Ruthless Protector (The Empire of Vows #4)

Chapter 1 Pyotr

Pyotr

(PYOH-TR)

The man at my feet groans through broken teeth. I wipe his blood from my knuckles with a rag I’ll burn later.

The job was supposed to be quick: Break a mid-level accountant skimming from Kozlov shipments and make sure he understands that stealing from Dmitri Kozlov has consequences.

Routine work. Contained. Forgettable.

And it was. I don’t drag things out. Some of the men I work with enjoy the begging, crying, and drawn-out suffering.

I don’t.

The theatrics are ego.

“The next time someone offers you money to cook the books,” I tell the whimpering man, “remember this conversation.”

He nods frantically as blood and snot drip down his chin.

He’ll remember. They always do.

My phone vibrates in my pocket as I step over his prone body and head for the door. I pull it out and find a text from Dmitri. Not one of his lieutenants. Not Boris. The Kozlov pakhan.

New assignment. Come to Moscow. Now. Details to follow.

I glance back at the accountant, who has curled into a fetal position on the warehouse floor. He’ll probably live. The broken ribs will heal in a few weeks, and his employer’s insurance should cover the dental work.

Not my problem.

I catch the next train to Moscow and spend the three-hour journey staring out the window at the Russian countryside sliding past. Snow blankets everything this time of year, which transforms the landscape into an endless stretch of white, broken only by skeletal trees and the occasional farmhouse.

My phone goes off again, this time with a file transfer from Dmitri’s secure server. I download the documents and start reading.

The name at the top of the file gives me pause.

Daria Kozlov.

Family, or close enough. She’s Dmitri’s cousin through his father’s younger brother—a man who died more than a decade ago and left behind two daughters. Daria is the younger one. Twenty-nine years old, single mother, living in St. Petersburg with her five-year-old daughter, Kira.

According to this file, she’s been leaking information to federal investigators.

I scroll through the evidence that Tony Volkov compiled. Phone records show multiple calls from blocked numbers, and there’s security footage of visitors arriving at odd hours.

Financial transactions have been traced to accounts bearing her name, accounts that moved money for organizations actively working against Kozlov interests.

The file includes photographs of Daria meeting men at service entrances. Daria glancing over her shoulder with fear on her face. Daria rushing back inside her apartment building like she’s running from something.

I’m still reviewing everything when my phone rings with Dmitri’s number.

“You received the file,” he presumes as soon as I answer.

“I’m reading it now.”

“Good. Here’s what you need to know. Federal investigators have flagged several accounts connected to our operations. The common thread is Daria’s name on transaction records.”

“Has she been questioned?”

“Tony and Sasha visited her. She denied everything. She claims she’s a victim, not a participant.”

Tony Volkov handles counterintelligence for the family, and Sasha is Dmitri's younger sister. They got married a few months ago.

“Do you believe her?”

“I don’t know what to believe; that’s why I’m sending you.

” Dmitri exhales. “There’s a ticking clock, Pyotr.

A federal warrant will freeze the flagged accounts in seventy-two hours.

Once that happens, investigators will dig into every transaction with Daria’s name attached.

If she’s guilty, they’ll find enough to bring charges.

If she’s innocent, they’ll destroy her life anyway. Just by asking questions.”

I study the photograph of Daria on my screen. She has chocolate-brown hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, and the shadows under her matching brown eyes speak to sleepless nights.

The photograph was taken without her knowledge; that much is obvious from the angle and the way she’s mid-step, glancing over her shoulder. Surveillance, not a portrait. She doesn’t look like a criminal. But then again, neither did half the people I’ve put in the ground over the years.

“What’s my assignment?”

“I need you to move into her apartment. Monitor her movements and confirm whether she’s the leak. If she is, she won’t be able to operate with you in her home. If she’s being used, you’ll see who’s pulling the strings.”

“You have three weeks to either gather enough evidence to clear her name or justify permanent consequences.”

Permanent consequences. A polite way of saying execution.

“She has a daughter,” I point out.

“I know. Kira. Five years old.” Dmitri sounds tired. “If Daria is guilty, arrangements will be made for the child. If she’s innocent, you’ll have proven that, and we can all move forward.”

“And if the situation is more complicated than guilty or innocent?”

“Use your judgment. That’s why I chose you for this, Pyotr. You’re thorough. You’re incorruptible. And you don’t let personal feelings interfere with your work.”

I think about the accountant I left bleeding on that warehouse floor. No personal feelings were involved. It was just a job that needed doing.

“I’ll have my first report within the week,” I tell him.

“I’ll be waiting.”

The call ends, and I spend the rest of the train ride memorizing every detail in Daria’s file. The suspicious visitors. The blocked calls. The financial transactions that paint a picture of systematic betrayal.

By the time the train pulls into Moscow, I’ve made up my mind. The evidence is damning. Daria Kozlov is almost certainly guilty.

I have twenty-one days to prove it.

St. Petersburg greets me with freezing rain and a gray sky that promises more of the same. I take a cab from the train station to Daria’s address, which is a modest apartment building in a working-class neighborhood far removed from the luxury most Kozlov family members enjoy.

The building itself is old but well-maintained. Five stories, a brick facade, and narrow windows that probably don’t let in much natural light. I check the address against the file one more time before I climb the stairs to the third floor.

Apartment 3B. I knock and wait.

Footsteps approach the door. There’s a pause followed by a woman’s voice, thin and anxious. “Who is it?”

“Pyotr Fedorov. Dmitri sent me.”

Another, longer pause. I hear a child asking something in the background, followed by a quiet reply I can’t make out.

The door opens.

The woman standing in front of me is smaller than I expected, maybe five-foot-five in shoes. The photograph didn’t capture the way she holds herself, with her shoulders curved inward like she’s trying to disappear.

I shut the rest down and refocus. I’m here to determine if she’s a traitor, not to take stock of all the places I could put my mouth.

“You’re the one Dmitri said would be coming.” The contempt in her voice is clear.

“I am.”

“To babysit me.”

“I’m just here to monitor your situation until certain questions are answered.”

She flinches at the word monitor, and for a moment, I think she might slam the door in my face. But then a small figure appears at her side and peers around her legs.

The daughter. Kira. She has her mother’s dark hair and coloring, but her eyes are blue instead of brown. She’s sporting a gap-toothed smile as she looks up at me.

“Mama, why does he have scars on his hands?”

Daria’s face drains of color. “Kira, we don’t ask questions like that.”

“But I want to know.”

I crouch so I’m at eye level with the girl. She doesn’t flinch the way her mother did. Instead, she studies me with the fearlessness only children possess.

“I got them from working,” I tell her.

“What kind of work?”

“The kind that’s hard on your hands.”

She considers this answer with the seriousness of a general planning a military campaign. “My mama’s hands have bumps on them from playing piano. Are your bumps from playing piano, too?”

“No. Not from piano.”

“Kira. Go to your room and play,” Daria tells her. “I need to talk to our... guest.”

The girl looks like she wants to argue, but something in her mother’s tone makes her think better of it. She gives me one last curious glance before disappearing down the hallway.

Daria steps back to let me into the apartment. The space is small but clean, filled with secondhand furniture and obsessively organized. An upright piano dominates one wall of the living room, and its surface is covered with sheet music and a small lamp.

“I need to get Kira ready for bed soon,” Daria says without looking at me. “You can wait here.”

The dismissal is clear.

I don’t sit. Instead, I stand near the window and observe. The apartment has two visible entry points: the front door and a fire escape accessible through one of the back rooms. The standard locks on the front door wouldn’t slow anyone with basic skills. No alarm system or security cameras.

The lack of protection surprises me. If Daria is working with dangerous people, she should have something in place. Unless she doesn’t think she needs it. Or unless the people she’s working with have convinced her they’re all the protection she requires.

Daria moves around the kitchen, preparing a snack for Kira while avoiding my gaze.

I watch her reflection in the window glass, noting the way her hands tremble when she reaches for a cup and how she keeps glancing toward the hallway where her daughter disappeared.

She’s afraid. Not just of me, but of something else.

Once she’s eaten, Daria ushers her down the hall, and soon, I hear the sounds of a bedtime routine. Water running. Teeth being brushed. A story being read aloud by Daria. Then, a lullaby sung with a sweetness that doesn’t match the haunted woman I met at the door.

Then silence.

I wait. Patience is a skill most people never develop. They fidget, check their phones, and let their minds drift to things that don’t matter. I learned a long time ago how to empty myself and simply exist, tracking every sound and shadow until the moment demands action.

Two hours after the lullaby ends and Daria is engrossed in a television show, I begin my sweep.

I walk through the apartment in a grid, section by section, using my phone’s light on its lowest setting.

The living room yields nothing suspicious.

The kitchen is clean and sparse, with cupboards that hold more empty space than food.

The bathroom contains standard toiletries and a child’s bath toys.

There’s nothing hidden behind the mirror or inside the tank.

I check Daria’s bedroom next. Her bed is neatly made, and her closet is so meticulously organized that it’s obvious it was done by someone trying to control the few things she can. I find no hidden compartments, secret documents, or burner phones tucked between folded sweaters.

Then, I ease open the door to Kira’s room.

Rule one: Don’t wake the child. Rule two: Don’t move what you don’t have to.

The space is small and filled with a child’s treasures. Drawings cover the walls in bright, chaotic colors. A poster of dinosaurs hangs above the bed. Stuffed animals crowd the pillows where she’s sleeping, curled beneath a worn blanket.

I look. I don’t rummage—under the bed, along the baseboards, behind the dresser.

Nothing.

Then, I notice the radiator.

Something is wedged behind it, barely visible in the gap between metal and wall. I crouch and angle my flashlight.

A small black device. A high-end wireless camera. The red indicator blinks steadily, which means it’s active and recording.

Someone has been watching this apartment. Watching this child sleep.

I tighten my grip around it until the casing creaks.

I straighten and look around the room with fresh eyes. Whoever planted this camera knows the family’s routine by now. They know when Kira goes to bed and when Daria is alone and unprotected.

The evidence in Dmitri’s file suddenly looks very different. It’s no longer the profile of a traitor; it’s the profile of a target.

I need to find out who’s watching, and why.