Page 76 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

I grab his wrist with my good right hand, my fingers locking around his bones like a vise. My grip is shaky, but I have enough strength to force his hand down. "Where is Dmitri?"

Yuri’s jaw works, his eyes dropping to the concrete floor.

He’s gone.

Dmitri is gone. My right-hand man, the only person who has stood beside me since my father handed me a blade at seven years old, is currently lying in the ashes of the estate.

A sudden, violent wave of nausea hits my stomach. The physical pain in my chest flares up so hard, my vision darkens at the edges. I squeeze my eyes shut, my teeth grinding together until I can hear the enamel click. I see the phone screen behind my eyelids. The zip-ties on her small, pale wrists. The dark grease on her forehead. The grey sweater thrown on the bedroom floor.

"He’s right, you know."

The voice comes from the dark corner of the room, near the old iron boiler.

I open my eyes slowly.

Petr Denisov is sitting on a rusted folding chair, his heavy wool coat draped over his shoulders, his hands resting on the silver handle of his cane. He looks older today. The sharp, arrogant posture of the southern Pakhan is entirely gone, replaced by a hollow, weary slump that makes him look like a ghost himself. He’s holding a plastic cup of cold water, his fingers trembling just a fraction as he sets it on a wooden crate.

I release Yuri’s wrist, my hand dropping flat onto the cot. "You’re a long way from your safe house, Petr."

Petr stands up slowly, his cane thudding softly against the concrete as he walks to the side of my bed. He looks down at my bandaged chest, his grey eyes scanning the blood soaking through the linen. "My safe house doesn't have a security detail anymore, Ilya. My accounts are dry. My men left at noon. If your boy Yuri hadn't found me in the suburbs, I’d probably be sitting in a cellar waiting for the Russos to find my retirement fund."

I let out a short, wet chuckle that turns into a sharp, agonizing groan as the chest tube rattles in my side. "I sent the five million."

"I know," Petr says, his face softening just a fraction, his hand coming to rest on the metal frame of my cot. "The courier got the codes before the Vostok lanes were flagged. My security stayed long enough to get me to the city border. You kept your word, Kovalevskii. Even when the world was falling down around you."

I look up at the ceiling, my chest expanding in a shallow, whistling breath. "I didn't do it for you."

"I know that too," Petr says, his voice dropping into a quiet, heavy register. "She’s my daughter, Ilya. But she’s your wife now. I saw how she looked at you at that museum. I saw the way she stood next to you on that balcony."

I look back at him, the old, bitter hatred between us finally turning into a dull, cold ash. There is no pride left in this room. No contracts. No territorial boundaries. We are just two broken men who have lost the only thing that mattered to us in a single, violent afternoon.

"I took her to hurt you," I rasp, my voice a low, gravelly whisper that sounds raw in the quiet basement. "I wanted to take your pride at that altar. I wanted to make you watch your legacy burn. But... I was wrong."

Petr doesn't move. He just watches my face, his jaw tight.

"I love her, Petr," I say, the confession dropping between us like a heavy iron weight. "I’ve spent twenty years learning how to kill, how to build walls, how to be the monster my father wanted me to be. But she... she cracked the ice. I can't lose her. I’m sorry for how I took her. I’m sorry for the wedding."

Petr takes a long, slow breath, his head bowing slightly as he leans his weight on his cane. He stays silent for a long time, the only sound the steady, rhythmic hum of the washing machines upstairs. When he looks back up, there are tears in the deep creases around his eyes, but his gaze is steady.

"She’s a stubborn girl, Ilya," Petr says, a tiny, sad smile scratching at the corner of his mouth. "She takes after her mother. She doesn't break easily. But if anyone can get her back from that bastard, it’s you. I’m not going to let you do it alone."

I stretch my right hand out, my fingers wrapping around his palm. The grip is firm, a silent, final seal on an alliance that should have happened twenty years ago.

"Where are they?" I ask, my hand tightening on his.

"The old southern shipyard," Petr says, his face turning hard as he pulls his hand back and reaches into his coat pocket. He pulls out a printed satellite map, unfolding it across my stomach. "Mikhail isn't working alone. He has three teams of Russo enforcers guarding the dry docks. It’s a joint strike. Viktor Russo gets the northern shipping lanes once you’re in the ground, and Mikhail gets the girl. He wants his trophy back."

I trace the red circles on the map with my thumb, my eyes narrowing into slits. "He’s working with the Russos."

"He’s their puppet," Petr growls, his cane tapping the concrete. "But he’s a dangerous puppet. He has forty men on the perimeter, two thermal scopes on the crane tower, and the dry dock is reinforced with steel plates. It’s a fortress, Ilya. If we go in there, we aren't coming back."

"We don't need to come back," I say, my voice flat, cold, and final.

I grab the thick plastic chest tube taped to my ribs.

"Pakhan, no!" Yuri screams, lunging forward to grab my hand, but I shove him back with my elbow, his body hitting the metal instrument tray with a loud, crashing clatter.

I pull.