Chapter 8 Luka
LUKA
Wind slams against the walls until the glass rattles in its frames, and the roof groans like it might tear free and join the clouds.
Rain runs in furious sheets down the tall windows, blurring the forest into streaks of silver.
Every few seconds, lightning cracks open the dark, white and merciless, illuminating the security room in violent flashes.
The monitors blink in and out, ghost-lit fragments of my world fighting to stay alive beneath the assault.
I pace the room, my eyes fixed on the feed that shows Sage sitting cross-legged on the bed upstairs. Vega's head rests in her lap. She combs her fingers through his fur in slow, absent strokes that have no idea they're unraveling me.
My mouth still burns from kissing her. Her taste lingers on my tongue, sweet and defiant, a contradiction I can't reconcile with everything I know about survival and control.
I've spent years building walls between what I want and what I allow myself to have.
Those walls don't just crumble because a woman with honey-blonde hair and fury in her blue eyes pushes back when I corner her.
Except they did. They shattered the moment her lips met mine, when that broken sound escaped her throat, and her fingers tangled in my hair instead of shoving me away.
I felt her resistance dissolve into something desperate and honest, her body arching into mine even as she hissed that she hated me.
The lie tasted sweeter than any truth she could have offered.
I drag a hand through my hair, the same strands she gripped minutes ago. My reflection stares back from the dark monitor, my jaw tight, and my eyes too focused on the screen. I must look like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, debating whether the fall will kill him or set him free.
This is dangerous. She is dangerous. Not because of what she might know or who sent her, but because of what she makes me forget.
When I touch her, the empire I've built from blood and loyalty fades into background noise.
When I kiss her, the ghosts of men I've buried stop whispering warnings in my ear.
That kind of distraction gets men like me killed.
The door opens without ceremony. Misha's reflection cuts across the monitor before his voice does. “You're letting her under your skin.”
I don't answer. Misha leans against the doorway, all quiet menace and disapproval wrapped in a raven-colored tailored suit. Lightning flashes behind him, carving his profile in silver. He looks every inch the soldier he was born to be, steady where I am restless, pragmatic where I'm consumed.
He crosses his arms, his eyes assessing me with the bluntness only he is afforded. “This isn't the first time you've questioned someone. But it's the first time you've looked at a prisoner like you're the one who's trapped.”
“She is not a prisoner.” The words come out rough.
“Then what is she?” Misha's tone stays mild, but the challenge underneath holds a bite meant to test me. “A guest who can't leave? A suspect you can't stop watching? Or a woman you kissed because the interrogation wasn't going the way you planned?”
My shoulders go rigid. He knows me too well, has stood beside me through enough blood and betrayal to read every tell I try to hide. “She's a complication.”
“She's dangerous, pakhan.” He pushes off the doorframe, moving closer with the cautious stride of a man approaching a wounded animal. “Make one exception, and you’ve already made your first mistake.”
I drag my eyes from the screen and pin him with a look. “You think I don't know that?”
“I think you don't care,” he replies evenly. “That's worse.”
The accusation is cold and relentless as the rain beating the glass. I want to deny it, tell him he's wrong, and convince him that I haven't lost sight of what matters. But the lie would taste bitter after the sweetness still clinging to my lips from Sage's kiss.
I turn back to the monitors. On the screen, Sage lifts Vega's paw and examines it like she's checking for injury.
The dog's tail thumps once against the bed.
She touches him with care, her fingers gentle despite the faint trembling I can see even through the grainy feed.
She's scared. She should be. But fear hasn't broken her the way it breaks most people when they realize how deep into my world they've fallen.
“What did you find?” I demand, steering the conversation back to safer ground.
Misha straightens, accepting the deflection because he's learned when to push and when to wait. “Old men talk easier when the rain keeps them drinking. Three of them remembered Ray Bellamy slithering through this town.”
A cold hand ghosts down my spine at the confirmation.
“They remember him from fifteen years back, maybe more.” Misha pulls a small notebook from his jacket, flipping through pages covered in his cramped handwriting.
“He ran legitimate businesses on the surface. A trucking company, some rental properties in Denver. But underneath, he moved product for your father. Drugs, weapons, and laundered money through construction sites that never quite finished on schedule.”
I nod, the dots forming a picture I wish I could ignore. “My father trusted him.”
“For a while.” Misha's voice drops lower, the way it does when he delivers news that will draw blood.
“Then Bellamy got greedy. Started skimming off the top, thinking he was clever enough to hide it. When your father found out, he gave him one chance to make it right. Pay back what he stole, accept punishment, remain loyal.”
“And?” I already know the answer, but I need to hear it confirmed.
“He ran.” Misha closes the notebook, sliding it back into his pocket. “Took ledgers with him. Names, routes, contacts. Everything your father had built in the western territories. Sold it to the Italians out of Vegas for protection and a cut of their territory.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. Betrayal is nothing new in this life. Men turn on each other for money, power, or out of fear. But there are levels to treachery, lines that separate business from personal destruction. Ray Bellamy crossed every one of them.
“He’s a rat.” Misha's blue eyes flick toward the screens, locking onto Sage. “And rats breed.”
The implication sounds like another crack of thunder.
Sage's last name has haunted me since the day I met her. I wanted coincidence to exist just once. I wanted her to be exactly what she appeared to be: a woman who poured coffee and worried about medical bills with no idea men like me existed outside of movies and news reports. Coincidence is a story men like me don’t get to believe in.
“If it his blood that flows through her veins, it explains why she's here,” Misha continues, his voice purposefully even. He's not accusing her yet, just laying out possibilities the way he always does when we're hunting threats.
“Or it explains nothing.” I counter, though the argument sounds weak even to my own ears. “People share names. The world is full of Bellamys who have nothing to do with Ray.”
Still, the thought gnaws at me. She could be a plant. A pawn slipped into my path to finish what Ray started years ago. I don’t know yet, but I will find out one way or another, and whoever put her here will regret it.
Misha doesn't press. He never does when he sees the edge in my eyes warning that he's approaching territory I'm not ready to concede. “You want me to keep digging?”
“Blyat!” I hiss. “Yes. Start with anyone who claims to have seen Ray after he disappeared.
I want locations, contacts, bank trails, anything that proves he's still breathing or confirms he's rotting in an unmarked grave somewhere.” I pause, letting the full heat of my attention sear into him.
“And find out if he had family. Brothers, sisters, children. Anyone who might carry his blood and his grudges.”
Misha nods, already pulling his phone from his pocket. “And if I find him?”
“Then we finish what my father couldn't.”
He studies me a heartbeat longer, reading the warning in my expression that makes his mouth tighten.
Then he leaves, the door whispering shut behind him.
The storm swallows the silence again. I stare at Sage's image, her feet tucked under her, head bowed over Vega, and reach for the secure line that connects directly to Seattle.
The call clicks once before a rough, familiar voice fills the speaker. “You should be asleep, Luka.”
“I could say the same, Otets.”
There is a pause then paper rustles on his end, the sound of documents being shuffled by hands that don't move as easily as they once did. “You're still in Colorado.”
“I am.”
“I told you to stay clear of that state. Too many ghosts there.” My father's speech is slow, the iron cadence of a man who refuses to let a stroke steal authority even when it's stolen everything else. “What brings you to the mountains?”
“Business,” I reply. “A name from the past found its way back.”
“That name?” His tone hardens, anger seeping through despite the weakness in his body.
“Ray Bellamy.”
When my father speaks again, every word lands heavy and sure.
“Ray Bellamy was a thief and a coward. He betrayed me, stole ledgers meant for Moscow, and ran to the Italians for protection. Men died cleaning up his mess. Good men. Loyal men who bled for this family while he counted his silver pieces and laughed from behind enemy lines.”
I've heard pieces of this story before, fragments my father let slip during late nights when the pain from his stroke made him bitter and talkative.
But hearing it now, with Sage upstairs and her last name burning holes in my concentration, the history feels different.
Personal in ways it never did when it was just another cautionary tale about trust and consequences.
“Is he dead?” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.