Page 83 of Forced & Owned By the Bratva Boss

My eyes scan the five locations until they lock onto a single point. A chill ripples down my arms. “There. The warehouse near the old industrial docks.”

One of the strategists frowns, leaning over the table. “That sector has been dark for three months.”

“Exactly. But look at the grid logs. It was recently reconnected to high-voltage electricity, yet there’s zero registered business activity. He’s powering something heavy.” I look up at the tech officer stationed at the wall monitors. “Give me the traffic cam footage from the three-block radius surrounding that dock. Let’s have a look at the last forty-eight hours.”

The man springs into action and keys clack furiously.

A grid of grainy, gray-toned video feeds populates the main screen. We watch in silence as vehicles pass, mostly rusted sedans and commercial trucks. Then a blacked-out transport van glides across the frame of camera four.

My stomach violently tightens into a hard, cold knot.

“Freeze that frame,” I whisper.

The image sharpens and we have a clearer view. The license plate is fake, but the dent on the rear bumper and the specific aftermarket reinforcement on the chassis are unmistakable.

“That van,” I say, my throat suddenly dry. “It was used during his last hostage exchange in Brazil. Serrano is a creature of habit. He trusts familiarity when he’s vulnerable.”

I feel my husband’s gaze heat the side of my face before he stands up to his full height, his presence instantly dominating the room.

“You believe he used the same van to abduct your brother?”

I nod. “Yes. And I might just have an idea where he’s holding him.”

Igor grunts, then nudges me. “Go on.”

“He prefers upper floors for captives,” I say, staring at the warehouse grid, and my mind races through Serrano’s sick psychology.

I’m really appalled that I know this much about his activities.

“He believes height gives him an absolute tactical advantage. Stupid and sick, I know, but it’s a power play—making his victims feel small while he looks down on them.”

“Pull the blueprints,” Igor commands, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me.

The digital map dissolves and is replaced by the architectural schematics of the dockside warehouse. My eyes trace the structural lines, climbing past the sprawling, empty main storage floor until they hit the top corner.

There it is.

A reinforced office space dangling right above the main floor.

“Windowless. A single access point,” I breathe out, pointing at the glowing blue lines of the upper room. “That’s it. If Simon is alive, that’s where he’ll be.” I barely recognize my voice because of how tight it is as I lock eyes with Igor. “Serrano likes his leverage contained, but he needs it visible to feel in control. He wants to look down and know exactly what he holds over you. Bastard.”

A tear rolls down my cheek despite my effort to keep it contained.

When Igor sees the tears in my eyes, he reaches out and rests his heavy hand on the nape of my neck. He gives a gentle squeeze for a fraction of a second, like a silent reassurance to anchor me, before he pulls away.

“Get the cars,” Igor orders his men, his eyes hard and teeth gritted. “We move now.”

The room erupts into hurried Russian conversations and a blur of motion.

Within minutes, we’re crammed in the vehicles, tearing through the rain-slicked city streets.

I ride in the back of the armored SUV, shoulder-to-shoulder with Igor. The interior is bathed in the harsh, tactical green glow of a rugged tablet resting on my lap. The engine releases an aggressive growl that matches the heavy silence between us.

“The area is a tight one, but he has blind spots,” I whisper, tapping the building layout on the screen and tracing a line for Igor. “Here, by the ventilation shafts, and along the eastern blind alley. The security cameras can’t tilt low enough to cover the recess.”

Igor studies the glowing lines. I can’t tell what he’s thinking when his expression looks like it’s carved from stone.

“Audrey,” he whispers darkly.