She's right. Five years ago, I was building an empire for the sake of power, for survival. Now I'm fighting for Alina and the future we're trying to create. That changes everything.
By the time the sun starts to set, painting the study in shades of gold and amber, we have a lead. One of my most reliable informants calls with information that feels solid. A private estate in the countryside, about two hours from the city. It's owned by one of Mikhail's old associates, a man who supposedly retired from the Bratva years ago.
"It makes sense," Alexei says when I call him back to the study. "Mikhail would need a base of operations, somewhere securewhere he could plan without being detected. And Anatoly Volkov has always been loyal to him."
Anatoly. I remember him, a distant cousin of Mikhail's. Quiet, methodical, the kind of man who fades into the background. Perfect for hiding a ghost.
"We need to confirm it before we move," I say, already planning. "Send a reconnaissance team. I want eyes on that estate, photos of everyone coming and going. If Mikhail is there, I want to know his security setup, his routines, everything."
Alexei nods and starts coordinating on his phone. I turn to Alina, who's been listening quietly.
"You should rest," I tell her.
"Don't," she interrupts, her voice firm. "Don't try to protect me by shutting me out. I'm in this with you, Dimitri. Whatever happens, we face it together."
I want to argue, want to lock her in our bedroom where she'll be safe. But I see the determination in her face, the same strength that made her pull a gun on me, that made her kill her own father.
"Together," I agree, pulling her into my arms.
We spend the next few hours planning. Alexei coordinates the reconnaissance team while I review everything we know about Mikhail's tactics, his preferences, his weaknesses. Alina sits beside me, asking questions, offering insights. She has a sharp mind for strategy, seeing angles I might have missed.
Night falls, and still no word from the reconnaissance team. I'm starting to pace, the dragon tattoo on my neck feeling tight against my skin, when my phone buzzes.
But it's not a call from my team. It's a video message from an unknown number.
My blood runs cold.
"Dimitri?" Alina's voice is concerned. "What is it?"
I don't answer. I just tap the screen to play the video, and suddenly, the study is filled with a voice I haven't heard in five years. A voice I thought I'd never hear again.
The video shows a luxurious room, all dark wood and expensive furnishings. And there, sitting in a leather chair with a glass of what looks like expensive scotch, is Mikhail Volkov.
He looks older than I remember, his silver hair longer, his face more lined. But those blue eyes are the same, cold, calculating, and filled with intelligence. He's wearing an expensive suit, perfectly tailored, and he looks completely at ease.
When he smiles at the camera, it's the smile I remember from our early days together. Warm, almost paternal. It makes my skin crawl.
"Hello, old friend," Mikhail says, his Russian accent smooth and cultured.
35
ALINA
Istand behind Dimitri's chair, my hands gripping his shoulders as we watch the video play on his phone screen. The man who appears is handsome in a way that makes my skin crawl. Silver hair perfectly styled, cold blue eyes that hold intelligence and cruelty in equal measure, an expensive suit that probably costs more than most people make in a month. He looks like he could be a CEO or a politician. Instead, he's the ghost who's been orchestrating our nightmare.
Mikhail Volkov.
"Hello, old friend." His voice is smooth, cultured, his Russian accent refined rather than harsh. He speaks the language like poetry, each word carefully chosen. "I hope this message finds you well. And congratulations on your recent marriage. I've been following your… adventures with great interest."
Dimitri's shoulders tense beneath my hands, the muscles turning to stone. I can feel the rage radiating from him, barely contained.
"Your bride is quite beautiful, Dimitri. Those green eyes, that red hair. I can see why you were so quick to claim her after poor Sergei's unfortunate death." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "And I hear you've taken in her younger sister as well. Katya, isn't it? Sixteen years old. Such a vulnerable age."
My blood turns to ice. The implied threat is clear, and my hands tighten on Dimitri's shoulders. He reaches up and covers one of my hands with his, squeezing gently. A silent reassurance, though I can feel the tremor in his fingers.
"I imagine you're wondering how I'm alive," Mikhail continues, swirling the scotch in his glass. "The prison riot was quite convincing, wasn't it? The body, the funeral, the grief. You played your part beautifully,Dima,” he said, using the abbreviated version of Dimitri’s name. “You always were good at playing roles."
"Five years,"Mikhail continues, his voice taking on a harder edge. "Five years I've spent planning this moment. Building resources, making connections, positioning pieces on the board. The church attack, Viktor Popov's convenient ambition, the Kozlov family's eagerness for revenge. Lorenzo’s hatred, so easy to manipulate. All of it orchestrated to bring you to exactly where you are now."
