Chapter 41
CHAPTER 41
KOSTYA
I flexed my fingers around the pistol at my side, my patience wearing thin, the metal cold and familiar against my palm.
Two days since my wedding.
Forty-eight fucking hours, and already I was back in the middle of a war, the taste of gunpowder already replacing the champagne on my tongue.
Marina would be furious if she knew where I was.
But I didn't have the luxury of turning off my instincts. Not when the primitive part of my brain screamed danger with every heartbeat.
Solovyov had replaced Oleg too quickly, and that meant this wasn't over.
"You sure this is the spot?" Mac muttered from the driver's seat, his knuckles white against the black leather steering wheel.
I didn't bother answering. He knew better. We had picked up chatter. Solovyov's new enforcer was making moves, and this was our first real shot at seeing him in the flesh.
I slipped out of the passenger door, taking up a position in the narrow alley beside us with a clear view of the street. The brick wall scraped against my shoulder, rough and damp with evening dew. Mac would stay with the car, ready for a quick exit if needed.
This wasn't just about watching, though. No, tonight was about sending a message.
A new dog in the fight needed to be put down before he had the chance to sink his teeth into any of our operations.
A woman jogged past, her pace steady, music blasting from her earbuds. A baby stroller creaked along the pavement, pushed by a mother juggling coffee and a leash. A puppy bounced happily ahead, sniffing everything in sight.
Normal life. People who had no idea men like me existed, that their peace was a fragile illusion built on bodies buried deep.
A sleek, dark sedan rolled up across the street. No headlights. Tinted windows. The engine's low purr sent vibrations through the concrete beneath my feet.
There.
The driver didn't get out. The car sat idling, the faint glow of a cigarette ember flickering behind the glass, a small red star in the darkness.
"Two men inside," Mac said through my earpiece, the static making my ear itch. "Maybe more, but I don’t have a clear view of the back interior through the windshield. "
I didn't nod, didn't react. Just let my breath out slow, my lungs burning with the need for action.
Mac exhaled, his voice tense in my ear. "Your call."
The street remained quiet, tension coiling in my muscles, my body humming with adrenaline.
Then the back passenger door of the sedan opened.
A man stepped out, clicking the door shut and taking up a casual position against a tree. The sedan slowly pulled away, heading around the corner.
Broad-shouldered, dressed in a suit that fit too well for someone who worked for a man like Solovyov. His stance was relaxed, but there was an edge to the way he moved. Controlled. Precise. A man used to violence. The light caught the flash of a signet ring on his right hand. It was gold, ostentatious, a killer playing at sophistication.
Not just any new recruit.
This was their new executioner.
And that meant I was looking at the man who had tried to kill my wife. The attempt had been quick, messy. A drive-by at the restaurant where we'd been celebrating our wedding. The memory of shattering glass and Marina's scream still clawed at my insides. Pure luck had saved her, and I'd been too focused on getting her to safety to pursue him then. But now, with her secure at the compound, I could tie up this loose end.
My fingers twitched, adrenaline surging through me like a shot of pure vodka. The weight of my gun seemed to lighten, becoming an extension of my arm, my anger. This would not be a quiet night.
I wondered if Marina would like a puppy. Or was she more of a cat person? Maybe I'd surprise her with one for our first anniversary—no, not a cat. For her, I'd get a rabbit. A Soviet chinchilla rabbit. Soft, strong, and fast. Just like her. I could almost feel its velvet fur beneath my fingers, the way Marina's skin felt in the darkness.
"Anything yet?" Gregor's voice crackled in my earpiece. Damn that itch. I suppressed the urge to scratch. I hated these fucking comms, the way they buzzed and squirmed like insects in my ear.
"No," I murmured, leaning just enough out of the alley to check the street, the rough brick scraping my cheek.
The new mother with the stroller was further away now, vanishing around the corner, the puppy still sniffing at everything in sight, oblivious to the predators watching from the shadows.
I glanced toward the others.
Gregor and Artem were holed up in a black SUV a half block down. I didn't even want to imagine the dick measuring contest happening in there. God only knew what bullshit they were arguing over, but keeping the peace wasn't my problem. That was Pavel's headache to deal with.
Pavel was coordinating from the command vehicle with Gregor and Artem, monitoring police channels and keeping our exit routes clear. His voice was a steady murmur in the background of our comms, a constant stream of information that grounded us in the chaos.
Damien was stationed in another alley farther down, his silhouette barely visible in the shadows, just the glint of his watch when he moved. He lifted a hand. The silent signal that all was clear.
Mikhail was our eye in the sky, positioned on a rooftop across from the target. His rifle scope moved just slightly before his hand went up, flat and vertical. I could picture him up there, breathing slow and steady, his heartbeat probably not even breaking rhythm.
Despite the bite of winter in the air, a single bead of sweat traced a slow path down my spine, cold and insistent. My fingers tightened around my gun, the grip rough against my calluses.
Minutes ticked by. Then, the target stepped out of his front door, the sound of his expensive shoes on pavement unnaturally loud in the silence.
A senator. The one heading the Senate Narcotics Caucus. The one working with Gregor. The one targeted by Solovyov to discredit the Ivanovs and start a war. The scent of his expensive cologne reached me even from this distance, sandalwood and arrogance.
He was distracted, phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, a manila folder in one hand, his briefcase hanging open in the other.
His suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened, the look of a man in over his head. He had no fucking idea his life was hanging by a thread.
Solovyov’s new enforcer reached into his suit jacket to pull a gun from his holster. He then reached into his pocket to screw on a silencer.
"Mikhail?" I muttered, my voice a rough whisper.
"Got it," came the calm reply, ice in his tone.
A split second later, the enforcer’s body jerked before he fell in a heap behind a bush.
Mikhail said coolly, "Shooter neutralized."
Jesus. I hadn't even heard the shot. Just the stillness after, that perfect moment of death before the world realized what had happened.
The senator kept walking, still shouting into his phone, still reading his papers, completely oblivious to how close he had come to death. The guardian angel he didn't know he had. Gregor would enlighten him later when he needed leverage over the crooked politician.
A job done clean. Fast. Efficient.
I had missed this. The certainty. The precision. The control. The rush that flooded my veins, better than any drug.
We held position until the senator drove off, then waited another few beats.
No alarms. No innocent witnesses. No trace.
I let out a slow breath, watching it fog in the cold air.
Time to go.
"All clear," Damien said into the comm, his voice rough with the aftermath of adrenaline.
We moved in, our footsteps synchronized by years of working together, the sound barely a whisper on the pavement.
Gregor and Artem took their time joining us, both wearing grim expressions.
Artem's jaw was clenched tight, an expression I'd only ever seen after he spoke with our father. The devil rest his soul. The muscle in his cheek jumped with each heartbeat, a living metronome of his rage.
Pavel and I shared a glance.
We both knew what was coming. Artem was going to lose his shit later. No escaping it. The fury burning behind his eyes was barely contained, like watching a volcano moments before eruption.
Mac remained in our vehicle, engine running, eyes scanning for any unexpected company while we assessed the scene. His silhouette was just visible through the windshield, a constant reminder of our escape route.
But first, we had to deal with the matter at hand.
The body sprawled behind the bushes, limbs akimbo like a discarded doll, blood pooling beneath him in a sticky, spreading puddle.
The assassin was lying on his stomach, his gun still clutched in one hand, fingers frozen in their death grip. I carefully removed the weapon and set it aside before Damien reached in and rolled him over. The body moved with the unnatural rigidity of fresh death, the sound wet and obscene.
A neat bullet hole sat between the man's eyes, a perfect dark circle punched through flesh and bone. Mikhail's work.
"Damn good shot," Pavel muttered, his breath visible in the cold air.
The man's face was intact. That was a small mercy, identifying him would be easier this way. His eyes stared upward, already glazing over, pupils blown wide in that last moment of surprise.
"Do any of you know him?" Gregor asked, voice level but firm, filling the space between us.
We all took a moment to study the corpse, the slack features that would never move again.
Russian. That much was clear from the tattoos inked across his neck, the familiar patterns of prison ink telling stories of crimes committed, blood spilled. But his face?
No recognition.
The others answered with simple shakes of their heads, the silence punctuated only by the soft hiss of our breath in the cold.
Damien crouched, patting the body down for anything useful, his gloved hands methodical in their invasion. He didn't find much. No ID, no phone, no wallet. Nothing but a few rounds of extra ammunition and a combat knife, its edge gleaming wickedly even in the dim light.
"That's professional," he said. "No paper trail." The respect in his voice was unmistakable.
I wasn't surprised. No serious assassin carried ID. If they got caught—or killed—it kept the heat off their families. Off the people they worked for. It was the same reason I never carried anything personal on a job. Nothing that could lead back to Marina.
"Well," Artem said, as he stepped closer, his expensive shoes inches from the spreading blood. He was pushing for control again.
Technically, he was out of line. This was Gregor's territory. His call. But Artem didn't see it that way. Never had.
"We know he worked for Solovyov," he continued, his voice carrying the sharp edge of authority. "Do we want him to know we took out another one of his men? Or let him wonder?"
Gregor exhaled, considering, his breath creating a momentary ghost between them. Then he shrugged. "He'll figure it out eventually. I say we send back the tattoos. A nice message for our old friend." The casual brutality in his words made the air feel colder.
Artem's eyes flashed, sharp as shattered glass. "No."
Pavel and I exchanged another glance, tension crackling between us. Here we go. The familiar dance beginning again.
Artem wasn't objecting because he had a better idea. He was objecting because he and Gregor were locked in a constant, unspoken power struggle, a tug of war that would only end when one of them was buried.
"I say we cover this up," Artem continued, each word like a bullet finding its mark. "Let Solovyov sweat. Let him wonder if his man ran scared, if he was captured, if he's dead. See how he reacts." His smile was all teeth, a predator's grin.
Gregor pressed his lips together, weighing the words, his fingertips drumming once against his thigh, the only tell he ever allowed himself.
For a moment, I thought he'd argue. But then to my surprise, he nodded.
"Agreed." He tilted his head slightly, the moonlight catching the silver at his temples. "You go back to Russia. Keep an eye on Solovyov. I'll handle things here. I want eyes on the senator and a few other key government officials."
Artem didn't like that. I could see it in the tightening of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched for a weapon that wasn't in his hand.
His stare was hard, sharp as a blade, and Gregor met it evenly, unblinking.
A silent game of chess. Someone was going to make a wrong move at some point, and when that happened, several pieces would be sacrificed. Blood would flow, and it wouldn't be the quick, clean death of our enemies.
This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
"So, I'll call the cleanup crew," Damien said, his voice cutting through the thick tension hanging between Gregor and Artem.
"Do that," Artem responded, his tone even, but the weight of his words unmistakable, heavy with promise. "My brothers and I will deal with Solovyov. Once our enemy is gone, we'll take a hard look at the leadership and structure of the family."
A thinly veiled threat, delivered with all the subtlety of a grenade.
To Gregor's credit, he didn't take the bait. He never did. His control was legendary. I'd seen him negotiate million-dollar deals with a bullet in his shoulder, never once betraying the pain.
That was the thing about Gregor—calm, composed, never reacting in anger like Damien. No, Gregor wielded his fury with surgical precision, saving it for when it would cut the deepest. He was the scalpel to Artem's hammer.
Artem knew exactly who he was provoking. The devil dancing with a saint.
And yet, he still did it.
The coming months would be…interesting. If we all survived them.
The others dispersed, slipping into their vehicles and heading back to Gregor's compound. Their work here was done, leaving behind only the smell of death and gunpowder.
Damien and I stayed behind to oversee the cleanup. It wasn't necessary, our team was efficient, professional, but it was protocol. And in our world, protocol was what kept you alive.
Damien leaned against the hood of his car, arms crossed, his breath fogging in the night air. "So, your brother…he has his eyes on?—"
"I don't pretend to know my brother's mind." I cut him off, not wanting to hear the words spoken aloud. As if saying them might make them real.
He smirked, unbothered, his eyes knowing. "Have you considered finding him a woman? In my experience, they're an excellent distraction. A happy man is satisfied with what he has. If Artem is happy at home, maybe he'll stop coveting the property of others." His tone was light, but the suggestion wasn't.
I snorted, the sound harsh in the cold air.
A week ago, I would have thought Damien was full of shit. But now?
Now, I knew exactly what he meant. The way Marina consumed my thoughts, crowding out everything else. The way her absence felt like withdrawal, a physical pain that clawed at my insides.
"Artem has no shortage of women in his bed. But if he ever found one that was truly his match…" I shook my head, my breath creating ghosts between us. "May God have mercy on us all."
Damien chuckled, and I joined him, the rare moment of amusement breaking through the blood and tension. Our laughter hung in the air, incongruous against the backdrop of death.
The cleanup crew arrived in a nondescript white van, efficient as always. Within twenty minutes, the body was gone. Clean. Precise. No evidence left behind. No one would ever know what had happened here.
Damien and I said little else on the ride back to the compound. His sleek sports car hummed as it cut through the streets, classical music blaring from the speakers, the violent crescendos fitting for the night's work. Normally, I might have enjoyed it.
But I had only one thought in my mind, burning through everything else like wildfire.
My wife.
I needed to get back to Marina.
That urgency, that hunger, coiled tighter the closer we got, a physical ache settled low in my gut. I could almost taste her skin, smell the jasmine of her perfume.
And then?—
The second we pulled through the gates, I knew something was wrong. My instincts screamed, a primal warning that raised the hair on my neck.
The compound looked the same. No alarms. No smoke. No signs of struggle.
But it was too quiet. Too still. Like a held breath.
No one was outside.
A prickle of unease crept through me, cold fingers tracing my spine.
Something was off. The wrongness of it all settled in my bones like ice .
Artem stood near the counter, his mouth twisted in a deep scowl. Gregor mirrored his stance, arms crossed, unreadable but tense. They were both holding back something, their expressions tight, controlled. The air between them vibrated with unspoken words.
Sometimes it was easy to forget we were cousins. Other times, like now, it was impossible not to see it. The same stubborn set to their jaws, the same cold fury in their eyes.
"What happened?" I demanded, my voice rough with sudden fear.
"Yelena?" Damien pushed past me, his composure shattering like glass.
His wife ran straight into his arms, her body shaking as she buried her face against his chest. "We don't know when she left," she choked out, her voice broken with sobs. "She said she wasn't feeling well and wanted to rest. I'm so sorry. I'm—" Her words dissolved into tears, wet against Damien's shirt.
"Calm down, angel. Tell me what happened," Damien murmured, brushing a lock of damp hair from her face, his voice a soothing contrast to the steel in his eyes. His hands were gentle on her, a startling tenderness from a man I'd just watched admire a bullet wound.
And then it hit me, a physical blow that drove the air from my lungs.
"She's gone."
Marina.
Moy zaichonok had run again.
The realization slammed into me. My pulse pounded in my ears, my muscles coiled with an instinct I couldn't suppress. The urge to hunt, to claim, to possess.
This wasn't just frustration.
This wasn't just another problem to be dealt with.
This was my wife. My woman. The only thing that mattered.
Nadia's voice cut through my fury like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. "Yes. Marina left."
A muscle ticked in my jaw, the steady rhythm of rage building. "Let me guess. She was talking about choices?" The word tasted bitter on my tongue.
"She was talking about people making choices for her," Nadia corrected sharply, her glare slicing through me with all the arrogance of an Ivanov princess. Her chin lifted, daring me to challenge her. "She said before all this, she made a life for herself. And it didn't include this."
Rage seared through my veins, hot and vicious as a branding iron. Every muscle in my body tensed, ready to destroy.
"I was taking her back to her life in Russia before she got tangled in all this shit!" I snarled, my voice a sharp, unrelenting crack in the tense air. I could feel the veins standing out in my neck, the blood rushing in my ears.
Mikhail's warning was instant, his hand moving subtly toward his weapon. "Watch it."
I exhaled, my hands flexing open and closed as I fought for control, my nails biting into my palms, leaving crescent-shaped wounds.
My gaze flicked to Nadia, who was still watching me, unimpressed by the display. I forced myself to level my tone. "Apologies for yelling, Nadia. Do you know where she went?" Each word cost me, dragged out against the tide of fury.
"No."
A single word, sharp and definitive, but it wasn't just that.
She hesitated. A fraction of a second, barely noticeable.
That hesitation told me everything. It was a tell I'd learned to read across poker tables and interrogation rooms.
"But," she continued, her gaze dropping for just an instant, "I don't think she wanted to go back to Russia. She seemed resentful. Like she was being dragged along without a say in it." The last words had an edge to them, an accusation.
The words stung, barbs sinking deep into flesh.
She was supposed to be safe with me. I was supposed to be the one she trusted. Instead, she ran. The betrayal burned like acid.
I'd let my guard down. Given her space when I should have made her understand—there was no running from me. No escaping what we were to each other. What she was to me.
Gregor sighed, already moving to toss me his keys, the metal flashing in the light. "Go. Get your wife before she gets too far. Trust me, these women are a pain in the ass to find if you let them get too much of a head start." His voice held the weariness of experience.
I caught the keys midair, the metal cold against my palm. Already planning, already hunting.
She could run. She could fight .
But she was mine. Branded on my soul with invisible ink.
And I was going to drag her back by her hair if I had to.