Page 109 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

I retrace my steps, flipping through my notes and cross-checking the physical books stacked on the table with the vivid memories of the library I grew up with. Slowly, the truth becomes undeniable: Not all the required texts are present in this room.

Some of the exact books that form the critical pillars of this pattern were never brought with me when I was rushed out of Russia. They are still packed away, stored with the rest of my old life in a secure storage container across the world.

The realization completely halts my progress. The initial spike of frustration is immediate and sharp, but it is quickly replaced by a cold, burning determination. I haven’t failed. I just don’t have all my tools.

I’m still ruminating on this when I hear heavy, familiar footsteps approaching the doorway. I turn around to see Lukyan walking back into the library, carrying a steaming mug of hot chocolate—the thick, rich kind that has secretly become my favorite drink over the last few weeks.

I reach out, taking the warm mug between my cold hands, and look up at him. “I thought you left me,” I admit, my voice smaller than I intend it to be.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and rumbling, and leans down to press a warm, lingering kiss against my temple. “Never,zaychik. Never.”

I take a quick, comforting sip of the chocolate, the sweetness grounding me, before looking back up at his dark eyes. “I found something.”

Lukyan instantly goes still, his entire demeanor shifting into rapt attention. He rests a large hand on the back of my chair, leaning over my shoulder. “What did you find?”

I turn the legal pad toward him, my finger tracing the jagged lines and fragmented numbers I’ve spent the morning rewriting.

“Look right here,” I say, my voice rising with a frantic, breakthrough energy as I point to a gap in the sequence. “Every three books, the pattern jumps. My father didn’t use a single cipher that runs straight through a single text. He used an interlocking system. The page numbers in this classic novel dictate the key to the paragraph markings in the next book. It’s like a chain. If you remove even one link, the whole thing snaps and just looks like random gibberish.”

Lukyan leans in closer, his chest pressing against my shoulder as his sharp eyes follow my finger.

“I keep hitting a wall right at the third transition,” I explain, shaking my head as the pieces finally make sense in my mind. “The cipher demands a volume of poetry—a specific translation of Pushkin that he used to read to me when I was little. I looked through every single box your men brought here from my apartment, Lukyan. It’s not here. And neither is the historical biography that follows it. Without those exact editions, I’m guessing in the dark. I don’t have the specific text he underlined to unlock the next string of the sequence.”

I look up at him, my eyes wide and entirely certain. “This isn’t a mistake on my part, and it’s not a dead end. The full code is physically impossible to access without those specific books. That is the exact reason I’ve been running into a wall for a week. I have the map, Lukyan, but someone left two of the main bridges behind.”

He listens intently, his gaze moving between my face and the notes, processing the strategy. “Where are the books, Sofia?”

I let out a heavy breath, looking at the incomplete puzzle before us. “They’re in a storage container, all the way back in Russia.”

Lukyan listens carefully, his dark eyes fixed on my face as he processes the absolute clarity of my reasoning. He doesn’t question my logic, nor does he look at the legal pad with a single shred of doubt. There’s absolutely no hesitation in his response.

“Then we go to Russia,” he says, his voice flat, decisive, and entirely wrapped in steel. “We go and retrieve exactly what is needed.”

My breath hitches slightly at the casual way he says it.

“I’ll talk to my men immediately and see how urgently we can finalize the travel plans,” he continues, his mind already moving ten steps ahead into logistics and tactical safety. “Going back right now is a massive risk, Sofia. Karl will have eyes everywhere. I’ll need to personally contact my family assets back there to ensure we have heavy security and absolute protection the second our wheels touch the tarmac. No one touches you. I’ll make sure of it.”

A sudden wave of intense gratitude and warmth floods my chest, completely washing away the lingering exhaustion of the past week. Without thinking, I step forward and wrap my arms tightly around his neck, burying my face into the crook of his shoulder. He responds instantly, his large arms locking around my waist, lifting me slightly off my feet to hold me flat against his chest.

He leans in, pressing a firm, lingering kiss against my flushed cheek. “I have to go set this in motion,zaychik,” he murmurs roughly against my skin.

He gently lets me go, giving my hip a reassuring squeeze before turning on his heel and walking out of the library, his phone already out and pressed to his ear before he even clears the threshold.

I stand completely still, watching the empty doorway long after the sound of his heavy footsteps fades down the corridor.

The quiet of the library rushes back in, but it doesn’t feel suffocating anymore. I look down at the scattered stacks of books, the crinkled pages, and the frantic notes covering the mahogany table.

Standing right there at the center of the room, I feel myself standing at the precipice of something massive, something truly significant. For the very first time since my father’s death, I’m not a victim of circumstance. I’m not being violently pulled into dangerous events by forces beyond my control, and I’m no longer a prize to be hunted or protected.

I’m actively driving this narrative. The journey ahead of us back into the frozen territory of Russia is no longer just about survival, and it isn’t just about understanding the ghosts of my past.

It’s about completion. And I’m going to finish what my father started.

Chapter 22 – Lukyan

The war room in the basement of the estate hums with the quiet, lethal efficiency of a command center on the brink of an invasion. Monitors cast a cold, blue glow over the faces of the five guards standing at attention around the central glass table.

Maps of the Moscow transit corridors, flight paths, and satellite imagery of the secure storage facility are already pinned to the digital screens. I had Sofia give me the address earlier because I’m not about to take her there blindly.