She had me. Had the Bratva. Had resources that Sebastian couldn’t begin to compete with.
And he’d just given me the perfect excuse to break every promise I’d made to Vladimir about keeping my hands clean.
Forty-eight hours. He’d said forty-eight hours.
I was going to find him in twenty-four.
And when I did, when I finally had him in front of me—Douglas Maclanden, Sebastian Davis, the ghost who’d hauntedme for four years and terrorized my wife for five—I was going to show him exactly what happened when you threatened what belonged to me.
“Kirill.” Drew’s voice cut through my thoughts. “You good?”
“No.” I met his gaze steadily. “But I will be. As soon as Sebastian Davis is dead.”
He nodded once, understanding everything I wasn’t saying. Understanding that this had moved beyond professional. Beyond revenge for the money he’d stolen or the reputation he’d damaged.
This was personal. About Barbara. About the baby. About the family I’d built and would protect with every skill, every resource, every ounce of violence I possessed.
“Let’s find him,” Timur said, cracking his knuckles. “And let’s make him wish he’d stayed dead the first time.”
I turned back to the screens, fingers already flying across the keyboard, pulling up every piece of data we had. Forty-eight hours. Sebastian thought he had forty-eight hours to enjoy his power trip. To savor the fear he’d instilled in Barbara. To plan whatever twisted reveal he’d been dreaming about.
Chapter 23 – Barbara
“Absolutely not.”
Kirill’s voice was flat, final, leaving no room for negotiation. He stood in the center of his penthouse living room, arms crossed, every line of his body radiating refusal.
“Kirill, please—” I started, but he cut me off.
“No, Barbara. You’re not putting yourself in danger. You’re pregnant. You’re—”
“I’m the only bait he’ll come for.” I forced myself to stay calm, to make him see logic instead of just his protective instincts. “Sebastian won’t meet with you. He won’t meet with Timur or any Bratva member. But he’ll meet with me. He always has.”
“Which is exactly why you’re not going.” Kirill moved closer, his hands finding my shoulders. “I won’t risk you. I won’t risk our child. There has to be another way.”
“There isn’t.” I met his gaze steadily. “You said it yourself: We have less than forty-eight hours before he releases that video. We don’t have time for elaborate plans or waiting for Los Zetas to find him. We need to draw him out. Now. And I’m the only way to do that.”
The argument had been raging for twenty minutes. Kirill refused. I insisted. He threatened to lock me in the penthouse. I threatened to go anyway. Back and forth until finally, desperately, I’d called Vladimir.
The Sovetnik had listened to both sides, his ice-blue eyes giving nothing away through the video call. Then he’d delivered his verdict.
“No. Barbara Petrov is carrying the Bratva bloodline. She does not put herself in danger. Find another way.”
But I hadn’t given up. Had kept pushing, kept arguing, kept explaining that Sebastian would smell a trap if anyoneelse tried to lure him out. That he knew Bratva tactics, knew Los Zetas operations, knew how to spot surveillance and avoid capture.
That the only person he’d underestimate was me.
Finally—finally—Vladimir had relented. On conditions. So many conditions.
Crowded location. Open-air plaza. Bratva men positioned at every exit, every vantage point, every possible angle. Kirill within striking distance at all times. Body armor beneath my clothes. Weapons hidden on multiple operatives. An escape plan. A backup escape plan. A plan for if everything went to hell.
And even then, Vladimir had made it clear: One wrong move, one sign of danger, and I was to be extracted immediately, whether Sebastian had been caught or not.
Now, standing in the middle of an outdoor plaza in downtown Chicago, I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake.
The sun was scorching, beating down with late afternoon intensity that made sweat gather at the small of my back beneath the light summer jacket I wore. Street vendors lined the edges of the plaza, their carts filled with food that sent competing scents into the air: roasted corn, grilled meat, something sweet and fried. The hum of traffic provided constant background noise, punctuated by laughter from tourists and locals enjoying the weather.
Normal. Everything looked so beautifully, perfectly normal.
