documentation of Sophie's regression, proof that the Pakhan of the Besharov bratva had a weakness that could be exploited.
But Anton wanted a performance. Wanted the humiliation to be public, witnessed by both our men, recorded in the collective memory of everyone present.
Kostya bent down, retrieved the envelope, handed it to me without looking inside. The weight of it felt like doom wrapped in paper.
I opened it. The photos spilled out.
Not just the beach ones Maks had shown me twenty minutes ago. There were more. Newer. From today.
Sophie at Littlespace NYC, walking into the building holding my hand, her face open and trusting. Sophie leaving hours later with Mr. Hoppy and Rosie clutched to her chest, her body language still soft with regression, her expression carrying the kind of contentment that only came from being safely Little.
Someone had been watching the entire time. Had documented our whole day. Had followed us from Brooklyn to Chelsea and back, capturing every moment of vulnerability, every instance where Sophie had been small and I'd been the Daddy protecting her.
