Then there’s Dmitri. He’s younger, volatile, and loyal in a way that borders on feral. Protective of his sister to the point of violence. The kind who doesn’t negotiate first. If Viktor is the architect and Mikhail is the diplomat, Dmitri is their weapon.
And I put my hands on their sister. I didn’t know who she was when I took her out of that building. She was just a woman chained to a wall with blood on her lip, bruises covering every inch of her, and fury in her eyes. The most beautifully broken woman I had ever seen. But that was before I knew I was holding his daughter. Anastasiya Dragunov. Anya. She was raised for alliance. For leverage. For strategy. Groomed to be positioned carefully, married carefully, moved like a queen on a chessboard. And instead, she ended up in a warehouse in New Jersey.
I rub a hand over my jaw and stare down the hallway. She’s asleep in my guest room and I just told Viktor Dragunov that if he doesn’t come as a father, he’ll meet resistance.
I knew who he was when I deep-dived Volkov. Knew his reach. Knew the kind of men who answer when he calls. I wasn’t worried about him before. Now I’m calculating differently. Not because I’m afraid. Because now I know exactly what’s attached to her name. Viktor Dragunov. Mikhail, the heir. Dmitri, the weapon. And Anastasiya. The daughter who walked away from her security. The daughter who survived eighteen days and didn’t give up a single piece of information.
I glance toward the closed bedroom door again. If her father comes as a father, we’ll shake hands. If he doesn’t… My jaw tightens. I meant what I said.
I stare at my phone for a full ten seconds before I hit Mason’s number, knowing I need to make this call, but hating that I have to.
He answers on the second ring, voice steady and alert. “Is she okay?”
I glance down the hallway toward the guest bedroom. The door is closed. No sound from inside. “She’s sleeping,” I tell him. “Finally.”
There’s a shift in his tone. “What’s wrong?” He knows me well enough to hear it in my voice.
I lean back against the counter and sigh heavily. “You remember the deep dive I did on Volkov?”
“Yeah. You pulled everything you could on his routes and his connections.”
“Do you remember the name Dragunov coming up?”
There’s a pause. Recognition settling in. “Yeah,” Mason says more slowly. “He wasn’t small-time.”
“No, he wasn’t,” I sigh. “He wasn’t a problem before. But he might be now.”
Another beat. “Spell it out, Riot. What the fuck is going on?”
I exhale. “Her name isn’t Anya, it’s Anastasiya Dragunov.”
“Fuck…You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. I confirmed it.”
The line goes quiet for a second before he mutters, “Son of a bitch.”
“She’s his daughter,” I continue. “The only one.” Mason doesn’t interrupt. He’s building the picture in his head. “She was taken from Moscow,” I go on. “Grabbed off the street and moved here. Volkov was trying to squeeze information out of her about her father’s operations. Routes. Contacts. Leverage.”
“And?” Mason asks, but there’s something in his tone already.
“She didn’t give him anything,” I say. “He beat her for eighteen days and she didn’t break.”
That part sits heavy in my chest and Mason lets out a slow breath. I push off the counter and start pacing the length of the kitchen. “There’s more,” I add.
“Of course there is,” he sighs. “Go on.”
“She called her father tonight.”
The silence that follows is different. “She what?”
“She told him that she’s safe. He knows Volkov is dead. He knows she’s here.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah. She handed me the phone.”
Mason exhales slowly. “What exactly did you say?”
