Page 52 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

Of course, he’s a friend. Someone she used to know. They usually are. How didn’t I think of that?

A red haze descends over my vision, a roar of pure, unadulterated rage drowning out the sound of the equipment cooling fans. I look at the man on the screen, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel like a man. I feel like a weapon that has finally been pointed at its target.

“Find him,” I whisper, my voice thick with a promise of carnage. “Find out who he is, where he’s taking her, and then I want his head.”

I turn to my right-hand man. “Kaplan, run facial recognition through every database—local, private, even the back-alley scrapers. I want a name for that face immediately,” I command, pacing the narrow space behind the monitors.

“Ben, put the word out. Every street contact, every snitch, every landlord from here to the harbor. If he’s holding her in this city, I want to know which floor, which room, and how many locks are on the door.”

My phone is a hive of activity. I’m bypassing protocols, burning favors I’ve hoarded for a decade, and arming my men with hardware that shouldn’t legally exist in the city.

“The car.” I point to the screen, my finger tracing the sedan’s path on the exit ramp. “It’s a black sedan, custom tint, plates likely swapped. But he didn’t just drive out of the city. He’s arrogant. He wants me to know he has her. He’s taking her to a place that matters to him, a place where he thinks he’s safe.”

I lean over the desk, my shadow cast long and jagged across the map of the city we’ve pulled up on the wall. “He thinks he’s the hunter? Good. Let him. He’s distracted by the prize, which means he’s careless.”

The door to the server room swings open, and Maya stands there, her face ashen. Her hands are trembling, and for a moment, the weight of the situation seems to crush the breath right out of her.

“Samuel,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I’m so, so sorry. I…I should have checked in when she didn’t come back to the office after lunch. I had such a massive load of work piled up, and I just assumed—I thought that when she didn’t come back, she’d gone straight home to the penthouse. I thought she was already safe with you.”

She looks at the monitors, then at the tactical gear strapped to my chest, and a sob escapes her. “I failed her. I wasn’t paying attention.”

I stop pacing. I turn to face her, my movements slow and deliberate. The raw, jagged rage that is consuming me doesn’t belong to her. She is a civilian caught in the wake of a monster, and I cannot afford to lose focus by letting blame take root.

I walk over to her and place a firm, heavy hand on her shoulder, forcing her to look up at me.

“Stop,” I command, my voice steady, stripped of the frantic edge it had earlier. “This isn’t on you, Maya. Ashley didn’t walk into this because you weren’t watching. She walked into it because she trusted the wrong person. She was betrayed by someone who played on her trust.”

I let my hand drop, my gaze shifting back toward the map of the city, my eyes turning into shards of cold, unyielding flint.

“She’s my wife,” I continue, my voice dropping to a low, lethal hum that vibrates through the room. “The man who took her made the fatal mistake of thinking he could possess what is mine. He thinks he’s hidden her, but he’s forgotten that I own the shadows he’s hiding in.”

“Please, find her, Samuel,” she begs. “Please.”

“I’ll find her,” I say, and it isn’t a promise—it’s a fact. “I’ll tear this city apart, block by block, until I have her back in my arms. Go home, Maya. And pray to whatever god you believe in that you aren’t the one who has to watch what happens when I finally catch him.”

Chapter 27 – Ashley

The darkness doesn’t break; it erodes.

It starts with the rhythmic, maddening drip of a faucet somewhere nearby, then the scent of old paper and expensive, heavy cologne—a scent that makes my skin crawl with visceral recognition. My head feels as though it has been split open, a dull, pulsing throb radiating from the base of my skull.

I don’t move. I don’t open my eyes immediately. I stay perfectly still, cataloging the sensations of my own body: the numbness in my limbs, the dry, metallic taste of residual sedative on my tongue, and the biting, abrasive friction of zip-ties against my wrists.

When I finally force my eyelids open, the room is a blur of muted colors—velvet drapes, dark mahogany paneling, and a high, ornate ceiling. It’s elegant. Almost homey. It looks like a study in a high-end townhouse, the kind of place where someone sits with a glass of brandy and a leather-bound book.

That’s the horror of it. It’s too civilized, too curated.

I shift my weight, and the sound of my movement is amplified by the unnatural stillness of the room. I’m sitting in a heavy, high-backed leather chair, my hands pulled behind my back, cinched tightly to the frame. My ankles are secured to the legs of the chair with heavy-duty cord.

Panic, sharp and white-hot, surges in my chest like a trapped animal. My breath hitches, a ragged sound that feels far too loud in the quiet.

Samuel, I think, the name a silent plea echoing in my mind. Where is he?

I force myself to swallow, to push the rising hysteria back down into my gut.

Do not react, I coach myself, my heart hammering against my ribs like a frantic drum. Think. If you panic, he wins. He’s counting on the fear.

I scan the room again, this time with clinical detachment. No windows—or if there are, they’re heavily shuttered. One door, locked. A desk in the corner, covered in files. My own bag sits on the floor, open, its contents spilled out like a desecrated offering.