Page 1 of The Russian's Bought Bride

Chapter 1 - Nikolai

Rushing jobs like this isn’t something I can afford to do. If I let myself get sloppy, then the whole thing falls apart.

Patience both keeps me alive and stops mistakes from bleeding into places they shouldn’t be, and right now, patience is the only thing standing between me and tearing this operation apart too soon.

Sitting in the dark interior of my car with the engine off and windows cracked just enough to let in the dry Vegas night, I stare at the building across the street like I have been for at least an hour now.

It looks like any other private medical building with sleek glass, clear signage, and the kind of vibe that screams safe and sanitary. There are no red flags and no reason to question it, which is exactly the point.

The owners don’t openly advertise what they do, and they don’t need to. Word travels differently in these circles, where they target the desperate and those willing to believe the right operation will save someone they love. Regardless of how much money it costs or the risks they’re forced to face, if it means one more year, or one more miracle that will change everything for these people, then they’ll take it.

These bastards sell hope dressed up as science through experimental procedures and revolutionary treatments. Their doctors are supposed to be the best of the best, and they apparently work with only the brightest minds.

And it’s all bullshit.

I’ve been watching them for three months now, which has been long enough to track routines, staff rotations, deliveryschedules, and everything else. Long enough to confirm what my contact hinted at:

People go in, and they’re lucky if they ever come out again.

Some have the stupid luck that earns their way out, given how too many failed procedures wouldn’t look good for them, but for the most part, the ‘life-saving’ surgeries are a one-way ticket to the next life.

The first time I realized what they were doing, I almost moved too fast and dragged out the closest person to start breaking bones until I got answers, but I had the sense to know that isn’t how you dismantle something as deep as this.

I have to hit it from the inside, and now, I’m closer than I’ve ever been.

My burner phone buzzes briefly in the cupholder, and I glance at the screen, catching a text from the intermediary I’ve been dealing with.

Meeting confirmed.

It’s brief, simple, and all I need to know.

Finally…after weeks of building this identity with the right credentials and connections, I managed to pass as a credible buyer.

Tomorrow, I’ll step inside as more than just a silent observer. I’ll get my proof, and once I have records of every transaction and anything related to the organs they’ve been harvesting, it’s over.

Anyone making money off these poor people will feel it. Right now, they think they’re untouchable, but that’s far from the truth.

Something clenches in my chest at the thought of what this all means, and how all of this progress will amount to something after all.

Despite being caught up in all of this, my siblings don’t even know. I’ve kept this buried to not risk any kind of interference, just like all the other networks I’ve toppled over the years.

It’s not that I don’t trust my brothers, but this is something I’ve embarked on solo, and I don’t want it crossing over with the family business. If something were to ever go wrong, the rest could suffer, and I can’t let that happen.

Shifting in my seat, I glance over at the folder sitting on the passenger seat, full of physical copies of sensitive materials, ranging from profiles of patients, families, and all their medical records. Victims, really.

I don’t trust keeping anything digital—not when these pricks shouldn’t have it in the first place.

And I shouldn’t be looking deeper than necessary, since that’s how all objectivity gets lost, but I reach for the folder and open it anyway.

The name at the top is familiar now, given how I’ve seen it in various logs and the extensive information the organizers have on him.

Arthur Young…a patient diagnosed with kidney failure scheduled for surgery tomorrow to get a synthetic replacement, so they claim. In reality, they’re going to cut him open and take whatever they can sell. Just because one part quits working doesn’t mean the rest aren’t viable.

Flipping through the pages of medical history, financial records, and signed consent forms designed to confuse and trap, I clench my jaw.

Arthur surely knew it was risky, but he thought it was real. He still does, and that’s exactly how they get them.

Rather than stupidity and ignorance, they exploit fear and hope and don’t see a single problem with it.