Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
KOSTYA
I was already calculating the fastest way to the next station when someone grabbed me from behind.
Big mistake.
My elbow slammed into his ribs before my brain even processed the threat. The impact reverberated through my arm, a satisfying crunch of bone beneath muscle. Pure instinct, honed by years of violence.
The second I felt his grip loosen, I spun, landing a brutal right hook to his jaw. The crack of knuckles against bone sent a jolt of savage pleasure through my veins.
His head snapped back, eyes rolling white before he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. A marionette with cut strings.
And that was when I noticed the uniform.
A cop.
Could this day get any fucking worse?
Apparently, yes, it could .
Another one came at me, baton already drawn, his face contorted with fury.
At least he had some fight in him.
He swung for my head. Predictable. I lifted my arm, blocking the hit. It still stung like a bitch, pain shooting up to my shoulder, but my wool coat absorbed some of the impact. Before he could wind up again, I grabbed the back of his neck, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath his hairline, and slammed him into the nearest metal pillar.
The satisfying clang echoed across the platform, vibrating through the concrete beneath our feet. Blood spattered across the graffiti-covered metal, bright crimson against faded tags.
He stumbled, dazed, blinking like he wasn't sure whether to keep fighting or just collapse. Eyes unfocused, pupils dilated with shock. I ended his internal debate by grabbing him by the collar and tossing him onto his unconscious friend.
And then, of course, backup arrived.
Four more officers came charging up the stairs, boots pounding against metal, radios crackling with static and urgent voices. Three of them looked ready to throw down, hands already on their batons, faces flushed with adrenaline. The fourth, the only one with an ounce of intelligence, already had his gun drawn. The black barrel pointed straight at my chest, unwavering.
Finally, someone with a brain.
I raised my hands, more annoyed than concerned. My pulse didn't even quicken, just kept the steady rhythm of controlled fury.
It wasn't that I couldn't take them. I could. But killing cops, especially American ones, meant attention. Attention that would require my cousin Gregor's involvement.
The very thing I was trying to avoid.
One officer knelt beside his unconscious buddies, fingers pressed against throats, checking for pulses. His expression darkened when he found them, relief and rage battling in his eyes. Another kept his gun trained on me, arm rigid, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill in the air.
The remaining two approached cautiously. One fumbling for his handcuffs, metal jingling against his belt, the other holding his hands out as if he were trying to calm a wild animal.
Had I not been trying to avoid Gregor, I would've grabbed the outstretched hand and used the idiot as a human shield. Instead, I let them shove me down onto the filthy platform. My cheek pressed against concrete, gritty with years of dirt and God knew what else.
This suit was ruined. Armani. Custom-tailored. Imported from Italy. Nine thousand euros, and worth every cent.
Now it smelled like piss and stale beer, the fabric grinding against filth that would never come out.
All while Marina was getting further and further away. Again. The thought burned through me like acid, eating away at whatever restraint I had left.
"Yeah, we've got a violent drunk and disorderly," one of the officers muttered into his radio, his voice tight with barely contained rage. "Bringing him in. Assault on an officer. Requesting medical; two down, unconscious but stable. "
America had such a reputation for its law enforcement, and yet here I was, being arrested by a bunch of sad sacks who wouldn't last a day in Moscow. Who would be skinned alive and hung from bridges for touching a man like me.
Two of them struggled to haul me to my feet, fingers digging into my biceps, dragging me toward the squad cars waiting at the bottom of the metal stairs. Their labored breathing hot against my neck. I gritted my teeth, less from pain and more from sheer irritation.
Then, just because I could, I snapped my head back.
There was a sickening crunch as my skull connected with his nose. Cartilage gave way, soft and yielding. Blood spurted, hot and wet, splattering the back of my neck. The metallic scent filled the air.
The cop howled, clutching his broken nose, crimson seeping between his fingers.
And then— crack .
His baton slammed into the back of my skull. White-hot pain exploded behind my eyes.
For a split second, my vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges. A strange ringing filled my ears, drowning out the shouts and curses.
By the time I shook it off, copper tang of blood on my tongue, I was already being shoved into the back of a police car. The door slammed shut, sealing me in a cage of metal and glass, the taste of my own blood a reminder of how close I'd come to losing control.
They took me to a nearby precinct, tossed me into a cell, and left me there.
No processing other than taking my cell phone and wallet. No phone call. Just the cold embrace of concrete and steel.
If Solovyov got to Marina before I did—if these cops cost me her life—I would take theirs as payment. I'd hunt them down one by one, make them suffer in ways that would haunt their nightmares. If they even survived long enough to dream again.
A cop with blonde hair stopped in front of the cell. His eyes widened as he took me in, pupils dilating with recognition, shaking his head like he didn't quite trust what he was seeing.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath, a faint accent curling the word. Eastern European. One of ours. "You're?—"
"Yes." I cut him off before he could finish, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "You will handle this. Now."
It wasn't a question. And the boy knew it.
His already pale face lost what little color remained, turning the sickly white of old snow. He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the sudden silence, nodding before glancing around and pulling out his phone. I didn't know who he was calling, but I could guess.
The energy in the precinct shifted.
The bored, bureaucratic laziness evaporated, replaced with a crackling, nervous charge. The officer at the desk couldn't stop stealing glances my way, each look more terrified than the last. Others openly gawked, some whispering amongst themselves, hands instinctively moving closer to their weapons. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but the message was clear.
They knew they had fucked up .
An officer came to unlock my cage, his gaze glued to the floor, his confidence shattered. The fresh bandage over his nose, stained with spots of blood, told me all I needed to know. He said nothing as he led me to an office, his steps quick, eager to be rid of me.
A man I assumed was the captain sat behind a large wooden desk, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. The second we entered, he shot to his feet, chair screeching against the floor.
"Get those cuffs off him immediately," he barked, panic making his voice crack.
It took the officer a minute to fumble with the keys. His hands trembled so badly he could barely manage the lock, metal scraping against metal.
Yeah. They figured out who I was.
The moment my hands were free, wrists red and chafed, I threw a punch straight into the bastard's already broken nose. The impact jarred my knuckles, still bruised from earlier, but the pain was worth it.
"What is it you Americans say?" I mused as he stumbled back, clutching his face, fresh blood streaming between his fingers. "Play stupid games, win stupid prizes."
The officer whimpered, clutching his bloodied nose as he turned and all but ran from the room. Pathetic. The door slammed behind him, the glass rattling in its frame.
"Mr. Ivanov, please accept my humblest apologies," the captain said, his voice frantic with the need to smooth this over. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. "Normally, my officers are more…informed. We were unaware that you?—"
I lifted a hand, cutting off his useless groveling .
"I want my belongings. Then I'm leaving."
"So soon?" another voice drawled from the doorway, familiar as my own reflection and twice as irritating.
I closed my eyes and ground my teeth, the muscle in my jaw jumping.
Of course, it couldn't be that easy.
"Var," I greeted without turning.
"Kostya."
Var stepped into the room, immaculate as always in his bespoke suit, not a hair out of place. Looking amused, like he had walked in on a joke he wasn't going to let me in on. His presence filled the space, commanding attention without effort. The scent of his expensive cologne mingled with the stale coffee and fear that permeated the office.
He turned to the captain. "Thank you for your cooperation. It has been noted. An envelope to show our appreciation will be delivered to your home."
As we walked down the hall, shoes clicking against the linoleum, Var grabbed my arm, fingers digging into the muscle.
I didn't shake him off. I knew what was coming.
He had warned me to make my presence in Chicago known to my cousin.
"Curious as to why I'm here?" he started, voice deceptively light.
"No." It was obvious. He may have been a friend, and one of the few people we did business with in Chicago, but that didn't mean I wanted him seeing me in police custody. The humiliation burned deep, a stain that wouldn't wash away easily .
"I'm here because you, dear friend, forgot who you are and what we do, but even worse, you failed to take my warning seriously." Each word was a bullet, precisely aimed.
He handed me my phone and wallet, their weight familiar in my palm. Before tucking them away, I checked my phone.
A dozen missed calls from Gregor.
So much for flying under the radar.
We walked through the precinct, officers scrambling out of our way like cockroaches when the light turned on.
"I told you. This isn't business. It's personal," I muttered, the throbbing in my head intensifying with each step.
"I don't think Gregor cares why you're here. It's the disrespect. You didn't inform him." Var's voice was tight, controlled, but I could hear the underlying warning.
"It's not important." I rubbed my wrist where the cuffs had been too tight. My fingers still tingled, circulation slowly returning.
"Then there was no reason not to call him. Gregor is many things, but unreasonable isn't one of them." Var gave me a knowing look, his eyes sharp as glass. "It doesn't mean he won't rip your head off for causing this avoidable and very public mess with the police."
I scoffed. "I think his wife has calmed most of his temper."
"Please let me be in the room when you tell him that."
I said nothing.
There had been whispers after Gregor's marriage, and then after Damian's, and after they let their sister marry below her rank. Some questioned the strength of the American side of the family.
Meanwhile, the Russian government and international sanctions had tightened their grip, making business harder. Less profitable. In short, it was a bad time for me to be bringing unwanted attention to our family operations.
"So, how'd it go?" Var asked in that smug, I'm-the-older-brother voice that tempted me to break his perfect white teeth.
"I found her." The words tasted bitter on my tongue, victory and defeat in equal measure.
"That's excellent news, but I didn't see her in your personal effects. Is she in your pocket or?—?"
"Fuck you." I was exhausted. Hungry. And filthy. Blood dried on my collar, suit beyond salvation.
Although I didn’t have the time, I knew I’d need to change before going on the hunt again, otherwise I’d draw even more unwanted attention to myself.
Var chuckled as we stepped outside, the crisp night air a welcome slap after the stifling precinct. The city sprawled before us, a maze of concrete and steel, and somewhere within it, Marina was running. Hiding.
"I was told to remind you that you broke protocol. As the Vor v Zakone for the Ivanovs' American operations, you owed Gregor a visit the second you landed. You should have flown straight to D.C. and?—"
"Once again, this is personal, not business," I snapped, patience fraying at the edges.
"Nothing in our world is personal." Var raised a brow as my voice edged into dangerous territory, his own tone sharpening in response.
I took a deep breath, forcing the rage down where it belonged. "Look, I don't want Gregor involved. Not yet. Not until I know what's going on."
Var stiffened, his casual demeanor dropping. "Who's after her?"
I hesitated, weighing my words carefully. "Solovyov."
Var swore under his breath, the Russian curse harsh and guttural, as he took out a cigarette and offered me one. The familiar silver case caught the glow of the streetlight, gleaming. "If Solovyov is involved, then you really should have called Gregor. Even if only to warn him that that sociopath might follow you. Gregor deserves to know if that man is in his territory."
I clenched my jaw, teeth grinding together. I'd already said too much. The words hung between us, impossible to take back.
"Call him. Now," Var ordered, his voice hardening. "And know this, Gregor won't let you take out a vendetta on an innocent woman just because you're pissed at your dead wife."
"This isn't a fucking vendetta." My headache pulsed at my temples, each beat a hammer against bone.
I hated being forced to explain myself.
"Bullshit. You deserve payment in blood for what happened to your wife, but?—"
Var barely reacted when I shoved him against a brick wall, his only response a slow arch of his brow. His back hit the rough surface with a thud, but he didn't flinch. Didn't struggle. Just watched me with those calculating eyes, measuring my control—or lack thereof.
I let go, exhaling sharply, forcing my pulse to slow. "I'm not trying to kill Marina."
Var straightened his suit jacket, running a hand over the wrinkles I caused, before pulling out another cigarette to replace the one I knocked out of his hand. He tapped the tobacco end against the case, the soft sound at odds with the tension crackling between us.
"If you're not trying to kill her, then why are you chasing your dead wife's sister?" he asked before lighting it, the flick of his lighter illuminating his face in the darkness.
"I'm trying to save her," I growled, the truth of it burning in my chest. "Now get the fuck out of my way."
I'd wasted enough time.
Marina could already be halfway out of the city by now.
She thought she was safe, thought she had eluded me.
She thought wrong.