Page 8 of The Russian's Bought Bride

The audio crackles faintly through the receiver pressed to my ear while the tiny bug is doing exactly what I planted it to do. It feeds me everything happening behind those pristine walls meant to keep all the lies and deception in.

I sit in a darkened office two floors below with most of the lights off and the blinds drawn, while the glow from my phone is the only thing cutting through the shadows.

Danielle Young’s voice is unsteady but determined. She sounds frightened, as one would expect, but resolute.

She volunteers just like that, all to help save her father’s life. At least, that’s what she thinks she’s doing. The reality is much darker.

My jaw tightens as I lean back in the chair, dragging a slow breath through my nose while the doctor, Volodin, feeds her exactly what she needs to hear. His tone is controlled while he uses carefully chosen words laced with enough truth to make it sound believable.

I’ve heard all of this before.

Despite different names and different families being involved, it’s the same script.

Her father has taken a turn for the worse, and they need her as a donor…but it’s dangerous, of course. She insists, so they’ll prep her, sedate her, and once she’s under, they won’t just take her kidney. They’ll take everything they can sell, on top of what they’ve already collected today.

Arthur is already as good as dead.

My jaw tightens as I listen, well aware of how this will all pan out. Volodin and his partners get two bodies ripe for harvesting and pocket every dollar they can possibly get out of both, all at a negligible cost. A willing donor is like a two-for-one special in their eyes.

As much as I don’t want to, I’m supposed to let it happen. That’s the plan.

I get inside, gather proof, then follow the chain all the way up before I burn it down. This one operation, no matter how brutal, is the leverage I’ve been waiting for. This evidence is a piece of a larger machine I’ve been hunting for months, and if I interfere now, I risk everything.

That exposure could compromise the identity I’ve built, and I might lose access before I can dismantle the rest. I know all of that. I understand it better than anyone.

Even so, I’m standing before I can stop myself.

The chair scrapes softly against the floor as I push back, slipping the earpiece out and pocketing it. I move with as much control as I can muster despite feeling slightly outside of it, and I shrug on my jacket and head for the door.

This isn’t part of the plan, but neither is letting them carve her up while I sit here listening. I won’t be able to stomach it.

The hallway outside is quiet, given that it’s a private wing with restricted access. Still, access is a flexible concept when you know where to push.

I move like I belong here with squared shoulders, a neutral expression, and purpose in every step. If I hesitate, people will notice, and I’ll be done before I even start.

Having memorized the layout, I take two turns, head up two stairwells, then take another corridor.

I don’t break stride as I approach the surgical wing, flashing a forged badge just long enough for the nurse at the station to register it without really seeing it.

She nods, but is more distracted by whatever’s on her screen than anything. That’s a bonus, at least.

The closer I get, the colder the air feels, and I can sense that the walls around me are closing in, waiting for me to either buckle under the pressure or find my way through this. After everything I’ve put into this, I’ll be damned if I fumble this now.

Just up ahead, I catch movement, then dial in to watch as a gurney is wheeled down the hall flanked by several nurses.

It’s her…Danielle.

She’s already in the gown, her skin pale under the harsh lighting. I can’t see her face, but given how rigid she is, she’s smart enough to be afraid, just not for the right reasons.

My gaze shifts to the man walking right behind with a mostly confident stride, not dressed like he’ll be the one performing this operation. No, he doesn’t get his hands dirty as often as the others do.

Doctor Denis Volodin is an integral part of all of this, but he’s more like the professional overseer. His medical degree is legit in every way, but how he uses it sets him apart from any respectable doctor out there.

Denis is in his forties, composed, and entirely professional. He’s the kind of man who could pass for respectable in any room he walks into, and when you look at him, you’ll never see what he really is. He’s as unassuming as they come, and that’s his strength.

It’s also about to be his problem.

I close the distance before anyone thinks to question me. “Doctor.”