Page 49 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

The driver notices where I’m looking. “Don’t worry. He’s busy.”

I look straight at him. “When he finds you, I hope you’re alive for it.”

His mouth flattens, and for one clean second I know fear is still a language in this house.

Then he grabs my upper arm and marches me forward.

We move fast through the rear passage, past shelves of dry goods and cases of wine stacked behind cage doors, past the side door that stays locked and now hangs open with the panel gutted off the wall. Cold cuts through the corridor. Somewhere outside, an engine turns over once, then settles into a waiting growl.

A convoy. This was planned as a transfer.

At the service threshold, I dig in my heels hard enough to wrench my shoulder. It buys me half a second and a bruise on the driver’s hand where my weight drags wrong.

“Move her.”

“Try asking prettier,” I shoot back, because if I stop talking I’m going to start hearing the word bridge over and over until I come apart.

One of the men behind me laughs. “She sounds like the reports.”

“Shut up and take the package.”

I turn on that one so fast the zip ties bite deeper. “Say that again.”

The man grins. “Package.”

I lunge at him anyway. It gets me nowhere except a fistful of my hair and a violent jerk backward that sends pain across my scalp. My knees fold. The Moretti man steps in close, not touching, just watching while the others haul me straight again.

“That,” he says, “is the last time we indulge you.”

The west service court is lit in broken patches from emergency lamps and headlights. Two black SUVs sit nose-out toward the tree line. One gate camera hangs by its wiring. The window of the guard shack is blown out. There’s no fight spread across the grounds. The real damage was done inside first.

They drag me over the gravel. Every step tears at my feet. Bare legs. Thin robe. Hands bound. Somebody’s fist twisted in my hair.

One of the men opens the SUV door. I plant both feet.

“Get in.”

“No.”

The driver slams his palm between my shoulder blades and folds me into the seat hard enough to crack my mouth against the opposite frame. Pain blooms bright. I taste blood. Men climb in on either side of me. The Moretti man takes the front passenger seat. The locks engage, and we roll.

Karpov’s man sits beside me. “Listed collateral,” he says to the front. “Face preserved. Minor resistance.”

They answer each other in Italian, too fast for me to catch every word. I get enough.

Bridge. Sergei.

My whole body goes cold. He notices and smiles without warmth. Then he switches back to Russian so I understand this part clearly.

“Your father is already on his way,” he says. “He intends to inspect what his daughter is worth.”

15

MAKSIM

I’m still inside my own house, fighting men who had no business making it past the first door. They come through the side corridor between the study and the downstairs office, three in front, two behind, rifles up, faces covered. One stays off the camera line, and I know the build before I know the name. Another goes straight for the communications panel without searching. I raise my gun and smash the butt into his face. He grunts, “Blyat,” and there’s no doubt left. This isn’t a raid. My own men are moving against me.

I break the first man’s wrist against the doorframe, take his gun, and put two rounds into the second before he clears the turn. The third rushes me with a blade. I drive him into the wall hard enough to crack plaster, take the knife from his hand, and leave it buried under his ribs. Behind me, the other two hesitate, and I don’t.