Chapter 14 - Vasily #2
"Something like that." Another pause. "Vasily? Be careful. Please."
"I'm always careful."
"No, you're not. You're reckless and obsessive and you throw yourself into danger without thinking about what you have to lose." Her voice cracked slightly. "So please. Just this once. Be careful."
I closed my eyes, letting her words wash over me. She was afraid for me. Not of me anymore—for me.
"I will," I promised. "I'll come back to you, Gabrielle. Nothing will stop me."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. I believe you." She laughed softly, the sound warm despite the distance between us. "I never thought I'd say that. I believe Vasily Chernov."
"Miracles do happen."
"Apparently so." A yawn came through the line. "I should try to sleep. Call me tomorrow?"
"Every night. I promised."
"You did." A pause. "Goodnight, Vasily."
"Goodnight, little dove."
The line went dead, and I sat in the darkness of my penthouse, phone pressed against my ear, listening to the silence where her voice had been.
***
The days bled together after that.
I threw myself into the hunt for the mole, working with Semyon to implement the compartmentalized intelligence strategy. Different information from different sources, each trail carefully marked so we could identify which version Pankratov acted on.
It was tedious work. Patient. The opposite of my instincts, which screamed for action, for violence, for something concrete I could fight.
But the mole was a ghost, and ghosts couldn't be killed with bullets.
Between meetings and strategy sessions, I found my thoughts drifting back to her.
Wondering what she was doing at that exact moment.
Imagining her in the library, curled up with a book, the Mediterranean light playing across her face.
Remembering the way she'd looked in my bed, flushed and breathless, crying out my name.
I called her every night without fail. Sometimes the conversations were brief—check-ins about security, updates on the Athens acquisition, mundane details of island life.
Other times, we talked for hours, the distance between us dissolving in the darkness as we shared things we'd never told anyone else.
She told me about her mother's death when she was nineteen.
How her father had given her three days to grieve before demanding she return to her classes, maintain her grades, not let the Blanchard name suffer.
How she'd buried her grief so deep she sometimes wondered if she'd ever really processed it at all.
I told her about my father—not the Pakhan, but the man.
The one who'd taught me to ride horses at our dacha outside Moscow.
Who'd held me after my mother's funeral, the only time I'd ever seen him show emotion.
Who'd spent his last years in exile, offering advice I didn't always take but always considered.
We didn't talk about love. Didn't name the thing growing between us across thousands of miles of ocean and air. But it was there, in every call, every shared silence, every moment we spent learning each other's scars.
I was falling.
I knew it, even if I couldn't say it. Even if the word felt too dangerous, too vulnerable, too much like the weakness my father had always warned against.
I was falling for my wife. The woman I'd stalked and kidnapped and forced into marriage. The woman who should hate me might still hate me sometimes, but who called me by my name like it was precious.
And I didn't know how to stop.
***
On the fifth day, we got our first break.
One of the false intelligence trails had been acted upon. A shipment schedule I'd fed specifically to Lucas Federov—and only to him—had somehow reached Pankratov's people. They'd sent men to intercept a truck that didn't exist, walking into a trap we'd prepared.
Two Armenians captured. Both talking after sufficient motivation.
They confirmed what the false trail had suggested: Lucas was the mole.
Lucas Federov. Head of club security. A man who'd been with the organization for eight years, who'd earned my trust through consistent performance and apparent loyalty. A man I'd promoted just six months ago, giving him access to exactly the kind of information Pankratov needed.
"Why?" I asked Semyon, staring at the evidence laid out before us. "He's well-paid. No financial problems that we know of. No family connections to the Armenians."
"According to our new Armenian friends, Pankratov approached him a year ago.
Offered him territory—his own crew, his own operations, once the Chernov Bratva was dismantled.
" Semyon's voice was flat with disgust. "Lucas was patient.
Waited until he had access to sensitive information before he started feeding. "
"A year." I stood abruptly, pacing to the window. "A year he's been planning this. Watching. Waiting."
"He was good. I'll give him that." Semyon paused. "He's being held at the warehouse on Atlantic Avenue. Waiting for you."
I thought of Gabrielle. Of the island, its location potentially compromised if Lucas had access to that information. Of the danger she might be in because I'd trusted the wrong man.
"Does he know about the Greek property?"
"Unknown. He wasn't part of the team that prepared it for her arrival, but he might have learned through other channels." Semyon met my eyes. "We should assume he knows. Assume Pankratov knows."
My blood ran cold.
"Get the plane ready," I said. "I'm going to deal with Lucas. Then I'm going back to her."
"Vasily, Pankratov—"
"Can wait." I was already moving toward the door. "If he knows where she is, every second I waste here is a second she's in danger. I'll finish this with Lucas, then I'm on the first flight out."
Semyon didn't argue. He knew better.
Some things were more important than strategy.
***
Lucas Federov died slowly.
I won't detail what I did to him in that warehouse. Some things are better left unspoken, even in my own mind. But before he died, he told me everything.
Pankratov's plans. The scope of the betrayal. The information that had been passed, including—as I'd feared—the location of my Greek property.
The island wasn't safe anymore.
I called Kirill from the warehouse, Lucas's blood still drying on my hands. "Triple the guards on the island. No one approaches without clearance. And tell Gabrielle to stay inside. Don't tell her why—I don't want to frighten her. But keep her safe until I arrive."
"Yes, boss."
I ended the call and stared at my phone, at the last message Gabrielle had sent me that morning: Working on the Athens report. Miss you.
Two words. Simple. Devastating.
I was coming back to her. Coming back to protect her from the danger my own failures had created.
And God help anyone who tries to stop me.