Chapter 14
RUSLAN BARANOV
The private jet touched down on the private airstrip outside Los Angeles just after midnight.
The landing gear kissed the runway with a heavy thud, engines whining as they slowed — then gradually falling into an unnatural hush.
I was already moving before the aircraft fully stopped.
The door slid open.
The stairs deployed.
I didn’t wait for them to lock into place.
Boots hit tarmac in a dead run.
Eight hours in the air had felt like eight years of forced stillness — every minute stretched thin by the encrypted message that had detonated across my screen mid-flight.
Petros.
Perimeter breached.
Multiple hostiles.
Elena and child unaccounted for.
Going dark.
That was it.
No details.
No status.
No confirmation whether she was alive or already taken.
My jaw tightened as I sprinted across the runway toward the waiting convoy.
The SUV doors were already open.
My men moved with me instantly — no questions, no hesitation. They knew better than to speak when my silence was this heavy.
We peeled out from the airstrip.
Three black SUVs tearing through the night.
Headlights off.
Windows tinted to blackout.
Speed pinned beyond legal limits.
The city blurred into streaks of light as we drove toward the estate.
No one spoke inside the vehicle.
My fingers rested on the grip of my sidearm.
Loaded.
Ready.
Waiting for contact.
The closer we got, the tighter my chest felt.
When the gates came into view — my stomach dropped.
The wrought-iron entrance hung open.
One panel had been ripped halfway off its hinges, metal twisted like it had been torn by brute force rather than tools.
The security lights flickered overhead.
Bullet casings scattered across the gravel driveway glinted under the glow — small metallic stars marking where violence had already unfolded.
Three bodies lay sprawled near the entrance.
My men.
Throats slit.
Eyes staring at nothing.
Clean cuts.
Professional execution.
I stepped out of the SUV before it fully stopped.
Boots crunched over gravel.
One glance.
That was all it took to confirm — this wasn’t random.
This was targeted.
Calculated.
I vaulted over the low security wall instead of wasting time with the broken gate.
Glock drawn.
Suppressor already screwed in.
My men spread out behind me, forming a tight perimeter as we advanced.
The house loomed ahead.
Dark.
Silent.
Wrong.
There were no floodlights sweeping the grounds.
No guards patrolling the perimeter.
No alarms screaming.
Just the faint rustle of wind through the eucalyptus trees and the metallic scent of blood hanging in the air like a warning.
I approached the front doors.
Or what remained of them.
The titanium-core panels had been ripped from their frame — hinges sheared clean, security system destroyed by force.
Splinters and metal fragments littered the entryway.
I stepped inside.
The foyer reeked of cordite, copper, and fear.
My boots pressed into blood.
Red streaks dragged across the marble floor — long smear trails leading deeper into the house.
Someone had been dragged.
Or forced to crawl.
My throat tightened.
Not Daphne.
Not Elena.
Please.
I moved methodically.
Clearing corners.
Checking behind pillars.
Scanning the staircase landing.
Nothing moved.
The house felt hollow — gutted of life.
Every room I entered confirmed only destruction.
Furniture overturned.
Glass shattered.
But no bodies inside.
My pulse thundered in my ears as I advanced toward the rear corridor.
Then —
A sound.
Small. Broken.
A whimper.
My body reacted before my mind did.
I spun toward the direction of the noise.
Gun raised.
I rounded the corner in a flash.
And stopped.
Daphne.
She was curled inside the hidden alcove— the secret panel half-open, concealed but not fully closed.
Soft fairy lights still glowed faintly above her like a fragile shield against darkness.
Her cream romper was streaked with dust and smudges.
Her dark curls tangled around her face.
Her eyes were enormous — glassy with tears that hadn’t yet fallen.
She was shaking.
Beside her lay the small wooden dollhouse she loved.
The Papa figure was clutched tightly in her tiny fist.
My weapon disappeared into my holster without conscious thought.
I dropped to one knee.
“Daphne.”
My voice came out lower than I expected — cracked by adrenaline and fear I refused to acknowledge.
She looked up.
Recognition flooded her face.
Then — she moved.
She launched herself out of the alcove and into my chest.
Tiny body crashing against me.
Arms wrapping around my neck with desperate strength.
She clung like she was afraid I would vanish if she loosened her grip.
A broken sob escaped her throat — muffled into my shirt.
“Daddy...”
That word.
It hit harder than bullets.
I pulled her closer.
Held her tighter than I ever had.
My jaw clenched as relief surged through me — violent and overwhelming.
She was alive.
Breathing. Warm. Whole.
For now.
My hand trembled slightly as I brushed her hair back from her face.
I forced my voice steady.
“Sweetheart... are you hurt?”
Daphne shook her head quickly.
“No. Mommy said be quiet mouse.”
Her small fingers tightened in the fabric of my shirt.
“I was good mouse.”
The innocence in her voice — the effort to obey even while terror surrounded her — cut deeper than any bullet ever could.
My grip tightened.
“Where’s Mommy?”
Daphne swallowed.
Her lower lip trembled.
“Mommy put me here. She said if the bad men came... I shouldn’t open the door unless I heard your voice.”
My chest tightened painfully.
“What happened?”
Her small fingers dug into my shirt as if reliving it.
“The bad men broke the big door. They came inside shouting. They asked her questions about...”
She paused — as if trying to pull the memory from somewhere deep.
“About you...”
Her voice didn’t sound sure. Maybe she had only heard muffled voices through walls.
It shrank into something smaller.
“Mommy said you were far away.”
My jaw hardened.
“They got angry.”
Daphne’s eyes filled with tears now — spilling over.
“They grabbed Mommy.”
My pulse spiked.
“They punched her tummy.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
“Because she wouldn’t tell them where you were.”
Her breath hitched.
“They hit her so hard... she made a funny sound.”
My stomach twisted violently.
“Then blood came.”
Her small hands moved slightly as she tried to describe it.
“Under her skirt. It was red. Like when I scrape my knee... but they didn’t stop.”
My lungs locked.
Daphne’s voice broke completely.
“Until she stopped moving.”
The world collapsed inward.
“Just... slept on the floor.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Blood.
Stomach.
Bleeding.
Unconscious.
My mind processed the implications instantly.
Pregnancy.
Trauma.
Internal damage.
My jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
I lowered my head and pressed my lips to the top of her hair.
The scent of baby shampoo mixed with smoke and fear filled my lungs.
She still smelled like safety.
My free hand curled into a fist so hard my knuckles cracked audibly.
The sound echoed through the silent house.
Three years.
Three years since Vasquez and Harris had been forced out of this estate.
I had believed that defeat would break them.
I had believed pride would keep them away.
I had been wrong.
They hadn’t retreated.
They had retreated strategically.
Waiting.
Watching.
Studying every weakness.
And the moment I left California — the first time in eight years — they moved.
Calculated timing.
Perfect execution.
My jaw tightened.
They didn’t attack because they were brave.
They attacked because they had planned.
I lifted Daphne higher into my arms and stood.
She clung to me instantly — burying her face into my neck, small hands gripping my shirt like I was the only solid thing left in her world.
I walked through the house slowly.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
The silence wasn’t peaceful.
It was aftermath.
It was survival.
It was proof that violence had already passed through here and left destruction behind.
Petros was nowhere to be seen.
Neither were the remaining staff.
Only blood.
Only overturned furniture.
Only broken pieces of what had once been normal.
I carried Daphne upstairs first.
Past shattered vases.
Past bullet holes in the walls.
Past a banister smeared with blood where someone had tried to steady themselves.
Our bedroom door hung halfway off its hinges.
Inside —
The Moses basket stood in the corner.
Empty.
My chest tightened violently.
The sheets were rumpled.
As if someone had searched for something beneath them.
I forced myself to walk over to where I had seen blood earlier.
Kneeling. Touching it. Still slightly tacky.
Not hours old.
Minutes.
Elena had been here.
Bleeding here.
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.
My hands trembled — the first sign of emotional instability I allowed myself to show.
I stood again abruptly.
This house was no longer safe.
I pulled my phone from my pocket.
The screen lit up.
Three hundred and nine missed calls.
From Elena.
Three hundred and nine.
My throat tightened.
The first call timestamp showed eight hours ago.
The last one —
Two minutes before my jet took off from Athens.
I stared at the numbers.
She had been calling me while they were already inside.
While they were breaking doors.
While they were dragging her.
My phone had been on silent.
Airplane mode activated during takeoff.
I had told myself I would call her once I landed.
I wanted to surprise her.
Tell her I had handled loose ends in Greece.
That threats had been neutralized.
That we were safe.
I dragged my thumb slowly across her name on the screen.
My failure burned hotter than rage.
I had prioritized strategy.
Movement. Power.
And in doing so —
I had ignored the one call that mattered.
“Daddy?”
Daphne’s small voice broke through the silence.
“Are you gonna get Mommy back?”
I lowered my gaze to her face.
Her eyes.
Grey.
Like mine.
Looking at me with absolute trust.
Trust that I had earned over years.
Trust I refused to betray.
Something inside me — something cold and dangerous — snapped into place.
I cupped her cheek gently.
“Yes.”
The word came out low.
Controlled.
“I’m going to bring her home.”
And anyone who stood between me and that promise would not survive the encounter.
I stood slowly.
Already activating orders through my phone.
My men were moving.
Assets across Europe were rerouting. Private airstrips were being secured. Black-market arms shipments unlocked. Sniper teams repositioned.
Wetwork units put on standby.
The kind of force that had dismantled rival empires in silence.
I would not scream vengeance.
I would not threaten.
I would remove.
Systematically. Completely.
California was about to understand what happened when someone touched what belonged to Ruslan Baranov.
I adjusted my grip on Daphne.
“Stay close to me,” I told her.
“Okay.”
She nodded immediately.
A small ghost of a smile touched my lips despite the storm inside me.
Good.
I carried her outside to the waiting convoy.
Within minutes we were airborne again.
Direction: Greece.
The only territory on earth where my power was absolute.
No hostile families.
No compromised law enforcement.
No rivals operating freely.
Athens was mine.
Every port controlled.
Every dock monitored.
Every political figure indebted.
My estate outside the city rose from the dark like a fortress carved from ancient stone.
The jet descended smoothly.
The moment the doors opened, security guards lined the perimeter — weapons discreet but ready.
Yannis stood at the main entrance.
Taller.
Broader.
His posture no longer that of a boy.
But of someone trained to inherit power.
Floodlights illuminated him from behind, casting sharp shadows across his face.
He saw me first.
Then Daphne in my arms.
His expression shifted — confusion quickly replaced by alarm.
He stepped forward immediately.
“What happened?”
His voice had deepened since I last heard it.
I didn’t waste time.
“Vasquez. Harris. They attacked the California estate.”
His jaw clenched.
“Mother?”
The question hung heavy.
Yannis’ hands curled into fists at his sides.
“Did they succeed?”
The silence that followed answered him.
His eyes flicked to Daphne.
Then back to me.
Understanding hit him.
His face hardened.
“They touched her.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration.
“Yes.”
Yannis inhaled slowly.
When he spoke again, his voice had shifted — colder.
“Then they signed their death warrant.”
I looked at him.
Not as a father. But as a king evaluating his heir.
He stepped forward and took Daphne from my arms.
She went willingly.
The moment Yannis lifted her, she clung to him immediately — small hands gripping his shirt, her face pressing against his shoulder as if instinctively recognizing safety in family.
My gaze tracked the movement carefully.
Good.
She trusted him.
That mattered.
“Give her everything she needs,” I said, voice steady and unyielding. “Make sure it’s provided — no delays.”
Yannis adjusted Daphne against his chest without looking at me.
“She’s my sister,” he replied quietly. “What do you expect? I’d die before letting anyone touch her again.”
The words were fact.
I studied him for a moment — assessing.
He wasn’t a child anymore.
He wasn’t just my son.
He was learning to carry weight.
I reached up and ruffled his hair — harder than necessary — an instinctive grounding gesture that blurred the line between father and commander.
“Make sure you prove it,” I said.
Then I said to Daphne — eyes wide, still rimmed red from tears but steady now because I was near.
“Sweetheart.”
I cupped her cheek gently. “I have to go get Mommy now.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around Yannis’s shirt.
“Yannis is going to take care of you. You’ll be safe here. Nobody gets through these walls.”
She swallowed.
“When will you and Mommy come back?”
The question hit harder than artillery.
It was grounded in fear.
It forced me to confront reality.
How long would this take?
Days? Weeks? Months?
I had fought wars before — dismantled criminal syndicates across continents — but those were calculated operations.
This was personal.
And personal wars are unpredictable.
California was enemy territory.
Vasquez knew the terrain.
He had loyalists. Political leverage. Corrupt officials.
Informants embedded in law enforcement.
Home advantage made him dangerous.
But I had resources he couldn’t match.
I forced a smile for her. “A few days, little laurel tree.”
I tapped her nose lightly.
“I promise.”
It was a promise I intended to keep — even if it meant reducing Los Angeles to ashes to do it.
I leaned forward and pressed a slow kiss to her forehead.
I lingered.
Memorizing her warmth.
Then I straightened.
Before my voice could betray doubt, I turned away.
I didn’t look back.
If I saw fear on her face again, it would weaken my resolve.