"Miss Markova?" The voice is female, professional, speaking rapid Russian. "This is City Hospital Number Six in Moscow. I'm calling about Sasha Markova."
My grandmother. My heart stops.
"Her condition has deteriorated rapidly in the past hour. We're moving her into emergency surgery immediately. The doctors…"The woman's voice softens with sympathy. "They wanted us to call. If you wish to speak with her before the procedure, you need to call now. I can transfer you to her room."
The world tilts sideways. Alexei is staring at me, his face pale, reading the panic in my expression. Megan has one hand pressed to her mouth. And I'm standing on a sidewalk, my phone clutched in my trembling hand, about to say what might be my final words to the woman who raised me.
"Transfer me," I whisper.
32
ROMAN
The basement of my estate exists in the blueprints as a wine cellar. That's what the contractors built, what the permits say, what anyone who might ask would be told. But the temperature-controlled room with its elegant racks and carefully curated bottles is just the entrance. Behind a false wall that opens with the right pressure point lies the real purpose of this space—a soundproofed room designed for extracting truth through pain.
Tyler Chen sits zip-tied to a metal chair in the center of that room, his wire-rimmed glasses askew, one lens cracked from where Lev's fist connected with his face during the initial "conversation". The boy's left eye is swelling shut, his lip split and bleeding, and there's a nasty bruise forming along his jaw. His laptop and two phones are spread across the steel table against the wall, evidence of his amateur investigation into my operations. The printouts we found in his apartment are there too—financial records, surveillance photos, news articles about Russian organized crime. The foolish boy has been building a case, trying to prove what I am so he could save Eva from a monster.
I circle him slowly, my footsteps echoing against concrete walls, letting the silence stretch and amplify his fear. Tyler's breathing is rapid and shallow, his body trembling despite his attempts to appear brave. He's terrified, as he should be. People who dig into my business don't usually live long enough to regret it.
"Who do you work for?" My voice is low, controlled, the tone I use when I'm deciding whether someone lives or dies.
"N–No one." Tyler's voice cracks, tears streaming down his bruised face. "I swear, I'm working alone. I just… I just wanted to protect Eva. She doesn't know what you are, what you're capable of?—"
"What have you told the authorities?" I interrupt, leaning down until we're eye level. This close, I can see the terror in his brown eyes, the way his pupils are dilated with fear. "FBI? Local police? Who knows about your investigation?"
"No one! I haven't told anyone!" His words tumble out desperately. "I was still gathering evidence, trying to understand the full scope before I… before I…"
"Before you what?" Lev's voice cuts through the room like a blade. He's standing near the table, arms crossed, his dark eyes flat and professional. "Before you went to the cops?"
Tyler's composure shatters completely. He sobs, his shoulders shaking, snot and tears mixing with the blood on his face. "I just love her. I just wanted to save her from you. From this world. She deserves better than a criminal, better than someone who…"
I straighten, my jaw tight with barely controlled rage. The boy's devotion to Eva is almost admirable in its stupidity. Foolish. Brave. Completely fucking idiotic.
"We could make him more cooperative," Lev suggests, his tone suggesting he's discussing the weather rather than torture. He moves to the table, his fingers trailing over the tools laid out there—pliers, a blowtorch, knives of various sizes. "A few broken fingers usually loosens tongues. Or we could try the blowtorch. Very effective for extracting truth."
Tyler's eyes go wide with horror, his breathing accelerating to hyperventilation. "Please, please, I'm telling the truth! I haven't told anyone! Check my phone, my laptop, my emails. There's nothing! I was working alone!"
I study him carefully, reading every micro-expression, every tell. I've interrogated hundreds of men over the years and can spot a lie from across a room. Tyler Chen is many things, but he's not lying. He really did this alone, driven by nothing but his pathetic need to protect a woman who doesn't want his protection.
The question is what to do with him now.
Lev catches my eye, his expression asking the question we both know needs answering. Tyler has seen too much, knows too much. He's uncovered connections to my shipping operations, traced money through several of my laundering channels, identified associates who should be invisible. Releasing him would be suicide. One phone call to the authorities could destroy everything I've built. But killing him…
I think about Eva upstairs, about the fragile trust we've been building since she agreed to marry me. She cares about this boy, even if she doesn't love him. His death would be another wedge between us, another reason for her to hate me, another piece of evidence that I'm the monster everyone says I am.
Before I can make a decision, footsteps echo from the wine cellar above. One of my soldiers appears in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. "Boss, Miss Markovais upstairs. She's demanding to see you immediately."
Eva is upstairs and demanding my presence. The audacity of it would be amusing if I weren't standing in my torture room with a bleeding college student zip-tied to a chair.
"Tell her I'll be up shortly," I say, my voice flat.
"She said now." The soldier shifts uncomfortably. "She's… insistent."
Lev's eyebrow raises slightly, the closest he comes to showing amusement. "Eva has balls, Roman. I'll give her that."
I glance at Tyler one more time then nod at Lev. "Watch him. I'll be back."
The walk from the basement to the main living area feels longer than it should. I'm acutely aware of the blood on my knuckles from earlier, the way my shirt is slightly disheveled from the interrogation. I pause in the hallway bathroom to wash my hands, checking my reflection to ensure I look presentable rather than like a man who's been considering torture.
