Page 109 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

The room was small. Smaller than I'd expected. Concrete floor, a broken metal chair in the corner with one leg missing, propped up with cardboard. But the chair was empty. Anna wasn't there.

Sergei sat at the far end of the room. He leaned against the wall beneath the window, body tilted slightly forward, hands clasped over his knees, chin resting on his fingertips. His face was thinner than the last time I'd seen him—cheekbones like they'd been carved with a blade, eye sockets sunken deep, lips cracked. But his mouth held a smile—thin as a film of oil on water.

"Ivan," he said, drawing out the last syllable. "You're faster than I expected."

My gaze moved from the empty chair to his face. "Where is she?"

Sergei spread his hands, like displaying an answer he'd prepared long ago. "Another room. Don't worry, someone's watching her. Your dear father-in-law's keeping her company himself. Father-daughter reunion. Touching, isn't it?"

I stood in the doorway. He sat beneath the window. About seven or eight steps between us. I scanned the room—the north wall window was indeed barred, gaps between the rods maybe two fingers wide. Beyond it, gray-white daylight. Rain still falling, blown sideways by the wind, striking the bars and spattering.

"Tell me what you want."

Sergei laughed. A short sound, like something ground from deep in his throat. "What do I want? You know damn well. How much territory did you take from me? How many of my people did you wipe out? And now you're asking me what I want." He stood slowly, the chair scraping back half a step across the concrete. "I want you on your knees. I want you to watch your people fall one by one. Then you die."

I watched him rise. His movements weren't quick—sluggish, even. Like worn-out machinery. When he stood, he was shorter than me, shoulders slumped, back slightly hunched. But his hand slipped inside his jacket, fingers settling on something.

"You came alone?" he asked.

"Alone."

"You're lying." He tilted his head, the smile deepening. "I heard the noise outside. Your people are all around, aren't they? You think I don't know?"

I looked at him. "You know."

"But you came in anyway." The gun finally emerged fully from his jacket, barrel pointing at my chest. "You knew my people are everywhere outside, and you still walked in. Ivan, when did you get this stupid? For a woman?"

"When did you get this scared?" I said.

His smile froze.

Just for a second. So brief he almost pulled it back in time. But I saw it. I saw what floated beneath that smug satisfaction in his eyes—a thin, thin layer of something else. He was afraid. He'd just buried it so deep for so long, he'd convinced himself it wasn't there anymore.

"Me, scared?" He laughed, but there was something different in it now. Like an animal with its tail caught, desperately holding its posture. "Your woman's in my hands. Who should be scared?"

"You."

I reached toward the small of my back. Slowly. He could see it.

Sergei's gun barrel lifted half an inch.

His finger tightened on the trigger. Subtle, but I saw it.

He thought he had time to shoot.

I watched his grip, the angle of his shoulder tensing, where his eyes focused—and he was doing the same, tracking my movements.

The bullet came through the window. No sound.

Sergei's shoulder jerked backward violently, his whole body slamming against the wall like he'd been hit by something solid.

He slid down the wall, head dropping, the gun slipping from his hand, hitting the floor and bouncing twice.

He didn't die immediately.

He slumped against the base of the wall, chin sagging, a dark red circle spreading from the bullet hole in his chest.

His lips moved. A wet rasp came from his throat, like words stuck halfway and dissolved before they could form.