Chapter 3
ADRIAN
The streetlights of Bucharest flash across the tinted windows as we drive along. Muted bursts of light streak across the interior before plunging back into darkness.
I don't even know how it's possible, but even my skin feels too tight now.
It's stretched over my bones like it's desperately trying to contain every muscle in my body, which are in such a coiled state they may snap at any moment.
My jaw aches and my knuckles crack when I flex my fingers.
I glance at the minibar, but I don't reach for it.
I want to. The crystal decanters catch the light every time we pass under a streetlamp, and I can practically taste the burn of whiskey sliding down my throat. But I don't touch it.
I need to be sharp. I need every nerve ending firing. Alcohol blurs the edges, and I can't afford blurred edges anymore. Not for her.
I'm so intensely aware of everything. Even the tires on wet pavement are louder than they should be.
I hear every rotation, every slight change in pressure as we turn corners.
The leather seats creak when Victor shifts his weight.
The ice in his glass clinks softly, and it's like nails on a chalkboard.
Everything is too loud.
Victor takes a slow sip of his drink, and I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He looks calm, and it's pissing me the fuck off.
"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.
Victor doesn't answer immediately. He swirls his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light.
"Who are we seeing?" I press.
He glances at me, then sets his glass down in the cupholder. He reaches for the whiskey decanter but stops mid-motion, his hand hovering over it. His eyes flick to me again, and he withdraws his hand.
"A Bulgarian smuggler," he says. "Freelancer. Tied to one of the premium trafficking routes across Europe. Lucian and I discovered him while doing some work while you were in the air."
My fingers drum against my thigh.
"And?"
"And," Victor continues, his tone measured, "this particular smuggler specializes in moving high-end assets across borders for elite clients. The kind of clients who pay fifty million dollars for what they want."
The word "assets" makes my stomach twist.
Elena isn't an asset. She's not cargo. She's not a fucking transaction.
"Where is he?" I ask.
"Aici. ?n Romania," he says and glances at his watch. "Dou?zeci de minute de aici."
I turn to face him fully now, my body angled toward him like a predator.
"Twenty minutes," I say and nod.
Twenty minutes until I get my hands on someone who knows where Elena could be. Someone who moved her. Someone who profited off her suffering.
My lip twitches.
It's a small movement, barely noticeable, but those closest to me catch it. They always do.
"Adrian," he says, his voice sharpening.
I lean back and reach for my gun, tapping the handle.
"Adrian," Victor says again, firmer this time.
I look at him.
His expression is calm, but there's a warning in his eyes. The kind of warning that says he knows exactly what I'm thinking and he's about to tell me why I'm wrong.
"We need a location," he says. "A name. An address. Something that leads us to Moscow. So you're going to walk in there, and you're going to let him talk."
I stare at him.
"Do not kill him before he gives us what we need," he says. "I’m serious."
My fingers stop drumming on my weapon, and I curl my hand into a fist.
"Yeah. I'll get the information first," I say. My voice is flat and cold.
Victor nods.
"Then I'll kill him."
He doesn't argue. He just picks up his glass again and takes another sip.
After some time, the car slows down, and I feel the shift in momentum as we turn off the main road. The buildings outside change from modern high-rises to older, secluded structures with narrow streets and dim lighting.
The Rolls-Royce comes to a stop in front of a three-story building with dark windows and a wrought-iron gate. It looks out of place and too expensive for this area.
Behind us, three black SUVs park, and I see the silhouettes of men inside. Our men, armed and ready to support us.
Victor takes out his phone, types something, and then tucks it back into his jacket pocket.
"One more thing. I know you probably want to head right into Moscow guns blazing, but this has to be delicate. We'll have to go slow and work our way in. The Volkov's could do something drastic if they know we're coming. So, information first, then we take next steps all the way until we get her."
I nod and then, before the driver opens our door, I look at him.
"Earlier what you said. She's not an asset. She's mine. Don't call her that."
Victor leans back and stares at me, then nods. "You're right, brother. Business talk is no place for this. For her. Not for..." He stops and trails off.
"Elena. You can say her name now. She's alive, and we're getting her back."
Victor hits my leg.
"It's nice to hear you say her name again. And yes, none of us will stop until she's back here in Romania. With us. With you," he says and points at me.
"Hai. Let's go."
I turn to look at the building again.
Somewhere inside is a man who may know where Elena is. A man who could have moved her.
The grieving, broken Adrian who drank himself unconscious is dead. The enforcer is back. And I'm bringing hell to whoever is behind that door.