The call from Semyon came on the morning of the fourth day.
I was in my study, reviewing security rotations, when my phone buzzed with his encrypted number. The tension in his voice was immediate, unmistakable.
"We have a problem."
I closed the door, moving away from the window where Gaby might see me from the terrace. "Tell me."
"Our sources inside the Armenian organization finally came through. Pankratov is planning a major strike—coordinated attacks on multiple holdings. The Brooklyn docks, The Trophy Room, possibly the penthouse." A pause. "He's moving within forty-eight hours."
The words hit like bullets, each one a separate wound. The Brooklyn docks were the heart of our shipping operations—millions in legitimate cargo moving through every week, plus the less legitimate shipments that funded half our activities. The Trophy Room was more than a club; it was a symbol, a declaration of Chernov power in Manhattan. And the penthouse—
"He knows where I live."
"He knows everything, Vasily. Lucas gave him the keys to the kingdom before you killed him." Semyon's voice was grim. "This isn't a raid. It's an extinction event. He wants to wipe us off the map."
I sank into my chair, my mind racing through possibilities. We had men, resources, contingency plans for exactly this scenario. But plans required leadership. Required the Pakhan to be present, visible, commanding.
"What's our current defensive posture?"
"Strong, but not strong enough. I've pulled in everyone we can trust, fortified the key locations, but the men are nervous. They've been hearing rumors for weeks—that you've abandoned New York, that you care more about your wife than your empire." He hesitated. "They need to see you, Vasily. They need to know their leader is standing with them."
Every instinct screamed at me to refuse. To stay here, on this island, between Gaby and whatever darkness was coming. The thought of leaving her—leaving them—made my chest constrict with something close to panic.
But if Pankratov destroyed everything I'd built, what would I have left to protect them with? Money could be replaced, properties rebuilt. But reputation, power, the network of fear and loyalty that kept my enemies at bay—those things, once lost, were gone forever.
"How confident are we in this intelligence?" I asked.
"Confident. Three separate sources, all corroborating the same timeline. Pankratov's been stockpiling weapons, pulling in favors from the other Armenian crews. This is real, Vasily."
I closed my eyes, seeing Gaby's face. The way she'd looked this morning, sleepy and warm, her hand resting on her stomach as she'd told me about a dream she'd had. A little girl with green eyes, she'd said. Running through a garden full of flowers.
I couldn't lose that. Couldn't lose them.
But I couldn't protect them from a position of weakness either.
"I'll be on a plane within the hour," I said. "Triple the security on the island while I'm gone. No one in or out without my personal authorization."
"Already done. Kirill has his orders."
"Make sure he understands—she doesn't leave the house. Not for any reason. If anything feels wrong, anything at all, he's to get her to the safe room and contact me immediately."
"Understood." Semyon paused. "Vasily... be careful. Pankratov is desperate, and desperate men are unpredictable."
"I know." I ended the call and sat for a moment in the silence of my study, gathering myself for what came next.
The hardest part wouldn't be facing Pankratov. It would be telling Gaby I was leaving.
***
I found her in the library, curled in her favorite chair by the window.
She looked up when I entered, a smile starting on her lips—then fading as she read my expression. She'd learned to see through me in recent weeks, to recognize the tension I tried to hide.
"What's wrong?"
I crossed to her, kneeling beside the chair so our eyes were level. "I have to go to New York."
The color drained from her face. "When?"
