Chapter 4
FOUR
RIOT
I knew Volkov. Knew his routes. His patterns. His suppliers. I knew enough to understand he was pushing into places he shouldn’t be. When I dug deeper, I found the Dragunov name attached to old partnerships, old rivalries, and old blood. That’s when I learned who Viktor Dragunov was.
He’s not some street thug with delusions of an empire.
Not a reckless kingpin flashing money and muscle.
He built his power the way old-world men do.
Quietly. Strategically. Brick by brick. He controls shipping lanes through Eastern Europe, has influence threaded through ports, energy contracts, politicians who pretend not to know him.
The kind of man governments shake hands with publicly and fear privately.
I wasn’t worried about him when I read his file. He’s disciplined. Structured. He doesn’t lash out without cause. A man like that doesn’t cross oceans over ego, but he does for his ‘Printsessa.’
Viktor has two sons. Mikhail Dragunov is the eldest. The one who sits at the table and makes agreements that last decades. He’s the kind of man who smiles while calculating profit margins in human loyalty.
Then there’s Dmitri. He’s younger, volatile, and loyal in a way that borders on feral. Protective of his sister to the point of violence. The kind who doesn’t negotiate first. If Viktor is the architect and Mikhail is the diplomat, Dmitri is their weapon.
And I put my hands on their sister. I didn’t know who she was when I took her out of that building.
She was just a woman chained to a wall with blood on her lip, bruises covering every inch of her, and fury in her eyes.
The most beautifully broken woman I had ever seen.
But that was before I knew I was holding his daughter.
Anastasiya Dragunov. Anya. She was raised for alliance.
For leverage. For strategy. Groomed to be positioned carefully, married carefully, moved like a queen on a chessboard.
And instead, she ended up in a warehouse in New Jersey.
I rub a hand over my jaw and stare down the hallway. She’s asleep in my guest room and I just told Viktor Dragunov that if he doesn’t come as a father, he’ll meet resistance.
I knew who he was when I deep-dived Volkov.
Knew his reach. Knew the kind of men who answer when he calls.
I wasn’t worried about him before. Now I’m calculating differently.
Not because I’m afraid. Because now I know exactly what’s attached to her name.
Viktor Dragunov. Mikhail, the heir. Dmitri, the weapon.
And Anastasiya. The daughter who walked away from her security.
The daughter who survived eighteen days and didn’t give up a single piece of information.
I glance toward the closed bedroom door again. If her father comes as a father, we’ll shake hands. If he doesn’t… My jaw tightens. I meant what I said.
I stare at my phone for a full ten seconds before I hit Mason’s number, knowing I need to make this call, but hating that I have to.
He answers on the second ring, voice steady and alert. “Is she okay?”
I glance down the hallway toward the guest bedroom. The door is closed. No sound from inside. “She’s sleeping,” I tell him. “Finally.”
There’s a shift in his tone. “What’s wrong?” He knows me well enough to hear it in my voice.
I lean back against the counter and sigh heavily. “You remember the deep dive I did on Volkov?”
“Yeah. You pulled everything you could on his routes and his connections.”
“Do you remember the name Dragunov coming up?”
There’s a pause. Recognition settling in. “Yeah,” Mason says more slowly. “He wasn’t small-time.”
“No, he wasn’t,” I sigh. “He wasn’t a problem before. But he might be now.”
Another beat. “Spell it out, Riot. What the fuck is going on?”
I exhale. “Her name isn’t Anya, it’s Anastasiya Dragunov.”
“Fuck…You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. I confirmed it.”
The line goes quiet for a second before he mutters, “Son of a bitch.”
“She’s his daughter,” I continue. “The only one.” Mason doesn’t interrupt.
He’s building the picture in his head. “She was taken from Moscow,” I go on.
“Grabbed off the street and moved here. Volkov was trying to squeeze information out of her about her father’s operations. Routes. Contacts. Leverage.”
“And?” Mason asks, but there’s something in his tone already.
“She didn’t give him anything,” I say. “He beat her for eighteen days and she didn’t break.”
That part sits heavy in my chest and Mason lets out a slow breath. I push off the counter and start pacing the length of the kitchen. “There’s more,” I add.
“Of course there is,” he sighs. “Go on.”
“She called her father tonight.”
The silence that follows is different. “She what?”
“She told him that she’s safe. He knows Volkov is dead. He knows she’s here.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah. She handed me the phone.”
Mason exhales slowly. “What exactly did you say?”
“I told him she’s safe,” I answer evenly. “I told him Volkov is dead. And I told him we were the ones who killed him.”
“You put our name on it?” He barks loudly.
“He was going to find out,” I say. “Better it came from us.”
Mason doesn’t argue. “What else?” he asks.
“I told him if he comes as a father, the door’s open.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Mason sounds pissed.
“I told him he’ll meet resistance.” Silence stretches between us. “He’s on his way,” I add. “He’ll be here tomorrow.”
Mason lets out a slow breath. “All right.”
“You think we’ve got a problem?” I ask.
“Viktor Dragunov isn’t reckless,” Mason says. “He’s strategic. He doesn’t move without thinking it through. But men like that don’t ignore blood either.”
I nod even though he can’t see it.
“If he wants answers, we give them,” Mason continues. “We didn’t take her. We pulled her out of hell.”
“And if one of the brothers shows up instead?” I ask. “Mikhail. Or Dmitri.”
“Then we deal with whoever steps onto our ground,” Mason replies evenly. “Same as always.” There’s a small pause before he adds, “You regret pulling her out of there?”
I look down the hallway again. Think about her voice on the phone. The way she held herself together. “No,” I say. “Not even close.”
“Then we stand by it,” Mason says. “We didn’t start this. Volkov did.” He pauses, then adds dryly, “But next time you rescue a Russian princess, give me a heads up first.”
A low laugh slips out of me despite everything. “I’ll work on my timing.”
“Keep me posted,” Mason says. “And tighten up security.”
“It’s already tight.” The call ends and I lower the phone slowly.
After I hang up with Mason, the house feels heavier, like the walls absorbed every word of that conversation and are holding onto it.
We didn’t start a war, but we definitely stepped into something bigger than a dead trafficker, and I know it.
Still, none of that changes the fact that I would pull her out of that warehouse again without hesitation.
Even knowing exactly who her father is, even knowing what kind of men might show up at my door because of it.
Some choices don’t get reconsidered. They get owned.
I grab a shower and let the hot water beat down on my shoulders while I run through contingencies in my head.
Perimeter cameras are live, the gate code hasn’t changed, and I’ll have two brothers rotating past the property by morning without making it obvious.
If Viktor Dragunov lands in this country, I want to know before his tires hit the pavement.
By the time I shut the water off, I’m calmer, more focused, because planning has always been easier than feeling.
I change into sweats, kill the lights, and slide into bed, but sleep doesn’t come.
I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, thinking about the woman down the hall and the way she held herself together on that phone call.
She didn’t cry in front of her father, didn’t let her voice shake when she admitted she was hurt, and that kind of strength doesn’t come from nowhere.
It comes from being raised inside power, shaped by expectation, and taught that weakness is a liability.
The thought of her carrying that alone for eighteen days makes my jaw tighten.
I must drift at some point because the sound that pulls me up feels like it rips through a layer of fog. It’s sharp and strangled, like someone trying to scream with a hand clamped over their mouth. For half a second I don’t know where I am, and then it hits me. Anya.
I’m moving before I fully register it, out of bed and down the hallway in a few strides, my pulse already hammering.
Her door is still cracked from when I checked on her earlier, and I push it open just as another broken sound tears out of her.
She’s tangled in the sheets, thrashing like she’s fighting something she can’t see, her breathing uneven and panicked as if she’s drowning in whatever memory dragged her under.
She comes out of the nightmare swinging, and after I stop her wrist and say her name, I stay on the edge of the bed until her eyes focus and she realizes where she is.
She apologizes automatically, which tells me more about her than the panic does, and when she admits she thought she was still chained up, I keep my voice steady and tell her she isn’t.
I see her hands shaking and make sure not to touch her again until I give her the choice, asking if she wants space or if she wants me here, because the last thing she needs is another decision taken from her.
When she says she doesn’t want to be alone, I lean back against the headboard and draw her in carefully, settling her against my chest and anchoring my hand at the back of her head while I let her feel my heartbeat.