Page 71 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

The courtyard is cold, the grey mist rolling off the river wrapping around the stone pillars like smoke.

Two enforcers are kneeling on the wet gravel, their hands bound behind their backs, their faces dead white under the pale sky. They’re shaking, their eyes fixed on the gravel as my boots thud softly toward them. Dmitri is standing behind them, his face a hard, silent mask, while ten of my captains stand in a semi-circle near the brick archway, their rifles held low.

I stop three feet from the first guard, a younger man named Mikhail who has been on my perimeter detail for six months.

"You were on the greenhouse gate," I say, my voice flat, cold, and completely quiet.

He doesn't look up, his jaw trembling as he stares at my boots. "Pakhan... the Volvo... the old gardener’s truck went through at nine. I thought... I thought it was just the trash detail. The driver had the wool cap on, and the passenger⁠—"

"You thought," I say.

I pull my Glock from its holster under my arm and press the barrel directly against the center of his forehead.

"Ilya, wait," Dmitri says, his voice quiet, warning. "We need them to tell us which direction the truck⁠—"

"They don't know anything," I growl.

I pull the trigger.

The concussive slap of the shot echoes through the stone courtyard, the force of the round snapping the guard's head back as he tumbles onto the wet gravel, a dark, thick pool of red instantly spreading through the stones.

The second guard screams, trying to scramble backward on his knees, his face covered in his partner’s blood. "Pakhan, please! I didn't see! I was checking the eastern fence! I swear to God⁠—"

I step over the first body, my face cold, blank, and completely empty of any human mercy. I press the barrel to his temple and pull the trigger again.

The second shot cuts his scream off, his body falling limp next to the first on the wet stones.

I tuck the gun back into its leather rig under my arm, my eyes scanning the captains standing near the archway. None of them move. None of them look at the bodies. They stare at me, their faces tight with a sudden, absolute terror that is the only thing keeping this house from falling apart.

"If anyone else fails their post today," I say, my voice carrying a flat, freezing weight that travels through the quiet courtyard, "I’ll hang your bodies from the main gate to show the Russos what we do to cowards. Get the cars ready. We’re going to the city."

"Ilya," Dmitri steps forward, his hand touching my shoulder. "We have a ping on her credit card. She just used it at the Esplanade. Ten minutes ago. A French boutique."

I turn to him, my eyes narrowing into slits. "The Esplanade?"

"She’s in the financial district," Dmitri says, his face shadowed with worry. "She bought a coat, some shoes. Ekaterina’s card was used at the same terminal."

"She’s shopping," I rasp, a sudden, dark, and completely wild laugh escaping my throat. "She took my sister, broke my security, and she went to a mall to buy shoes. She’s trying to prove I don't own her."

"I don’t know about that," Dmitri says, his voice dropping. "Mikhail is out there, Ilya. If he has eyes on the mall⁠—"

"Get the strike teams," I command, my boots thudding as I walk toward the double doors of the war room. "Every enforcer we have in the southern sector. I want the Esplanade surrounded in ten minutes. If a single person in a beige suit looks at her, I want them erased."

The war room is a long, narrow cellar beneath the east wing, insulated with heavy concrete and lined with steel tables, digital monitors, and gun racks. The air smells of ozone, gun oil, and the dry scent of stale coffee.

I’m standing in the center of the room, my hands moving fast as I load thirty-round magazines into my rifle. The heavy metal clatters against the steel table, the cartridges clicking sharply into place as I slide them into my tactical vest. I’m packing everything—frag grenades, extra mags for the Glock, a tactical blade.

My captains are scrambling around me, their voices a chaotic, overlapping noise as they check the satellite feeds and radio the outer patrols.

"Dmitri, what is the status of the Vostok lanes?" I shout over the hum of the ventilation fan.

"Secured!" Dmitri shouts back from the main console, his fingers typing fast across the keyboard. "The insurance clearance went through the London underwriter at noon. Petr’s courier has already confirmed receipt of the first transfer. He’s safe, Ilya. The Feds didn't flag the payout."

"I don't care about Petr anymore!" I scream, slamming a fresh magazine into the well of my rifle. "I want my sister! I want my wife! Where is the secondary team?"

"They’re five minutes from the Esplanade entrance!" Lev shouts from the radio desk. "But they’re reporting heavy static on the local relays. The cell towers in the financial district are dropping offline."

My hand freezes on my rifle, a sudden, cold dread settling deep into my stomach.