“Traffic cameras on the east corridor feed into the city grid. Private feeds take longer, but I can reroute through Tor.”
“Do whatever you need and make it quick. This is time-sensitive. I need this quiet so he isn’t alerted. If he knows he’s being hunted, he’ll panic and do something stupid.” I looked down at the streak of blood on the gravel near my car.
“He has Zoya,” I said before I could stop myself. I’d just revealed in those three words my one and only weakness, and silence on the other end followed.
“Understood,” was all Ilya said.
“I’m pulling every underground doctor on the organization’s payroll, and any private clinic that launders favors for the Bratva to see if there are any hits.”
I scrubbed a hand in my hair and then climbed in the car. I didn’t know where they were going, but I needed to move. “And air,” I added. “Private strips within a forty-mile radius. Helicopter pads registered under shell companies tied to him. I want fuel logs and take-off windows.”
“I’ll have something in three minutes.”
I trusted him. Ilya Zilokov didn’t guess or take chances. He was the best at what he did. He was known as The Reaper for a reason.
Another beat of silence. “Are you wounded?” Ilya asked, deep and low when I hissed.
I glanced down at the blood soaking through my shirt. “Not enough to matter.”
“Deal with it before you bleed out chasing him.”
“I’ll deal with it after I find him.” I ended the call before the rage could creep into my voice.
The night pressed in around me, thick and electric. Somewhere out there Andrey thought he’d taken back control and his power. Thought he’d forced my hand, but he was wrong.
He didn’t take my weakness. He gave me purpose.
Gravel ground under the tires as I pulled hard onto the service road. My shoulder screamed with every turn of the wheel, but the pain kept me sharp.
My hands tightened until the leather creaked beneath my grip. This wasn’t rage. This was fucking purpose.
“I’m coming for you, malyshka.”
And when I found Andrey, I wouldn’t leave anything left to bury.
Chapter 19
Zoya
The first thing I tasted was blood. Not enough to choke on, just enough to coat the back of my tongue and make every breath metallic and wrong.
My cheek was pressed against cold leather, my shoulder throbbing where someone had grabbed me hard enough to bruise. My wrists burned, skin abraded and raw from the binds my father wrapped around them after he tossed me in the vehicle.
I didn’t panic or alert him to the fact I was conscious. I catalogued every little thing.
The engine vibration beneath me, and I smelled blood and gunmetal coating the inside of my nose. I shifted my head just slightly to see if it was just me and my father in the car. We were moving fast but efficiently. I inhaled again and smelled expensive cologne… the same kind I’d known my entire life.
The interior was dark except for the occasional slash of passing streetlights cutting through tinted windows. My hands were zip-tied in front of me, and I looked over at my father and saw there was blood on his side, dripping down his arm and over his hand.
Good. I’d hit him.
He sat in the passenger seat, speaking low and almost inaudible in Russian to the man driving. But in a matter of seconds, he sensed I was awake, and he looked over his shoulder to look at me sprawled out in the back seat.
“There she is,” he murmured, his voice calm and measured, as if I’d just woken from a nap instead of being dragged out of my car at gunpoint. He adjusted the folded handkerchief pressed to his side, and I watched the white fabric darken as blood soaked through it in slow, spreading stains. “You shot me,” he continued evenly, as if commenting on poor table manners. His gaze lifted to mine, cool and assessing. “That was unnecessary. It seems we’ll need to revisit your understanding of consequences.”
“You took me,” I replied evenly, and when my voice didn’t shake, I held on to that minor victory.
His gaze speared into mine fully now, sharp and clinical as ever. He wasn’t looking at me like a father checking on his daughter. He was evaluating damage, calculating risk, and measuring his loss in me already.
