Nikolai's nod was slow. Approving. "Clean."
"Smart," Konstantin agreed. "They think they're hunting her. We set the trap."
"When they move on the gallery, we'll have people in position. The moment their team reveals itself—" I made a capturing gesture. "We take them. Interrogate. Find out exactly where Anton is running this operation from."
"And then?" Nikolai's voice was soft. Dangerous.
"Then we end it."
The words hung in the air. We all knew what ending it meant. Anton Belyaev had been a threat for too long—disrupting operations, testing boundaries, now targeting the people we loved. This wasn't business anymore. This was personal.
"I want whoever designed that website," I added. "Whoever wrote those fake reviews. Everyone who helped build this trap for Auralia—I want them."
Konstantin clapped a massive hand on my shoulder. The impact was jarring even through my shirt.
"We'll get them, little brother. Every last one."
I believed him. How could I not? Konstantin had never made a promise he didn't keep, especially when it involved violence in service of family.
We spent the next hour refining details.
Positions. Communications. Contingency plans for if things went sideways. The particular choreography of a counter-ambush—making the enemy think they were springing a trap while walking into ours.
By the time we finished, I felt something close to confidence.
The plan was clean. Every variable accounted for. Every weakness addressed. Anton's people would show up expecting a vulnerable artist; they'd find three Besharov brothers and a dozen armed men instead.
We had him.
Finally, after months of defensive positioning and careful watching, we had the initiative. Anton had overreached. His clever little trap had given us exactly what we needed to strike back.
Nikolai straightened from the tactical display. His face was still cold, but something satisfied lurked in his eyes.
TheChelseaeveningwastoo perfect.
That was my first thought as we approached the gallery—the particular wrongness of a mild autumn night, the kind of weather that made people linger on sidewalks and notice things they shouldn't. Bad for an ambush. Good for witnesses. I pushed the observation aside. We'd accounted for it. Positioned our people to blend with the evening crowd. Everything was in place.
The gallery sat at the end of a quiet block, its windows dark, its facade unremarkable. Elena Voss's chosen meeting place. The trap we were about to spring.
Nikolai materialized at my shoulder. He moved like smoke through the shadows, his presence more felt than seen. We exchanged a look—the particular communication of brothers who'd done this before, who knew each other's rhythms without needing words.
I nodded.
He nodded back.
Konstantin appeared from the opposite direction, massive even in the dim light, his men flowing into position behind him like water finding its level. Twelve soldiers. Almost our entire force, concentrated here for exactly this moment. Overwhelming odds against whatever extraction team Anton had sent.
The plan was clean. We'd take their people. Interrogate them. Find Anton.
End this.
"On your mark," Nikolai murmured.
I raised my hand. Counted the seconds. Felt my brothers beside me—Kostya's coiled violence, Nikolai's cold precision, my own calculated fury at what Anton had done to Auralia.
Three.
Two.
