The words landed like blows.
Sophie stayed on her knees, chest heaving, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it had come. Maya was beside her now—somehow she'd gotten to her feet, chain rattling, hands reaching for Sophie's shoulders to pull her back.
"The terms are simple."
Anton took a step forward. Just one. Enough to establish dominance, to make it clear that he could come closer any time he wanted. That the chains we wore were courtesy, not protection.
"Your men agree to return to Russia—all of them, permanently—and you'll be released. Unharmed. Free to rebuild your lives however you choose, with them."
Russia. Permanently.
The weight of it settled over me. Everything the Besharovs had built—the compound, the businesses, the alliances, the family they'd fought and bled for—all of it abandoned. Surrendered. Left to Anton and whoever else wanted to pick over the remains.
"They refuse—"
He paused. Let the silence stretch, the particular weapon of someone who understood timing better than most.
"And you disappear."
Maya's breath caught. Just slightly, just enough that I noticed.
"Not death." Anton's smile widened. Still cold, still calculated, but something worse lurked underneath it now. Satisfaction. "Just . . . relocation. Somewhere they'll neverfind you. Somewhere you'll have years—decades, perhaps—to contemplate what your stubbornness cost the people you love."
Not death.
The distinction should have been reassuring. It wasn't.
He wanted the brothers to suffer.
Wanted them to know, for the rest of their lives, that somewhere out there the women they loved were alive and beyond saving. The cruelty of it was surgical. Perfect. The kind of torment that would never heal because it would never end.
"They have forty-eight hours to decide how much you're worth to them."
He turned.
Started up the stairs with that same unhurried grace, like he was leaving a cocktail party instead of a prison. His guards fell into formation behind him, silent, unnecessary.
At the top of the stairs, he paused.
Looked back at us—three women chained to pipes in his basement, broken and bleeding and desperately trying not to show it.
"I hope they choose wisely," he said. "For your sakes."
The door closed.
The light cut off.
And the silence that followed was worse than anything he'd said.
I could hear Sophie's ragged breathing. Could hear the clink of Maya's chain as she lowered herself back to the floor. Could hear my own heart pounding, too fast, too loud, the particular rhythm of someone processing a threat they couldn't fight and couldn't flee.
Forty-eight hours.
In forty-eight hours, the brothers would either abandon everything they'd built or lose us forever. Either way, Anton won. He'd designed it that way—a trap with no good exits,a choice that destroyed something no matter which path was taken.
They have forty-eight hours to decide how much you're worth to them.
I knew what Maks would choose. Knew what all the brothers would choose—they'd burn their empire to ash before abandoning the women they loved. That was the problem. That was exactly what Anton was counting on.
