Chapter 27
IVAN
My watch catches the streetlight as I approach the warehouse. A cheap digital thing I bought at a convenience store an hour ago. Untraceable. My Patek is sitting in a safe because meetings like this require disposability.
Hand on my gun. Walking alone.
Except not really.
Misha's in the car two blocks away, engine running. Pyotr and ten snipers sit positioned in the building across the street—each with clear sightlines through broken windows. Intel says Dmitri has his own marksmen in the warehouse facing this one. Red dots waiting to find targets.
A fucking standoff before we even start talking.
It’s a testament to how bad things have gotten between our families. Where "come alone" is aesthetic bullshit while both sides position their armies in the shadows, waiting.
The warehouse door hangs crooked on its hinges. I push through. The stench hits immediately—rust, old fish, and decades of neglect. Neutral ground because neither family wants to claim this shithole.
Perfect for meetings where everyone's ready to kill everyone else.
He's already here, sitting on a chair in the middle of rubble like he's holding court. Red suit and a glass in his hand. Clear liquid inside catches the dim light. Vodka. Always vodka with the old-school types.
Part of me wants to pull my gun right now and end this before it starts. One shot through his forehead would brain paint the concrete behind him. Problem solved.
But his snipers would return fire immediately and take out half my men before Pyotr could respond. I can’t let that happen.
Not yet.
Not without knowing where she is first.
"Have you reconsidered my generous offer, Petrov?"
His voice echoes in the empty space. Too confident. Too comfortable.
I don't respond, but study him. The way he sits—casual lean, legs crossed. The fucking smirk playing on his lips. The glass, held loosely in his fingers like this is a social call.
He's hiding something.
I can feel it. That wrongness in the air. That sense when someone knows more than they're saying.
"Leave the girl." He takes a sip. "Everything returns to normal. No more encroachment on territories. No more tension between families. You go back to being the respected Pakhan. I go back to running my operations. Chicago stays peaceful."
Leave the girl.
Three words that make the rage boil immediately and white-hot.
This roach already has her. I know he does.
Hell, I can practically smell it. Smell her. That intoxicating scent. A faint whisp of Jasmine and amber.
Fuck. My men searched everywhere else. She disappeared into nothing. And now he's sitting here playing dumb. Acting like she's still my choice to make. Like she's an object I can walk away from.
What's his angle? Ransom? Humiliation? Does he think I'll just agree and forget she exists?
Battling rage, I take a step forward. I must stay composed. I can't let him see how badly I want to tear his throat out with my teeth or show weakness. A pakhan doesn't show weakness. Even when the only thing he cares about is missing.
"What happens if I say yes?"
His smirk widens, and he settles deeper into his chair, getting comfortable.
Great. Here comes the monologue.
"Greatness awaits both families, Ivan. Just like the nineties." His eyes get that distant look. Nostalgic. "Your father and mine—both inheriting empires from the USSR generation before them. You know what came next? Glory. Real power. They made Chicago their bitch for decades."
He leans forward now, earnest, like he believes this revisionist bullshit.
"My father never shut up about those stories.
The territory wars they won together. The politicians they bought.
The empire they built side by side. Brothers in everything but blood.
" He pauses and takes another drink. "That can happen again.
The Petrovs and Volkovs together. Like always.
Like it was meant to be before you decided to throw it away for an American waitress. "
I want to punch his teeth down his throat and show him exactly what I think of his legacy worship and his assumption that I give a single fuck about what our fathers built.
My father's dead. His empire got him killed. I'm not making the same mistakes.
I take another step. Now there’s ten feet between us. Memories close in around me. My family. My legacy. My woman. They all swirl in the air.
"What if I say no?"
His smile falls like a mask removed.
"Then you doom everything your father built," he says. "Everything he died for. Everything your grandfather and his father before him worked toward. Generations of Petrovs, and you'll be the one who ended it."
I see through him immediately, detecting the desperation underneath his threats.
If the Petrov legacy dies, the Volkov legacy dies with it. They're parasites. Always have been. They need us. Need our reputation, our connections, our power. Without us, they're another mid-level family scrambling for scraps.
"Forget my niece." He waves dismissively, attempting to recover his casual demeanor. "She's not good enough anyway. Too much attitude. I've been talking with the Morozov family. Their daughter—now she's special. Rare. Crimson red hair, eyes like—"
I take another step, and a scent hits me.
Faint. Mixed with his cheap cologne and the vodka smell. But unmistakable once I recognize it.
Jasmine and amber.
Lila's perfume.
The one I spent an afternoon tracking down.
I wasn’t imagining it.
My heart gallops in my chest.
This fucking roach has been near her. Maybe he touched her. Certainly stood close enough for her perfume to transfer.
She's alive.
Dmitri must see the change in me. "Let's not do anything reckless, Petrov—"
I move before he finishes the sentence, crossing the remaining distance in one stride and grab his throat. I lift him out of the chair with one hand. His glass shatters on concrete. Vodka spreads like spilled blood.
"WHERE IS SHE?!"
His face goes purple immediately. His hands claw at mine, trying and failing to break my grip.
Red laser dots appear. On my chest. My head. His chest. His head. Multiple dots from multiple angles. Snipers from both sides find targets. Fingers on triggers await orders to fire.
"Ivan," he gasps, barely getting the word out. "Think about this."
"This was never about alliances." I press harder, watching his eyes bulge. The veins stand out on his forehead. "Never about territory or tradition. This is about your survival, you fucking roach."
I shake him, not hard enough to snap his neck, but hard enough to make his teeth rattle.
"You're a parasite. Without my family's lines and reputation, you die. The parasite Pakhan of a parasite line before him."
His face is turning blue now. Lips darker. Eyes starting to roll back.
"WHERE IS SHE?!"
"I..." The word is barely air.
I wait, giving him enough slack to speak. To provide the answer I need. A location. An address. Something.
"Fuck... you."
Wrong answer.
I press harder. Cartilage starts to give under my fingers. Just a little more pressure and—
"Boss!"
It’s Misha's voice. Urgent. He's through the door, moving fast.
"Eight more cars just pulled up. Reinforcements. We need to go. Now."
The laser dots multiply. I see them in my peripheral vision. More appear by the second. Red everywhere.
My men are entering from other doors. His men flood in from the back. All armed. All ready. Thirty men at least.
One wrong move and everyone dies.
I have to let go.
Fuck.
I have to.
Lila doesn’t live if everyone here dies. If I die. That can come after she’s safe.
My hands open, and Dmitri drops. He hits the concrete hard, gasping and choking. Both hands clutch his throat.
The smirk is completely gone now, replaced by raw desperation. He sounds like an animal dying.
"You're wrong, Ivan." He coughs and spits blood. "Volkovs were never parasites. We were life support for your fucking family. The backbone. The muscle. Everything you took credit for."
I reach for my gun. Every cell in my body screams to finish this.
"WHERE IS LILA?!"
"You know what my father told me?" He's still on the ground, gasping for air. But talking anyway. Always fucking talking. "That your father was a fucking idiot. That without us, without Volkov support, you're nothing. There's no Petrov without Volkov."
He looks up at me, eyes watering but defiant. Bruises are already forming on his throat.
"AND NOW YOU'VE LOST THAT FUCKING LIFE SUPPORT."
I kick him in the ribs. Bones crack.
His men rush forward. Mine mirror them immediately. A circle forms. Guns are everywhere. Thirty weapons. Forty. All pointed at someone.
I don't care.
I kick him again in the same spot. Another crack.
"I'd burn both empires before I let you touch her."
He laughs, coughing out a spray of blood. "Lila's gone, Ivan. Already sold to the highest bidder. Spreading her legs for him right now. Getting fucked exactly how whores deserve—"
My gun is out before I can process his words, the barrel pressed snug against his forehead.
With one squeeze, his brains will paint the floor, and he’ll never say her name again. Never think about her. Never—
"BOSS!"
Misha's voice cuts through the blind rage, pulling me back from the edge.
I look around.
We're surrounded. One shot, and this becomes a massacre. One shot, and none of us walk out.
If I pull this trigger, Lila dies.
If she's not already dead.
No.
She's not. She can’t be. Her scent is too heavy. Too fresh. He saw her recently. The fucking liar. She isn’t gone. And she isn’t dead. If she were, I'd know. I'd feel it. Some part of me would break if she were gone, and it hasn't broken yet.
I stand, forcing myself upright. I force my hand to lower the gun. To holster it.
Every movement feels wrong. Like I'm betraying a part of myself. But I do it anyway.
"This is officially war, Dmitri."
He gasps, clutching his ribs, blood on his lips. "You bet your fucking empire it is."
I turn and walk toward the door. I don't look back because if I do, I'll turn around and finish it.
My men part, letting me through before following behind me in formation.
The night air hits my face. Cold. Damp.
Misha catches up. "Boss. Where are—” He stops when he sees the look in my eyes. Understanding crosses his face before he nods. "What's the plan?"
"Every man we have goes undercover. Every dock Dmitri owns. Every warehouse. Every ship that comes in or goes out. I want eyes everywhere. Round-the-clock surveillance."
"And you?"
"I move alone. In secret. Like the old days before I was Pakhan."
He doesn't argue, knowing better than to question me.
I take a car. Not the Bentley. Something anonymous from the pool we keep for situations like this. Stolen plates. Nothing that screams Petrov. Nothing that stands out.
I drive toward the docks, windows down, as if I could track her scent in the night air.
It's past midnight now. The city has that empty feeling. The hour when good people are asleep and bad people are working. My people.
The water comes into view. Dark and vast. Smells like industry and fish. No sign of jasmine or amber. Boats creak against moorings. Shipping containers sit stacked like metal mountains.
I park away from the streetlights in the darkness between two warehouses. I cut the engine, wait for my eyes to adjust, and I watch.
Guard rotation first. How many men. How often they change. What patterns they follow. Whether they're alert or bored.
Most are bored. That's good. Bored guards miss things.
I count ships. Note which ones are Dmitri's—subtle markers but there if you know what to look for. Which ones belong to allies. Which ones are neutral ground.
My phone buzzes.
It’s a text from the jeweler. A late-night text because I pay him enough that late-night texts are acceptable.
Your mother's diamond, reset as requested.
I stare at the message.
The ring. The one I had him remake. My mother's diamond from the car bomb. The one thing that survived when she didn't. Three carats. Flawless.
I had him reset it, taking it out of the old-fashioned setting my father chose, and putting it in a modern piece. Something Lila would wear instead of something from before she was born.
Good. I'll need it tomorrow.
Tomorrow? That fast?
I don't answer. I pocket the phone and go back to watching the docks for either a proposal or a funeral.
Either I find her alive and put that ring on her finger after putting a bullet through Dmitri's skull. Ask her properly this time. Do it right.
Or I find her dead and bury her with it. Then burn this entire city to the ground, starting with Dmitri and ending with anyone who ever worked for him, leaving nothing but ash and blood and bodies.
Tomorrow. The word sits heavy in my mind.
No ships are leaving today. I checked the weather reports three times.
Storm warnings for Lake Michigan. Small craft advisories.
Commercial vessels delayed. Even Dmitri wouldn't risk shipping her in these conditions. There’s too much attention if something goes wrong, too many Coast Guard patrols checking on distressed boats.
He couldn't have shipped her yesterday. That’d be too fast—he'd need time to arrange the buyer, prepare the transport, and coordinate with Moscow.
So tomorrow. If the weather clears. If conditions allow.
Tomorrow I'll be here. Watching. Waiting.
Tomorrow I'll get her back.
And tomorrow I'll put this ring on her finger.
I pull out my phone and text Misha.
His response comes fast. Understood, Boss. We'll be ready.
I pocket the phone and settle back into the shadows to watch the water.
Tomorrow.