Chapter 8 Mikhail
MIKHAIL
The salt air burns my lungs as I step out of the SUV, my boots hitting the wet concrete of the docks.
It’s three in the morning, and the fog rolling off the water is thick enough to cut with a knife.
Perfect conditions for moving product.
Or for an ambush.
“Boss, the shipment’s already here.” Marco appears from the shadows, his long brown and gray hair pulled back, his dark eyes scanning the perimeter. “Right on schedule.”
I nod, but something feels off. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, that sixth sense that’s kept me alive for twenty-plus years in this business.
The dock is too quiet. Even the usual sounds of water lapping against the pilings seem muted.
“How many men do we have?” My hand instinctively moves to the Glock at my hip.
“Fifteen. Posted at every entrance.” Marco gestures to the warehouse ahead. “The product’s inside. Two million in heroin, just like we ordered.”
Two million.
Enough to keep my operations running for months and fund the legitimate businesses I’ve been building in the name of Nicole…but maybe also for Sophia.
The thought of her makes my chest tighten.
I left her sleeping in our bed, her black hair spread across my pillow. The desire to return to her roots deep in my chest.
One of Marco’s men is guarding her while Marco accompanies me.
While I trust his judgment, the scars of my past fuel my anxiety. Nicole was hurt at home, when I wasn’t there.
“Let’s make this quick,” I say, starting toward the warehouse.
That’s when the first shot rings out.
The bullet whizzes past my head, so close I feel the displacement of air.
I drop to the ground, rolling behind a stack of shipping containers as gunfire erupts from every direction.
Marco hits the deck beside me, already returning fire.
“It’s a fucking setup,” he shouts through the chaos.
No shit. I peer around the container and see muzzle flashes coming from the warehouse, from the rooftops, from behind crates.
We’re surrounded.
My men are scrambling for cover, but I can already see two bodies on the ground, not moving.
“Adrian Morello,” I growl, recognizing the tactical precision of the attack. Only he would have the balls and the resources to hit me like this.
More gunfire. One of my men screams, then silence.
The metallic taste of adrenaline floods my mouth as I return fire, taking down one of Adrian’s soldiers who’s foolish enough to break cover.
He drops like a stone, and I feel nothing.
No satisfaction. No remorse.
Just cold calculation.
This isn’t about the drugs. This is about sending a message.
“Fall back to the vehicles!” I order, but even as I say it, I hear explosions.
They’ve taken out our SUVs. Flames light up the fog, casting everything in an orange glow that makes the scene look like something out of hell.
We’re trapped.
Marco and I move together, covering each other as we fight our way toward the water’s edge.
If we can reach the boats, we might have a chance. Behind us, I hear more of my men falling.
The sound of bodies hitting concrete. The wet gurgle of someone drowning in their own blood.
I’ve been in firefights before. Survived ambushes that should have killed me.
But this is different.
This is personal.
Adrian isn’t just trying to steal my product or my territory.
He’s trying to destroy me.
Then I see him.
Adrian Morello stands on the warehouse roof, backlit by the flames, his stocky frame unmistakable even in the fog.
His black hair is graying at the temples, and even from this distance, I can see the scar across his neck.
The one I gave him five years ago when he tried to move in on my territory.
He’s not shooting. He’s just watching. Waiting.
“Artyomov!” His voice carries across the docks, amplified somehow. “I hope you’re enjoying my little welcome party!”
I aim at him, but he’s too far away for an accurate shot with a handgun.
I squeeze off three rounds anyway, satisfaction coursing through me when he has to duck behind the roof’s edge.
“This is just the beginning!” Adrian shouts. “I know all about your pretty little wife! Sophia, isn’t it? Such a beautiful name. Such a beautiful woman.”
Ice floods my veins. He knows about Sophia. Of course he does. In our world, information is currency, and Adrian has always been good at buying secrets.
“I’m going to kill you,” I promise, my voice deadly calm despite the chaos around me.
Adrian’s laugh echoes across the water. “You’ll have to catch me first! But don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your bride while you’re busy cleaning up this mess!”
The implication hits me like a physical blow. This isn’t just about the drugs or the territory. This entire ambush is a distraction. While I’m here, Adrian’s men could be moving on the mansion. On Sophia.
Panic, sharp and unfamiliar, claws at my chest.
I’ve faced death a hundred times without flinching, but the thought of Sophia in danger—the memory of Nicole at the mercy of four men while I wasn’t home—makes my hands shake.
“We need to leave. Now.” I grab Marco’s arm. “Get whoever’s left to the boats. I don’t care about the product. I don’t care about anything except getting back to the mansion.”
Marco’s eyes widen with understanding. “You think he’s going after her?”
“I know he is.” I fire off another round, taking down an enemy soldier who’s getting too close. “This whole thing is a setup to get me away from her.”
We fight our way to the boats, leaving three more of my men dead behind us.
By the time we reach the water, there are only six of us left out of fifteen.
Over half my crew, gone in less than ten minutes.
The boat ride to the next closest dock where we have stowed transport is the longest twenty minutes of my life.
I stand at the bow, my clothes soaked with salt spray and other men’s blood, my mind racing through every possible scenario.
Did I leave enough guards at the mansion?
Are they loyal, or has Adrian bought them off?
Is Sophia awake, wondering where I am?
Or is she already in chains, terrified, calling my name?
Does she have the same dead look in her eyes as Nicole did?
The idea of Sophia scared and helpless makes rage burn through my veins, hot and acidic.
It’s too much like the memory of when I was the monster taking her from all she knew.
Guilt settles in my stomach, a twist of nausea, as memory confuses Nicole’s broken, helpless stare when I found her with the fear and hopeless acceptance of Sophia’s kidnapping and fate.
Her terror when I found her in the tunnels.
I can’t let down another woman in my protection.
Sophia…will never feel that fear again. She is mine to protect.
If Adrian touches her, if he so much as looks at her wrong, I’ll make his death last for days.
I’ll make him beg for mercy I’ll never give.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out with shaking hands, expecting the worst.
It’s a text from one of my guards at the mansion. All clear. Mrs. Artyomov is safe.
Relief hits me so hard I have to grip the boat’s railing to stay upright. She’s safe. She’s okay. Adrian hasn’t gotten to her yet.
But the “yet” is what terrifies me.
By the time we reach the mansion, dawn is breaking over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that seem obscene after the violence of the night.
I burst through the front doors, ignoring Elena’s startled gasp at my appearance.
I must look like something out of a nightmare, covered in blood and gunpowder residue, my suit torn and ruined.
I can’t move through the mansion fast enough. Each blink is a flash back, a reminder of the home invasion that changed everything for Nicole.
The overturned furniture.
The dead guards.
The dread as I searched for my sister.
I take the stairs three at a time, my heart pounding. The guards—thank fuck they’re alive—outside our bedroom door straighten when they see me, their eyes widening at my condition.
“Has anyone tried to enter?” I demand, my chest heaving, desperate for a full breath and rest.
“No, Pakhan. It’s been quiet all night.”
I nod and push open the door as quietly as I can. The room is dark except for the faint light filtering through the curtains. And there, in our bed, is Sophia.
She’s curled on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, her black hair spread across the pillow like silk. She looks so peaceful, so innocent, completely unaware of how close she came to danger tonight. How close I came to losing her.
I stand there for a long moment, just watching her breathe. The rise and fall of her chest. The slight flutter of her eyelashes. She’s real. She’s safe. She’s mine.
But for how long?
Adrian’s words echo in my mind. “I know all about your pretty little wife.”
My sister was used against me, and I can’t let the past repeat.
I move to the bathroom and strip off my ruined clothes, washing the blood from body in a stinging shower.
The water runs red, then pink, then finally clear.
But I can still feel the weight of tonight’s deaths on my shoulders. Nine good men, gone because I wasn’t careful enough.
Because I underestimated Adrian’s reach and his willingness to escalate.
I won’t make that mistake again.
When I return to the bedroom, Sophia is still sleeping. I dress and slide into bed beside her, careful not to wake her, and pull her against my chest.
She makes a small sound and nestles closer, her body fitting perfectly against mine.
“I’ll keep you safe,” I whisper into her hair. “No matter what it costs. No matter who I have to kill.”
She doesn’t hear me. She’s lost in dreams, probably of a life where she’s not married to a monster. A life where she’s free.
But that life is gone now.
She’s mine, and I’m hers, bound together by violence and passion and something that terrifies me more than any bullet.
I close my eyes, but sleep won’t come. My mind is already working through the logistics. I need to double the guards. Triple them. I need to move Sophia somewhere safer, somewhere my enemies can’t reach.
And I need to kill Adrian Morello before he makes good on his threat.
The sun is fully up when I finally drift off, exhausted and still covered in the phantom smell of blood and gunpowder. My last thought before sleep takes me is of Sophia’s face, and how I’ll do anything, become anything, to keep her safe.
When I wake a few hours later, Sophia is gone. Panic jolts through me until I hear the shower running.
I force myself to relax, to breathe.
She’s just in the bathroom.
She’s fine.
She’s not Nicole.
I sit up and run my hands through my hair, pushing through the bone-deep exhaustion that’s set in after the adrenaline of last night wore off. My heart is racing, but it calms as remind myself that Sophia is okay.
A glimpse of white against the dark bedding catches my eye. A small white card, folded in half.
My blood turns to ice as I reach for it. I already know what it is before I open it.
Already know who it’s from.
The handwriting is elegant, almost mocking in its precision.
Your pretty wife would look lovely in chains. - A.M.