Ramiz Krasniqi.
A man who once skinned a rival alive and left him on display for three days. A man who builds empires on brutality and maintains them through terror.
If he has Victoria…
The thought tries to form and I strangle it. Not yet. Information first. Panic serves no one.
My jaw tightens. I taste blood where I've bitten the inside of my cheek without noticing.
"Why?" I keep my voice level, each word carved from ice. "How?"
"No time to explain." Background noise swells through the connection. Car engines roaring to life, men shouting coordinates, the metallic click of magazines being loaded. "You need to move. Now. I'm sending you an address. Get your men and meet me there."
"Why should we believe you?"
The pause stretches.
"Because," Luan says, and his voice drops into what might be regret. Maybe grief. The kind that comes when you realize the monster you're hunting shares your blood.
Another pause, heavier than the first. I can hear his breathing, controlled but quick.
"We're going to kill my father."
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone slowly. My hand is steady. My expression is calm. Inside, the fracture widens.
Zakhar's watching me, trying to read my face. "What did he say?"
"Ramiz has her." The words taste like the particular flavor of failure I haven't tasted since Moscow. "Luan's moving against his father. Now. Wants us to meet him."
"It's a trap," Zakhar says immediately. His hand rests on his weapon, fingers loose but ready.
"Probably." I straighten my cuffs, adjusting them with precise care. The gesture grounds me. "But if there's any chance Victoria is with Ramiz Krasniqi, we're going."
If it's a trap, we kill everyone and take what we came for. If Luan's telling the truth, we have a temporary ally. Either way, Victoria comes home.
Or I burn Chicago to ashes finding her.
Zakhar's coordinating with our drivers, ensuring we have multiple routes and backup vehicles. Alexei's already stripped off his bow tie, rolled up his sleeves, checking his weapon.
We move as one. The corridor’s plush carpet muffling our footsteps. Behind us, the opera continues, applause thundering through the walls like distant artillery.
In the lobby, our men wait. Armed and silent, faces I've known for years. Men who followed me from Moscow, who built this empire on blood and loyalty and the understanding that some debts can only be paid in violence.
"Ramiz Krasniqi has Mrs. Severyn," I tell them. No preamble. No speeches. "We're going to get her back. Anyone standing between us and that objective dies. No exceptions. No hesitation."
They nod. No questions. No doubts.
This is what we do.
This is what we are.
I push through the doors into Chicago's night air. It's cold, wind cutting through the tuxedo. The SUVs wait at the curb, engines running, doors open. Exhaust rises in white plumes against streetlights.
My phone buzzes. Luan's message with an address I recognize.
39
