Chapter 4 #3
Her front pockets held nothing but lint. But when I checked her back pocket, my fingers found something that changed everything.
It was small enough to miss if you weren't thorough: a USB drive.
I pulled it out, held it up to the light. Generic brand, 64 gigs, nothing special about it except for the fact that she'd hidden it so carefully.
"That's nothing," she said too quickly. "Just downloaded music."
"Right." I pocketed the drive, certain that she was lying.
She watched me pocket it with those mismatched eyes, and I saw her calculating whether to lie more or just stay quiet. She chose quiet, which told me she was smarter than most people in her position would be.
"Anything else I should know about?" I asked. "Any other little surprises hidden on you?"
"Yeah," she said, meeting my eyes with pure defiance. "I've got hepatitis C from sharing needles. Enjoy your infection from that bite."
I studied her for a moment, then smiled. "No, you don't. You're terrified of needles. I can tell by how you flinched when you said it."
Her mouth fell open slightly, caught in the lie, and something that might have been respect flashed across her face before the walls slammed back down.
"How the fuck would you know that?"
"Because I've been doing this longer than you've been alive, little one. I know when people are lying, when they're hiding something, and when they're about to do something stupid. You're currently doing all three."
She pulled against the zip ties again, futile but necessary for her pride. "Don't call me little one."
"Would you prefer baby girl?" I asked, and immediately wanted to take it back because of how her eyes widened, how her breath caught, how color flooded her cheeks in a way that had nothing to do with anger.
Fuck. This was getting complicated in ways I hadn't anticipated.
Iplugged the USB into my laptop while Eva continued her creative cursing from the chair—something about my mother, a goat, and anatomically impossible acts.
The girl had a vocabulary that would make dock workers blush, delivered with enough venom to strip paint.
I'd have been impressed if I wasn't focused on what was about to appear on my screen.
The puppy had found his way over to her while I worked, dragging himself across the kitchen tiles despite his obvious exhaustion.
He curled against her ankle, pressing his tiny body against the only comfort available to him.
Even tied to a chair, even after everything, she tried to reach him with her foot, making soft shushing noises that were completely at odds with the threats she'd been spitting at me seconds before.
The USB loaded, and my blood went cold.
Financial records filled my screen—not just any records, but the entire money laundering operation the Morozovs had been running through the NYPD for the last three years.
Account numbers, transaction dates, amounts that made even my eyes widen.
Fifty thousand here, hundred thousand there, all funneled through pension funds and emergency discretionary accounts that nobody ever audited.
I scrolled down, and it got worse. Routes and schedules for drug shipments, detailed down to which officers would be on duty, which checkpoints would be conveniently unmanned.
The Morozovs had been moving product through the city like it was their personal highway system, and here was the proof, all timestamped and verified.
Then the photos. Jesus Christ, the photos.
Cops taking envelopes in parking garages.
Judges at dinner with known Morozov enforcers.
The deputy commissioner getting a briefcase from Viktor Chenkov himself, the Morozov's psychotic number two who liked to tell people about his medical training while removing their fingers.
Every image was high resolution, dated, devastating.
You could see the serial numbers on some of the bills being handed over.
"You have no idea what you stole," I said, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
"Three hundred dollars and a USB full of boring spreadsheets?" Eva said, but I heard the fear underneath the bravado. She knew this was bad. She just didn't know how bad.
This wasn't just evidence—it was a nuclear weapon that could destroy half the criminal infrastructure in New York.
The Morozovs owned those cops, those judges, that entire system of corruption that kept their organization running.
Without it, they'd be exposed, vulnerable, finished.
No wonder they wanted her dead. No wonder the bounty was so high.
Except they didn't want her dead. They wanted her alive, which meant they wanted to know what she'd seen, who she'd told, whether there were copies.
I pulled out my phone, dialing Ivan on the encrypted line. My youngest brother picked up on the second ring, because Ivan always picked up on the second ring. Efficiency was his religion.
"I need information on Morozov operations," I said, keeping my voice neutral, professional. "They're hunting someone. A thief with distinctive eyes."
"Already on it," Ivan replied, on speakerphone. I heard his keyboard clicking in the background. He probably had eight screens open, tracking police chatter, dark web postings, street-level intelligence networks. "Five hundred thousand bounty, went live two hours ago. They want her alive."
Eva had gone very still in the chair, her whole body tense like prey that had just heard a predator. Her eyes were wide, her face incredibly pale.
"Description?" I asked, though I was looking right at her.
"Just the eyes. One blue, one green. They're calling them 'unforgettable.'" More keyboard clicks. "Every crew in Brooklyn has her description. They're checking hospitals, shelters, known drug houses. Chenkov is personally overseeing the hunt."
Chenkov. That sadistic fuck who'd learned torture techniques in some Siberian medical school before deciding crime paid better than surgery.
He'd once kept a rival enforcer alive for three weeks while slowly disassembling him.
The man had a whole workshop dedicated to his hobby, complete with medical equipment to keep his subjects conscious through things that should have killed them.
"Understood," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the image of Eva in Chenkov's hands that flashed through my mind.
I hung up and looked at Eva, who was staring at me with those impossible eyes, and for the first time since I'd grabbed her, the fight had gone out of her. She looked young suddenly, fragile in a way that all her cursing and violence couldn't hide.
"Five hundred thousand?" she whispered. "For me?"
"Congratulations, little one," I said, lowering the phone. "You just became the most hunted person in New York."
She processed this, and I watched her work through the implications.
Every criminal crew in the city looking for her.
Nowhere safe to run. No one to trust. Even if she escaped me, she'd be caught within hours, probably less.
And then she'd be delivered to Chenkov, who'd spend weeks taking her apart to find out what she knew, who she'd told, whether there were copies of that USB floating around.
"You're going to turn me over," she said, and it wasn't a question. Her voice had gone flat, resigned, like she'd already accepted her fate. "Take the money and hand me to them."
I should.
It was the clever move, the logical move, the move that almost every member of almost every bratva would make. But we were different. We were the Volkovs, and we didn’t use vulnerable women the way others would.
"I should," I said finally. "It's the smart play. Clean, profitable, solves multiple problems at once."
Her jaw clenched, that defiance flaring back to life even in the face of certain death. "Then fucking do it already. Call them. Get your money. Just stop pretending you give a shit what happens to me."
The anger in her voice was better than the resignation. Anger meant she still had fight left. Anger meant she hadn't given up completely.
"You're right," I said, making a decision that went against every instinct I'd developed over thirty-two years in this life. "I don't give a shit what happens to you."
She flinched, just slightly, like even expecting the words didn't make them hurt less.
"But I do give a shit about Chenkov getting his hands on that USB," I continued. "And I definitely give a shit about the Morozovs having that much power over the NYPD. So congratulations—you're mine now. My problem, my responsibility, my property until this is resolved."
"I'm not property," she spat, but there was confusion mixed with the anger now.
"You are now," I said simply. "The alternative is Chenkov's workshop, and trust me, little one, whatever you think I might do to you is nothing compared to what he'd do."
She stared at me for a long moment, those mismatched eyes searching for the lie, the trap, the angle I was playing. But there wasn't one. This was pure stupidity on my part, keeping her when I should hand her over, protecting her when she meant nothing to me except complications I didn't need.
Except she didn't mean nothing.
That was the problem.
Somehow, in the space of a few hours, this feral girl with her desperate bravery and her soft spot for broken puppies had gotten under my skin in a way I didn't like and couldn't seem to stop.
"Why?" she asked finally. "Why keep me if not for the money?"
Because you're magnificent in your rage. Because you'd rather die than submit. Because something about you makes me want things I shouldn't want and can't afford to feel.