33. BRAXTON
Chapter thirty-three
T he Ferrari SF90 Stradale rumbled beneath my hands as I pulled up to Malinov’s estate, the low purr of its hybrid V8 barely cutting through the noise of rapid-fire clicks of cameras outside the gate. This place was crawling with paparazzi, inside and out. Even in Russia, money spoke. And this car? It screamed. The biometric scanners had already cleared me—Wyatt Sullivan, billionaire crypto king, professional asshole. It still amazed me how good Nik was at hacking into computer systems and owning their data. Now all that stood between me and the front door was a sea of paparazzi and an overfed guard with a clipboard.
I exhaled, rolling my shoulders beneath the tux, and turned to the stunning woman seated beside me. Katya Mirova—black hair, emerald-green eyes, a flawless masterpiece of Slavic beauty and high-society grooming. She was the kind of woman men tripped over themselves to impress—sleek, poised, her every movement designed for the perfect photo.
But she wasn’t Daria.
She was a social media darling everyone knew in Russia. Nik had lured her into being my date, telling her about my fake credentials. She’d liked my picture and wanted nothing more than to be seen on my arm.
Katya was dazzling, but Daria was lethal and smart, a dynamic woman who’d take years to learn. She had the kind of beauty that got men killed—sharp cheekbones, legs for days, and icy blue eyes that stripped me bare before I even realized I was standing naked in front of her. If Katya was polished marble, Daria was edged steel.
Katya shot me a sidelong glance, then adjusted the slit in her dress just enough to flash an artful glimpse of thigh as the valet approached. She knew the game.
The valet stepped toward the car, sneering, as if that might intimidate me.
I turned off the ignition and slid out, drawing myself up to full height, adjusting my cuff links with purposeful indifference. The air was crisp, salt-laced from the Neva River that ran along the property. The cameras flashed, the noise swelling as photographers barked questions in rapid Russian.
I ignored them. Confidence was currency in this world, and I had to spend it like I had an endless supply.
I reached for Katya’s hand, guiding her out of the car like a goddamn gentleman ought to. She moved with effortless grace, angling her body just so—knowing exactly where the lenses were, how to make the moment last. Cozying up to me, she rewarded the cameras with a perfect socialite smile—disinterested, bored, untouchable. She was flawless, all curves and angles wrapped in designer couture, as she scanned the scene like a queen judging the peasants in attendance. Playing the part came naturally to her.
The thug at the entrance watched impassively as I guided Katya toward the massive entry doors.
“Nice touch, crypto king,” Nik said, his voice crackling in my earpiece. “You play arrogant, rich asshole a little too well. Should I be concerned?”
I smiled, waiting for Katya to step through the crowd and move out of earshot. “Maybe you just don’t know me that well,” I said quietly.
“Oh, I know you. You’re just a guy from Tacoma who patches up gunshot wounds…a guy now playing in a world of sharpshooters.”
I let out a low laugh, adjusting my sleeve under the jacket as I caught up to Katya. Together, we stepped into the estate’s opulent, gold-drenched foyer. The marble floors gleamed, the chandeliers sparkled, and the decorations exuded an air of indulgence. And the guests? All sharks in tailored suits and silk gowns.
Nik’s voice came through again. “Straight through the main hall, take the formal staircase, and head to the east wing. You’ll see the ballroom ahead.”
“Understood.” He didn’t have to tell me—I’d memorized the layout almost as soon as I’d laid eyes on it—but Nik liked to feel in control. I moved with authority, cutting through the crowd with the same quiet confidence I would use at the scene of an accident.
Katya looped her arm through mine, tilting her head as she batted her eyelashes at me adoringly, positioning herself in just the right way for the cameras to capture her profile.
Nik huffed. “Jesus. You really do look like you own the place. Should’ve been a fucking Genovese.”
I smirked but said nothing, guiding Katya slowly through the throng of guests, toward the ballroom.
Along the way, I shook hands with a few men and tossed polite nods at their wives. The whole place stank of money and arrogance—Russian oligarchs and their sycophants, each dripping in wealth they’d stolen rather than earned. Katya stayed glued to my side, flashing her perfect smile at the right moments, laughing at the empty small talk, her emerald eyes scanning the crowd with the sharp instinct of a woman who’d spent her life playing this game.
I let her do most of the talking.
Shortly after we stepped into the ballroom, Nik’s voice cut in through my earpiece. “We have eyes on Daria. Underground. Malinov’s got her in a room that looks like a fucking BDSM torture chamber.”
My jaw clenched. “What’s he doing to her?”
“Nothing yet. Just walked in with his men.”
I sucked in a slow breath, forcing my shoulders to loosen. I needed a drink.
Guiding Katya toward the bar, I flagged down the bartender with a flick of my fingers. “Gentleman Jack. Neat.” I glanced at Katya. “And whatever the lady wants.”
She grinned, placing a delicate hand on my chest. “You’re sweet, Wyatt. But I think I see some friends.” She nodded toward a cluster of women near the dance floor. “I’ll find you later?”
“Of course.”
She rose up, pressing an airy kiss to my cheek, then sauntered away.
Nik’s voice sharpened. “Jesus Christ—” A pause. “That motherfucker just shoved her against the wall.”
The bartender placed my drink in front of me. I gripped the glass, staring at the amber liquid as Nik rattled off what he was seeing.
“There’s a guy with a med kit. Just injected something into her arm.”
Ice shot through my veins. “What was it?”
“Give me a fucking second… Tracing back what he called it…” Nik’s fingers pounded against his keyboard. “Got it. MediVex subdermal delivery device.” He inhaled sharply. “It’s a device that inserts a mechanical capsule which can be activated to release medication into the patient’s body using a phone app. This is bad.”
My grip tightened on the glass. “How bad? What kind of medicine?”
“Real bad,” Nik said through gritted teeth. “The capsule’s tiny, but it’s holding a neurotoxin twice as potent as tetrodotoxin. Completely lethal. If Malinov decides she’s outlived her usefulness, one tap on his phone and she dies gasping for air.”
I shot back my drink, the burn doing nothing to dull the rage boiling under my skin. “Can we stop it? Remove it?”
“I’m working on it. But listen—” The keys clacked even harder as he kept working. “This thing isn’t just sitting under her skin. It’s anchored.”
“Anchored?”
“Two microbarbs in the back of her arm. If she—or anyone—tries to rip it out, the compression sensor will detect tampering and trigger an automatic release. The second those barbs shift the wrong way, she’s dead.”
Fucking hell.
I adjusted my stance, straining to keep my composure and forcing my face to remain impassive even as my pulse hammered against my skull. I nodded at the bartender and held up my empty glass and two fingers. “Can you override it?”
“Give me a minute. I need access to the manufacturer’s mainframe. I’ll get in.” More typing. “But once I figure it out, we won’t have much time. When I tell you to move, you’d better be ready.”
I released a slow breath as a fresh glass of whiskey hit the bar in front of me. “I’ll be ready.”
“Fuck! Malinov just found a knife strapped to her thigh.”
I swirled the whiskey in my glass, keeping my movements smooth even as my muscles went rigid. Listening to this sick play-by-play was hell, and it was all I could do not to run down to the room they were holding Daria in—I knew exactly how to get there.
“He’s gloating. Playing with the blade like a goddamn trophy.”
A muscle twitched in my jaw. Of course Malinov was fucking enjoying this.
Then Nik’s tone shifted. “Wait—”
My entire body went still.
“They just brought in another woman.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Who?”
“Pulling her image now—” Another pause. “Shit. Svetlana Popova. She’s one of Melnichenko’s maids. Been looking after Daria since she was captured.”
That didn’t bode well.
“Braxton—”
Nik’s voice had an edge now.
“What?”
Another pause. “I think they’re gonna kill her.”
I slammed my drink down onto the bar.
“Malinov just tossed the knife to one of his men.” Nik’s breath caught. “Shit, they’re doing it.”
I braced myself.
“He’s got her by the hair—”
I gripped the glass.
“Daria’s struggling—”
My fingers tightened.
“He slit her throat!”
The glass shattered.
Whiskey and shards exploded over my fist, but the pain didn’t register. Blood roared in my ears.
Nik cursed. “Braxton. Get your fucking head on straight.”
I exhaled hard, shaking the liquid from my fingers. I hadn’t cut myself, but the bartender was staring. A few guests nearby turned their heads.
Nik’s voice dropped to a snarl. “I see you on the feed. Get your shit together. Order another drink. Walk away.”
I yanked a napkin off the bar, dabbing my fingers as I flagged the bartender with my other hand. “Another double of Gentleman Jack.” Despite the whirlwind of rage inside me, my voice came out calm.
The bartender nodded, reaching for a fresh glass.
Nik growled, “You blow your cover, we lose her. Play the part.”
I rolled my neck, shoving every bit of my fury down, turning it into something cold. “I know.”
Another glass landed in front of me. I picked it up and took a slow sip as the bartender studied me and wiped away the mess.
Then I turned, moving toward the far end of the ballroom—away from the bar, away from all the watchful eyes.
Nik kept talking. “Malinov’s taking Daria upstairs.”
I swirled the whiskey. “Is she holding it together?”
Nik’s answer was quiet. “She’s ice.”
Good.
But inside, she had to be bleeding.
Nik was seeing the blank mask she wore, the cold detachment that kept her standing when most people would have collapsed under the stress. But I’d seen what was beneath it.
Daria wasn’t just ice—she was fire too. She would burn for those who couldn’t fight for themselves. She carried a quiet, unseen goodness, the kind that refused to be extinguished no matter how much darkness tried to swallow it. It was still there, even after men like her father and Malinov had spent decades trying to snuff it out. And as for all the blood on her hands, I knew—knew—she had never wanted it there.
She hadn’t been born a killer. She’d been made into one.
Forced into the Kremlin’s machine, raised under her father’s brutal rule, taught that love was a weakness and that her only loyalty was to the men who controlled her. Every lesson had been beaten into her. Every moment of softness was something she’d had to carve out of herself just to survive. And despite all of it, she had still chosen to protect the innocent. She had still risked her life for the Ukrainian people. For me.
And now, she was paying for it.
I gritted my teeth, gripping the glass hard enough that my knuckles ached from trying not to shatter this glass too. I would burn this fucking mansion to the ground before I let Malinov take one more piece of her soul.
She wasn’t staying here. Not in this house, not in this country, not in this nightmare she’d been born into. She deserved more than cages, more than war, more than a lifetime of looking over her shoulder.
She deserved freedom.
She deserved love.
And I would give her both.
I wasn’t just getting her out of here; I would give her a reason to fight for something beyond survival. A reason to believe in something other than betrayal and bloodshed.
A reason to believe in me.
As I moved through the ballroom, cutting through the crowd, I kept my pace unhurried. The tux fit like a second skin, tailored to help me blend into this world of polished lies. The whiskey in my hand completed the illusion of a man refined, composed, in control. But my mind wasn’t here. It was miles away, racing through a thousand possible scenarios, each one worse than the last.
Then, a deep voice boomed over the music. “Wyatt Sullivan! Finally, I meet the infamous crypto king.”
I turned, meeting the grip of a massive man who clasped my hand in a showy, crushing handshake. He was in his thirties, broad as a goddamn bear but polished in a way that said he belonged here. A gleaming Patek Philippe was wrapped around his thick wrist, and his tux was tailored to perfection. The bastard carried himself like he could buy and sell half the men in the room.
Nik’s voice cut into my earpiece. “That’s Magnus Nygaard. Arms dealer. One of my contacts. Malinov trusts him, but he’s my guy.”
I squeezed his hand just hard enough to make it clear I wasn’t some soft American tech bro. “Magnus,” I drawled, flashing him a smirk. “Pleasure’s mine.”
Magnus grinned. “I’ve heard plenty about you. Big moves in the market today. You giving those Wall Street fossils heart attacks yet?”
I let out a slow, measured chuckle. “They don’t even know what hit ’em.”
Magnus let out a hearty laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Good. Let the old fuckers sweat.”
I released his hand, easing back into a comfortable stance, like I had all the time in the world. The less I looked like a man ready to rip Malinov’s throat out, the better.
“Walk with me,” Magnus said, gesturing toward the edge of the room.
I didn’t argue. We stepped aside just as the ballroom doors opened with a flourish.
Nik’s voice snapped. “She’s coming in.”
I turned my head subtly enough to catch her entrance without being obvious.
Daria—God, she never failed to look perfect.
Malinov dragged her in like she was his prize, his bloated hand clamped around her waist. Her pale azure dress clung to her like liquid silver, and her chin was lifted high, her shoulders squared. To everyone in this room, she looked like a goddess—untouchable, cold, indifferent.
But I saw it.
The barely perceptible strain in her jaw. The way her fingers curled subtly, as if trying to hold something in.
Svetlana’s death had to be playing over and over in her mind.
A greeting line formed, men and women slithering forward to offer congratulations to Malinov for bagging himself a Russian legend.
Magnus and I fell in line, keeping our pace casual.
Katya reappeared, slipping in beside me, looping her arm through mine. Her perfume wafted gently around me, something floral and expensive. “You disappeared on me, my darling,” she purred.
I gave her a half smile. “Got caught up in chatting with my buddy here.”
Katya’s attention flicked to Magnus, her eyes practically undressing him. “And who is this charming man?”
Magnus flashed her a knowing grin and kissed the back of her hand. “Magnus Nygaard. Pleased to meet you.”
Nik let out a dry chuckle of amusement. “Well, that’s convenient. She’s into him. Good. Now ditch her.”
The line inched forward, and I remained in my place—I wasn’t going anywhere. I had to get to her. Nik’s voice cut back in, sharper this time. “Braxton, break away. Now. She can’t see you yet.”
My pulse kicked up. “Why?”
“She’s rattled. If she reacts to you, it blows your cover. Move.”
I lowered my head down in frustration and shifted gears. Magnus caught my eye, taking note of the change in my behavior.
“I’ll be back,” I muttered.
Magnus gave the smallest nod, already stepping closer to Katya and pulling her into conversation.
Good man.
I turned on my heel, slipping between the bodies, heading for the west side of the ballroom.
Nik was still in my ear. “Go to the veranda overlooking the river. Wait there.”
I moved through the crowd with ease, going over the layout of the mansion in my mind—visualizing every hallway, every staircase, every exit. I moved down a hallway and turned a corner, then slipped out onto the veranda that was situated between the east and west wings of the home, the cool air brushing against my skin as I stepped toward the railing.
Below, the Neva River stretched into the distance, its water dark and churning, glistening in the moonlight.
I leaned against the veranda railing, slugged back the last of my drink, and set the glass down. Crossing my arms, I kept my stance relaxed, resting one elbow on the cool stone while I watched the movement behind the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the ballroom. The party pulsed with activity, champagne flowing and music drifting through the air. I waited for my next move.
Nik’s voice cut through my earpiece. “Malinov’s moving. He’s pulling her into the center of the ballroom.”
I straightened slightly. “Can you see her?”
“Yes.” A brief pause. “Wait. Jesus. She’s gagging on something. He made her eat that fucking aspic. She’s running. Heading east, looking like she’s going to puke.”
“She must be heading to the bathroom near the elevator at the east end. It’s the only one in that direction. I’m on my way.”
I turned, moving calmly along the veranda’s edge before slipping back through the open terrace doors. No rush—just a man enjoying a party, making his way back toward the ballroom for a drink refill or a conversation he didn’t give a shit about.
Nik murmured in my ear, a live update: “She looked desperate before she went in. Might make a break for it.”
My hands curled into fists. There was a window in that bathroom but also a considerable drop to the ground below.
“Then I’d better move,” I muttered, cutting through the crowd.
A server approached, offering me a fresh glass of champagne. I brushed past without a glance, zeroing in on the east hallway. If Daria was considering an escape—with that poison-loaded device in her arm—it meant she was cornered enough to risk death. That meant whatever Malinov had planned for her was terrifying.
Nik’s fingers pounded against his keyboard. “Good news—sort of. I’ve got a solution for the device, but it’s not foolproof. You’ll have to be fast, surgical. I’ll guide you through how the device works, but once we start, we’re on the clock, and you’ll have to pull off some paramedic magic. Shit! Wait. Slow down. She locked the door. One of my people will have to grab a key.”
I exhaled sharply through my nose and slowed my pace. “Tell me where to get what I need.”
“Swing by the dessert table just inside the ballroom. There will be a woman who will pass off the key. Act natural.”
I veered inside the ballroom, heading to the dessert table. After placing a chocolate and cream confection on a small plate, I reached for a napkin and a fork. Just then, a woman came up to the table carrying a stack of cloth napkins.
Nik’s voice hummed low. “Target incoming.”
She passed by without a glance in my direction, her fingers grazing my jacket as she slipped something into my pocket with the seamless precision of a professional. I kept moving, taking a quick bite of the treat before setting it on a passing server’s tray, then continued toward Daria.
Nik chimed in, “Good. Now let’s get your girl.”
After exiting the ballroom, I turned down the hallway and took a left, locking onto the bathroom door at the end. The corridor was empty. Perfect.
I pulled the key from the cloth and slipped it into the lock. There was a quiet click.
Then I pushed the door open and stepped inside.