Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Igor
"Don, Salvatore's men pulled back."
Sergey's voice on the line was tight with panic. I sat in the leather seat of the private jet opposite a bloodied Artyom. We'd just finished a fight and left a small Italian town; we were headed for New York — Salvatore had just struck the city hard, and I had to get back and take control.
"What?" I narrowed my eyes. "Say that again."
"Five minutes ago. They all withdrew at once." Sergey rushed it out. "We were ready to clash at the Brooklyn pier, but they pulled out."
A cold, sick feeling hit my temples like ice water. Salvatore wasn't the type to pull back without a reason. He'd planned this strike on New York and moved people and resources for months. He wouldn't abandon it on a whim.
Unless — unless New York was a feint. Unless his real target wasn't New York at all.
"Shit." I hung up and shot to my feet. "Artyom, turn the plane around. Now!"
"Don?" Artyom froze.
"Fly us back to Italy!" I barked. "Elena and Stella are in danger. Fuck — Salvatore baited me with New York to draw me away so he could hit Italy while I was gone —"
The phone buzzed before I finished. The name on the screen chilled me: Natasha. She didn't call unless something ugly was coming.
My hand trembled as I answered.
"Igor." Natasha's voice was cool, pleased. "Long time no see."
My fingers tightened until the phone hurt. "What do you want?"
"Me?" She laughed softly. "I just missed you. Missed your voice, your eyes, that damn coolness. For five years, I replayed your face at the engagement banquet — that look when you were ready to throw everything away for another woman."
"Cut to the point." My temple throbbed.
"Don't be hasty, darling." She giggled. "I brought you a present. Check your phone."
The line went dead.
Seconds later, my phone vibrated. Two photos arrived. I opened them, and the world collapsed.
The first showed Elena bound to a mast, her blonde hair tangled and hanging, her face white with fear. The second was worse: Stella locked in an iron cage, tiny hands clinging to the bars, her little face wet with tears.
Then a shaky video came through. The camera focused on Elena and inched closer.
I saw every detail: the raw redness at the corners of her eyes, her cracked, pale lips.
A hand with red nail polish yanked into frame, grabbed Elena's hair, and jerked it back.
Elena shut her eyes against the pain, biting her lip without a sound.
"See that, Igor?" Natasha's voice rang through the clip, sharp and unhinged. "Look at your woman now. And —"
The camera swung to Stella. The little girl screamed, raw and desperate, "Mommy! I want Mommy! Daddy, save us!"
"Your daughter," Natasha said, coldly. "She's been crying, calling for you. Pathetic."
Elena's voice, hoarse and desperate, pleaded, "Don't touch my daughter! Natasha!"
Natasha laughed — a high, crazed sound.
"Remember, Igor. Two hours. You come alone to Pier 76. One minute late and I'll let you listen to them scream."
The video cut. I stared at the dark screen. My lungs burned. My blood felt like it was boiling. Every nerve screamed to charge onto that freighter and rip Natasha's head off.
I forced myself to breathe. Losing control wouldn't save them. Artyom already knew something was wrong and waited for orders.
"Artyom," I said, cold and precise, each word measured. "Pull up detailed maps and satellite imagery of Pier 76. I want every inch. We're planning a rescue."
"Yes, Don!" Artyom snatched the tablet, and his fingers flew. Within a minute, high-def satellite images filled the screen.
I leaned over. An abandoned industrial pier, three vast warehouses, a rusting freighter tied up alongside. Container yards fanned out around it. To the east, a ten-story derelict office block.
"There." I pointed to the office. "Sniper positions. About three hundred meters out with a clear view of the deck."
Artyom marked it.
"Container yards," I said, dragging my finger across the screen. "East and west. Assault teams can hide there and split to encircle."
"Understood."
"Water team enters here," I added, indicating the slip on the other side. "Cut off any sea escape. If they try to run by boat, sink it."
"Yes, Don."
"Follow my orders to the letter."
Artyom nodded and pinged the men we'd left in Italy.
I opened the weapons locker, checked a loaded Glock 19, and slid it into my lower back.
A brand-new Beretta Nano went to an ankle holster on my right leg, hidden beneath my pant cuff.
A Russian knife and a low-profile blade slipped into my sleeves, one on each side.
Everything was ready. The plane began its descent. Fifty minutes on my watch. Artyom said the car was waiting at the private airfield in New York. We touched down, taxied, and the cabin door sighed open into cold night air.
A black Bentley waited on the tarmac. My men opened the door as I stepped down.
I drove hard through the night. The city blurred into streaks of light. My mind ran through scenarios — Natasha had snapped; Salvatore wanted my East Coast arms and laundering routes. Two predators had aligned: one to ruin me, the other to take my territory. Both held my family.
A message from Artyom: [People in position, waiting for your order.]
I clicked the phone to silent and slipped it into my pocket.
I parked about five hundred meters from Pier 76 and walked the rest of the way. The wind smelled of salt and rust. My shoes struck cracked concrete in a steady rhythm.
Every step brought me closer to Elena and Stella — and to the knives at my throat.
The freighter loomed like a sleeping beast under the moon, rust mottling its hull. Shadows moved on deck; rifle metal flashed in the light. A gangplank led up. I took it.
Five big men on deck swung AK-47s to bear the moment I stepped up.
"Stop!" one barked. "Orders are to pat you down before you go aboard. Cooperate!"
I stood still.
The lead man frisked me under the cover of his crew. He slapped at my jacket, pulled my phone from my pocket, and tossed it aside. He checked my armpits, my waist — and his hand hit the Glock at my small of back.
"Gun!" he shouted and ripped it free, flinging it to a buddy.
He dug on and found the ankle holster. "Another one! He's packing two!"
They took both guns. I showed nothing; it was theatre.
"Enough?" I asked evenly.
He patted one last time, then waved the men off, and they lowered their weapons. I stepped to the center of the deck.
"Wait."
A woman's voice, sickly sweet, cut the night.
High heels clicked on metal as Natasha glided from the shadows. Moonlight flashed off her black leather coat. She sent the big man away and came to me.
"Igor." She cooed and lifted a red-nailed hand toward my face.
I brushed her hand aside with a small, controlled motion.
Her fingers froze midair. Her smile broke for a heartbeat and snapped back. "Still so proud. I used to die for that arrogance. That untouchable look. That ice."
"Finish the search and let me through." My voice was flat. "Don't waste both our time."
"Now, now." She pressed her palm to my chest. "I'll make sure you're not hiding anything dangerous."
She unbuttoned my jacket with deliberate slowness, a tease like punishment. I watched, expression stone-cold.
"Think that'll make me angry?" I said, a mocking curl at my lip. "You've become pathetic, Natasha. Once the golden daughter of the Ivanova family, now reduced to this for a taste of power."
Her fingers jabbed at the tattoo on my chest — Property of Elena — and she slammed a nail into it. "You, a Don of the Bratva, got that tattoo for a gutter girl?" she spat. "You put it over your heart? Igor, you never did anything like that for me. Never!"
"Because I never loved you." I cut in, each word deliberate. "The engagement was family politics. You know it."
Her face twisted with anger. Then she laughed, harsh and bitter.
"Right. You never loved me. Your heart belongs to that whore. Well — she's mine now."
She continued the search. When she crouched to check my calves, she moved more slowly, frowning as if not everything added up.
"Really nothing else?" she muttered, baffled at how thorough the sweep had been.
She rose and scanned me, hunting for a flaw.
"No way," she said suddenly. "You wouldn't be this easy — there's got to be more."
Her hand slid into the right sleeve where the fabric was barely thicker. Her fingers hit something hard. Her eyes lit. She yanked out the Russian knife.
"Told you," she said, playing with it smugly. "You always like to be ready."
A smile tightened at my mouth.
"Is that so?" I said, amusement threaded through my voice.
Her triumph froze for a second, then she tossed the knife to a henchman.
"Never mind," she straightened, smoothing her coat. "Even if you had more, against dozens of our guns, it wouldn't matter."
"Come in," she said, venom lacing her tone. "This is where you wish you were dead."
I buttoned my jacket slowly and walked to the center of the deck, cataloguing every rifle and position in my head.
Then I saw Elena tied to the main mast and Stella locked in the iron cage. Elena's eyes flared when they met mine, then filled with fear. She shook her head frantically, lips moving silently — Get out, it's a trap.
My chest tightened.
"Daddy!" Stella's voice cut through. She clutched the bars, eyes swollen but bright with faith. "Daddy, you came! I knew you would!"
"I'm here, baby." I kept my voice steady, though I felt like I was breaking. "Daddy's here to get you."
I wanted to run, tear them free, kill everyone. Instead, I held my ground. I needed cold control.
"How touching." Natasha drifted to my side, dripping scorn. "Such a pretty family. Shame—"
She raised the gun and aimed at Elena's head. "This picture's about to be ruined."
Every muscle in my hand clenched until my palms hurt.
"Natasha." The words ground out through my teeth. "This is between you and me. Not them."