Chapter 29
IVAN
The first ship reeks of sweat and tobacco.
I'm crouched between shipping containers, watching men move across the deck. Their clothes are filthy—dirt that comes from actual work. Not the cultivated grime of criminals trying to look tough. Real sweat staining through fabric. Real exhaustion in their movements.
They're hauling crates. Cigarettes, probably, based on the smell and the weight they're carrying. Standard smuggling operation.
Wrong fucking ship.
Wasted time. Every second here is another second Lila's getting taken further away.
I slip back into the shadows, moving toward the second vessel. This one sits darker. Quieter. Less activity, but the air feels different.
A man approaches the gangplank with a build that comes from years of being someone else's muscle.
Bratva. Has to be.
I follow, keeping distance. I allow him to board first before I slip on behind him.
Voices carry from below deck. Russian. Two men at least.
I press against the bulkhead and listen.
"—everything loaded by dawn." Older voice. Authority. "No mistakes this time."
"Yes, Boss. Dmitri said—"
"Shut the fuck up." The older voice cuts like a blade. "Don't say names out loud. Anyone could be listening."
"Sorry, I didn't think—"
"That's your problem. You don't think. This isn't some street gang where you can run your mouth. Operational security matters. One wrong word in the wrong place gets us all killed."
Dmitri.
That's all I need to hear.
Now, everyone on this ship dies.
I almost smile. The older one just gave the rookie a lecture about keeping quiet. Good lesson. Smart thinking. Too bad he works for a dead man walking.
Most of them disappear below deck. Footsteps on metal stairs. Voices fading into the ship's interior.
One man stays topside. Smoking and looking at his phone. His back is to me, not paying attention to anything that matters.
Fucking amateur.
I move silently. My knife is already in my hand. The blade finds him before he knows I'm here. It lands between the ribs, angled up toward the heart. A hand over his mouth catches any sound.
He goes rigid and soon slack. I lower him quietly to the deck.
The adrenaline hits immediately. Fuck, I forgot this feeling. The clarity that comes from being inches from death. No guns. No distance. Simply skill, speed, and training.
I forgot how much I love it.
I enter the ship officially now, slipping below deck where the real work happens.
I need to know what kind of operation this is. Drugs or trafficking. I have to know if Lila might be here or if I'm wasting precious time.
The hallway below deck is narrow. Painted metal walls. Smells like diesel fuel and old rust. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
Footsteps approach from ahead.
I press into a doorway, letting the shadows take me. A man passes. Young. Maybe mid-twenties. Headphones in. Bobbing his head to whatever music he's listening to.
Easy kill. Too easy.
I don't think, I move, grabbing him from behind. An arm goes around his throat. I squeeze until his windpipe collapses. He thrashes, clawing at my arm uselessly before he goes limp.
I lower him to the floor and check his pulse. Nothing.
I can't even process the kill before movement stirs at the end of the hallway.
It’s another figure, looking right at me. Looking at the body at my feet. The blood on my hands.
Young. Probably the rookie from earlier.
His eyes go wide, and his mouth opens.
Fuck.
He turns and runs, shouting in Russian. "Intruder! Intruder on board!"
Shit. There goes the element of surprise.
I give chase. Boots pound loudly on metal flooring. But another man appears from a side corridor. Older with a scarred face. His gun is already coming up from his belt.
He's trained. I can see it in how he moves. How he positions himself.
But training doesn't beat instinct or desperation.
I close the distance before he can aim properly. My hands find his head. The hold is automatic, practiced thousands of times, and perfected.
"Is this drugs or trafficking?"
He spits in my face
Bold move for a dead man.
I snap his neck. The crack echoes in the narrow space.
I pull my gun. I hate it when it comes to this. Shooting feels impersonal. Just another thug with a weapon instead of someone who trained for years in close combat.
I wait for more men to come flooding down the hallway. For backup. For the ship to mobilize against the intruder.
Nothing comes.
That's strange. No way this whole operation runs on five men. Even Dmitri isn't that fucking stupid.
Unless he doesn't trust his own people. He could keep operations compartmentalized so no one knows too much. Smart tactically but it creates gaps. Weaknesses.
Good. I'll exploit every fucking gap I find.
I move deeper, checking rooms as I go. Storage areas. Crew quarters. All empty or holding nothing useful.
Every empty room makes my chest tighter, makes the rage build higher.
I find the captain's quarters at the end of a corridor, the door slightly open. Light spills out into the dark hallway. There’s movement inside. Someone’s packing in a hurry.
I push the door open with my boot, gun raised.
A man’s there. Gray beard. Maybe sixty. Not the harmless grandfather type, though. Bratva tattoos cover his visible skin. Arms. Neck. Stars on his shoulders that mean he's done serious time. A cathedral probably decorates his back under that shirt.
He’s been in this life that long and still just a ship captain? That doesn't track unless he fucked up somewhere. Unless he's been demoted. Sidelined.
Then I see the counter.
Bricks of cocaine. Dozens of them stacked in neat rows and a large duffel bag open next to them. Half full of product.
A coward and a thief. That tracks better. That makes sense.
He reaches for the gun on the counter. His hand is shaking so badly that he knocks it off instead. The weapon clatters to the floor between us.
I raise mine and point it at his head. "Don't fucking move."
He freezes before his hands raise slowly. His eyes are wide, calculating his odds.
Zero. His odds are fucking zero.
"Please. I was leaving anyway. Deserting. Taking product and disappearing. I can give you some bricks. Several bricks. Quality product. Just let me walk."
Bricks. Cocaine. This is a drug ship.
Fuck. FUCK.
Every second wasted here is another second Lila is getting taken further away. Another second she's in danger. Another second closer to Moscow.
I grab him by the collar and pull him close enough to smell his fear. "Where's my woman?"
"I don't—I don't know what you're—"
I press the gun against his forehead. "Dmitri took her. My woman. Blonde. American. Twenty-six years old. There's a trafficking operation tonight. Where?"
His eyes dart around, looking for escape. For options. For anything that might save him.
"I don't know about any—"
I cock the hammer. The click is loud in the small space. Final.
"Pier 19!" The words rush out. "The yacht! The luxury yacht at Pier 19! They're moving girls tonight. Moscow bound. That's all I know, I swear to God—"
Pier 19. Finally. A real fucking lead.
"Appreciate it.”
Before he has the chance to respond, I pull the trigger.
His body drops.
One less piece of shit in the world.
I step over him and rush back up to the deck. The night air hits my face. It’s cold off the lake.
Pyotr is waiting by the dock with two gasoline canisters at his feet, ready.
"Now, Boss?"
"A kid is hiding on the ship. A rookie." I check my watch. I can’t afford delays. "Get him out first. Then wait for my signal."
He nods. "Da, Boss."
"Message me before you light it. We do this in coordination. All at once. Every Dmitri property burns tonight."
"Understood."
I head back to the car and slide behind the wheel. My hands are steady despite the adrenaline pumping through my system.
Pier 19 is fifteen minutes away. Maybe ten if I push it and the lights cooperate.
Hold on, Lila. I'm coming.
I reach into my jacket pocket and feel the small velvet box. My mother's ring. Reset just today.
Lila’s ring now. Whether she knows it yet or not.
The engine starts. I pull out into empty streets. Industrial area. No traffic this time of night.
I push the speed limit. Then pass it. I don't give a shit about cops right now.
A yacht makes sense. It’ll make the women look like regular strippers heading to entertain rich men. Just another boat party. Not trafficking victims having their futures destroyed.
Smart tactic. I'd almost respect it if I weren’t planning to kill everyone involved. Every single person who touched her. Who scared her. Who made her feel unsafe.
I park three blocks from the pier. I can't risk being obvious. Need to blend. Need to look like I belong.
The trunk holds a fresh suit. It’s my father's advice from years ago—always have a change of clothes in the car. You never know when you need to look legitimate. To look respectable. To look like money.
I change quickly, stripping off the blood-stained shirt and the jacket with cocaine residue. I replace it with clean fabric.
The suit transforms me into another rich asshole heading to a party. Money buys assumptions. Money says, ‘don't ask questions.’
The pier is lit but quiet. Most legitimate boats are secured for the night. It’s late enough that honest people are gone.
The yacht sits at the far end. Massive vessel. White hull reflecting dock lights. Multiple decks. Perfect cover for moving cargo nobody's supposed to see.
Two guards stand watch at the gangplank. Both thick necked. Both armed under their jackets. But they're scanning for threats. For danger. Not for customers.
Not for someone who looks like money.
I walk up to them with a confident stride. Head up like I own the place.
They look at my suit first. Then at my watch—the real Patek now, not the disposable one. Then, at the way I carry myself. The way money speaks without words.
No ID check. No questions. Just a small nod.
Too fucking easy.
I'm in.
The interior is what I expect. Lavish in that way rich people think is classy but just looks tacky. Bottles of champagne everywhere. Soft lighting designed to hide flaws. Music playing low enough to talk over.
And women. Dozens of them decorate the space. All in revealing outfits that barely cover anything. All looking miserable despite the luxury surrounding them.
I scan the crowd for blonde hair. For green eyes. For her.
Come on. Where are you?
No Lila.
Fuck. She has to be here. The captain said Pier 19. He said the yacht. Said tonight. He had no reason to lie with a gun to his head.
I move through the crowd, passing men who look like buyers assessing merchandise. Passing women who won't make eye contact. Passing servers carrying drinks that nobody's really drinking.
I bump into one and knock his tray. Glasses shatter against the deck.
"Shit. Sorry."
He waves it off, already crouching to clean.
I keep moving, heading deeper into the yacht. Toward the back. Toward areas marked restricted. Staff only.
She's not in the public areas. Which means she has to be back there. In the private sections. Where they keep premium merchandise separate from the general population.
Two guards block the entrance to the restricted hallway. Bigger than the ones at the gangplank. More alert. More professional.
They look like they know what they're doing.
"Private area, sir."
"I'm looking for someone."
"Everyone's in the main area. This section is restricted to staff only."
But Lila's not in the main area. I've checked every face. Which means she's behind these guards. Behind that door. So close I can almost feel it.
These two stand between us. Between me and the only thing that matters in this whole goddamn world.
This is about to get reckless. About to get bloody. About to blow my cover completely.
But I don't give a single fuck.
They're in my way.
And I'm coming, little dove.