I recalled the moment I decided to file the lawsuit, standing alone in my office that night and thinking about Damian Lobanov’s ‘Ghost’ reputation. I remembered wondering what kind of man survived doing such work. However, now that he was my captor, that simple thought unsettled me.
The door opened, immediately stopping my thoughts. I didn’t look up immediately. I let him stand there, letting the silence stretch until it became a test of wills. I wanted him to feel the weight of my stillness.
When I finally raised my head, my level gaze met his.
It was even more apparent that he was taller than the photos in the dossiers and broader in the shoulders. In a navy suit that made his blue eyes seem brighter, even though that penetrating yet unreadable gaze couldn’t be shaken, he looked like someone who never got tired.
“Names, Elena,” he said. No greeting. No preamble. Just the demand. It was the voice of a man used to being obeyed without question.
“I can’t give you names. I mean, names are a temporary currency,” I replied, shrugging. My voice was calm, like it usually was whenever I lectured junior partners. “If I give you a name, you kill a man. The problem remains.”
Not giving him a chance to respond yet, I went on. “The lawsuit isn’t a straight line, in case you hadn’t already noticed. It has a complete, thorough form on the surface. That means the media will have two different, seemingly independent stories about it when it goes public. Did you thinkthatwas a mistake? It’s multifaceted for a reason. Every part, every piece of thread tied around the lawsuit is there for a reason. The financiers, the other companies, the Bratva—it’s all to an end that’s beyond any of the organizations in isolation. The lawsuit isn’t starting the story; it’s giving it a conclusion.”
Still refusing to break eye contact even while I was internally shutting off all emotional engagement, I watched his face closely. I saw the moment the irritation flared in his eyes—a tiny tightening of his jaw that told me I was smarter than he had prepared for.
I didn’t retreat as he slowly stepped closer, invading my personal space. My body reacted despite my resolve; a sharp, unwanted heat curled low in my stomach. I hated it. I used that irritation to sharpen my gaze, locking my eyes onto his.
“I’m the black sheep of the family because I refused to become a permanent shield for criminals who kill their own,”I revealed. “I didn’t betray the Bratva, I forced it to confront itself.”
He looked like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. Instead, he turned around and moved towards the door.
“If you kill me, the lawsuit detonates, and the traitor vanishes into the chaos,” I dropped just before he walked out the door.
And I was left alone in the room again, my heart pounding for the first time since I’d been kidnapped. It wasn’t fear that made my heart pound; it was the realization that Damian understood me now.
And that understanding was dangerous.
Chapter Four
Damian’s POV
The hallway outside Elena’s room stretched before me like a condemned man’s walk to the gallows. My footsteps didn't make any decipherable sound, but they were heavy, weighted by knowledge I hadn’t wanted and couldn’t ignore.
The lawsuit wasn't random. It was a careful strike aimed directly at the Bratva’s throat.
I’d extracted just enough from Elena to understand the architecture of the plan—to know it was more than what it looked like.
Taking out my phone, I sent the messages I had to send as I went into my room to change weapons. It was time to step out.
Twenty minutes later, I was descending into one of our secure locations—a renovated warehouse basement in Red Hook that officially belonged to a shipping company and unofficially served as one of our secure locations. The space was sparse: concrete walls, a single table, and chairs that had seen better decades. No windows. One exit. Perfect for conversations that couldn’t afford interruption.
Viktor arrived first, his expression carved from stone, as usual.
“I invited Roman, too. He speaks papers more fluently than everyone else,” he informed, delving into business already before he even took a seat.
“Okay. Welcome, brother.”
He nodded in acknowledgement before asking, “You invited Mikhail and Konstantin?”
“Yes, I did,” I affirmed.
“Alright.”
Roman followed, carrying a leather portfolio that likely contained every financial record we’d need. Mikhail camethrough the door with Konstantin at his side—they were probably handling something together in one of Mikhail’s warehouses when they got the message. Our pleasantries were remarkably short, even for us.
I waited until they were all seated before I disclosed, “Elena Vasiliev’s lawsuit isn’t what we thought it was.”
Viktor was still. Of course, he wasn’t surprised. He was our Pakhan for a reason.
