CHAPTER 2
LIAM P.O.V.
The taste of iron was the first thing to puncture the haze, a gritty, metallic tang coating my tongue.
It wasn’t the blood from the fight, no, this was older, deeper, like something gnawing at the back of my throat, trying to pull me back into the black.
Pain followed, a dull, insistent throb behind my left temple, spreading outwards like an oil stain through my skull.
My eyes felt glued shut, heavy with the weight of whatever drug had sent me into this abyss.
I tried to move, a slow, agonizing attempt to shift my head, and a jolt of white-hot agony flared through my chest, radiating down my arm.
A guttural groan escaped my lips, a sound I barely recognized as my own.
My body felt like a shattered mosaic, each piece screaming in protest. What the fuck happened?
Memory, fragmented and brutal, began to bleed through the fog.
The penthouse. The frantic call from Rose – her voice, a desperate plea for me to wait, a warning.
Then the door, kicked open with savage force.
Valentin, his face twisted in a sneer, surrounded by men I didn’t recognize.
The hulking shadow descending. The sickening thud.
And the last thing I saw, the flash of Rose’s terrified eyes, her mouth open in a soundless scream as they dragged her away, pulling her into the encroaching darkness. Rose.
A jolt, sharper than any pain, ripped through me. Rose. They had her. The thought was a raw, burning ember in the pit of my gut, incinerating the lingering effects of the drugs, igniting a fury so profound it made my vision swim. They dared. They dared to touch her. To take what was mine.
My eyes snapped open, fighting against the heavy lids, against the blurring darkness.
The room was unfamiliar, a dim, concrete box, small and spartan.
Not my penthouse, not any of my safe houses.
The air was cool, smelling of aged dust and something vaguely antiseptic, a harsh contrast to the stench of betrayal and blood that had clung to me.
I was lying on a cot, a thin mattress beneath me, covered by a rough, woolen blanket.
My clothes were gone, replaced by loose, clean scrubs.
A thick bandage was wrapped around my ribs, tight and restrictive, and another, heavier one, adorned my head, pressing against the wound.
I tried to sit up again, teeth gritting against the fresh wave of agony. “Fuck!” The word tore from my throat, raw and hoarse. My muscles were weak, atrophied from disuse, but the rage was a pure, undiluted fuel. I wouldn’t lie here. Not while she was out there. Not while she was in their hands.
A low chuckle, rough as gravel, echoed from the corner of the room. “Still as stubborn as a wild boar, Morozov. Even with a cracked skull and three broken ribs.”
My head snapped towards the sound, every movement a fresh hell.
A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and lean, with a grizzled beard and eyes that had seen too many winters.
Ivan. My father’s old mentor, a man I’d sought out only in the direst of circumstances, a ghost from a past I tried to bury.
He held a glass of water and a plate with a few pieces of dried fruit.
“Ivan,” I rasped, my voice barely a whisper. “What the hell happened?”
He set the items on a small, battered metal table beside the cot.
“You were left for dead, my boy. A pretty fucking messy job, too. They didn’t want you just dead; they wanted to make an example.
” His gaze, usually calm, held a flicker of cold anger.
“My men found you in a pool of your own blood, barely breathing. Took us a week just to get you stable. And another week to drain the fluid from your brain.”
Two weeks. Two fucking weeks. My blood ran cold, fear and fury churning in my gut. Two weeks for them to do... whatever they wanted to Rose. Two weeks for me to be useless, unconscious, while my world burned.
“Rose,” I growled, pushing myself up despite the protesting agony in my ribs. My head swam, but I ignored it, focused on one thing, one name. “Where is she? Did you find her?”
Ivan’s face, usually impassive, tightened. He sighed, a heavy sound that grated on my nerves. “No, Liam. She was gone. Not a trace. We found the remnants of a struggle, a lot of blood – not hers, we checked – but no sign of the girl. Whoever took her covered their tracks well.”
A cold dread seeped into my bones, chilling me far more effectively than any icy dungeon. No trace. That meant they wanted her. Wanted her for a reason. And God help them if they laid a hand on her. God help them if they even looked at her wrong.
“Who?” I demanded, grabbing his arm, my grip surprisingly strong despite my weakness. My eyes, I knew, were burning with a desperate, predatory intensity. “Who did this? Valentin?”
Ivan gently, but firmly, removed my hand.
“Valentin was a pawn, Liam. A stupid, ambitious pawn. He’s dead.
My men found him strung up in a warehouse, his throat slit.
A message, of course. To show who’s really in charge.
” He paused, his gaze meeting mine with unwavering seriousness.
“This goes deeper, my boy. Much deeper. The man who orchestrated this... he was close. So close you couldn’t see him. ”
My mind raced, reeling through faces, names, loyalties.
Valentin’s betrayal had been a shock, but I had suspected his greed.
Who else in my inner circle would dare? Who had the power, the connections, the sheer balls to hit me in my own fortress?
And how the fuck did they know about Rose?
About her being my weakness, my guarantee, my... moya roza?
“Volkov,” I bit out, the name tasting like ash in my mouth.
Konstantin Volkov. The old councilman, the patriarch.
The man who always offered advice, who always played the wise elder.
He was the only one with that level of access, that level of respect, that level of cunning.
Rose’s investigations. The old ledgers. The crescent moon cipher.
My mind had dismissed him as a harmless relic, too busy dealing with the more obvious threats. Fool. I was a fucking fool.
Ivan nodded slowly. “Bingo. The old fox. He’s been playing a long game, Liam.
Longer than you or your father ever knew.
He manipulated your father, pitted him against rivals, building his own power base in the shadows.
He saw you as weak, a compromise to the true Bratva ways.
He thought you were too soft, too... American.
” A hint of a smirk touched his lips. “He clearly didn’t know you well enough. ”
Too soft. The words were a fresh lash. I had spent my entire life building this empire, hardening myself, burying the scared boy who watched his mother die.
I had done everything to prove I was worthy, that I was a true Morozov.
And this old bastard thought I was soft?
He would learn. He would fucking learn the hard way.
My focus narrowed, sharp as a blade. Rose. Volkov would have her. He would use her. And the thought of that old bastard’s hands on her, his men’s eyes on her... A red mist threatened to descend, a wave of primal, possessive fury that made my body tremble.
“We need to move,” I said, trying to push off the cot again. Pain flared, a blinding white-hot agony in my ribs, making me gasp and fall back against the cot. My head spun, a nauseating vortex. “I can’t lie here. Not while she’s...”
“She’s a bargaining chip, Liam,” Ivan said, his voice flat, brutally honest. “A very valuable one. Volkov won’t touch her... not yet. He’ll want to use her against you. Or use her mind, given her... talents.”
Her talents. Her historian’s mind. The way she had seen things I had missed, the way she had pieced together the fragments of the past. Volkov knew about that too, then. He knew everything. He knew my weaknesses, and he knew hers.
“What about Dmitri?” I asked, a new, unsettling thought clicking into place.
If Volkov was the mastermind, then the blurb from Book 2, which I’d read, mentioned Dmitri, my brother, thought dead.
Could this be connected? The summaries are my guide, my future.
I couldn't forget that crucial detail, even if the characters weren't aware of it yet.
This was a seed I needed to plant, subtly.
"Is there any... movement on that front?
Any old ghosts stirring from the past?" I watched Ivan's face carefully.
Ivan’s eyes flickered, a hint of surprise. He hesitated, then shook his head. “No, Liam. Dmitri is dead. Has been for years. A bullet in the back of the head, courtesy of the Solovyovs. Why do you ask?”
I shrugged, a movement that sent another jolt of pain through me. “Just a thought. Volkov’s reach... it feels like it touches everything. Every old wound.” I needed to maintain the character’s limited knowledge while subtly hinting at the overarching plot for the reader.
My mind raced, images of Rose flashing behind my eyes.
Her defiant blue-green eyes, her full lips, the curves of her body that fit against mine as if molded for me.
Her scent, a mix of old books and something uniquely feminine, now a tormenting memory.
The way she fought me, defied me, even as she craved me. She was mine. And they had taken her.
“I need to heal,” I said, my voice low and dangerous, a raw growl pulled from the depths of my being. “Fast. I need to be back on my feet.”
Ivan nodded, a grim understanding in his eyes.
“That’s why you’re here. My old methods.
Crude, but effective. You’ll be put through a calvary of pain, Liam.
Your body is broken, but your will... your will is what will bring you back.
” He picked up the glass of water, holding it to my lips.
“Drink. Eat. And tomorrow, we begin. We’ll push you harder than you’ve ever been pushed.
But you will be ready. For her. For your empire. For your vengeance.”
I drank, the water cool and blessed against my parched throat. The dried fruit was tasteless, but I forced it down, every bite a silent promise. My body was a ruin, my head a throbbing mess, but the fire inside me was roaring. A cold, black inferno fueled by fury and an obsessive need.
They had dared. They had dared to touch my Rose.
They had dared to think they could take down a Morozov.
They had made a mistake. A fucking fatal mistake.
My recovery wouldn’t just be a calvary; it would be a crucible.
And I would emerge from it, not just a man, but a wrathful god, bent on destruction.
Every inch of pain in my body would be a reminder, a tally of the suffering I would unleash.
Rose. I closed my eyes, picturing her face, her terror, her defiance. She was waiting. And I was coming for her. And for every single bastard who laid a hand on what was mine, a torrent of blood and retribution would follow. Starting with Volkov. And anyone else who dared stand in my way.
My hand went to my chest, pressing against the bandage, feeling the faint, reassuring beat of my heart. It was still beating. Still raging. Still hungry for blood. Still hungry for her. They had taken her, but they hadn't broken her. Not yet. And they would never break me. Never.