Chapter 13 – Lev
Sunlight filtered through the curtains like liquid gold, painting Anya’s bare shoulder in warm hues as she pressed a soft kiss to my chest. The gesture was innocent enough, but it sent heat racing through my veins all the same.
“You planning to escape after last night, Mrs. Antonov?” My voice came out sleepy and raspy, rough from hours of whispering her name in the darkness.
She looked up at me through those thick lashes, her hazel eyes still soft with sleep and something deeper. Her lips brushed against my jawline as she nodded, a teasing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“I have a business to run,” she murmured against my skin. “Some of us can’t spend all day in bed.”
I shifted, rolling on top of her in one smooth movement, trapping her beneath me. Her laugh was like music, bright and genuine in a way that made my chest tight.
“Try leaving,” I growled, nipping at the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. “I’ll burn this whole city down just to drag you back.”
She laughed again, breathless now, as I claimed her mouth in a kiss that was slow and claiming and endless. Every touch was a reminder of what we’d confessed to each other in the darkness, every breath a promise of what this meant.
Mine. She was finally, completely mine.
***
The memory of her laughter followed me into the office like a ghost, warming something in my chest that I’d thought was permanently frozen. For the first time in twenty-seven years, I felt like I might actually have something worth protecting beyond mere survival.
My phone buzzed against the desk. ‘Mom’s number flashed on the screen.
“Trev’s been discharged,” she said without preamble. “He’s insisting on coming to see you, though I told him he should rest.”
“Let him come. We have work to do.”
I ended the call and was reaching for the Kozak files when movement in my peripheral vision made me look up. My blood turned to ice when I saw who was sitting in the chair across from my desk, like he owned the place.
Maxim.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snarled, my hand moving instinctively toward the gun holstered beneath my jacket.
He shrugged with that infuriating calm he’d perfected over the years. “Closing the deal. Figured I’d come collect my best friend and see how badly you’ve fucked up my sister’s life.”
Before I could respond—before I could tell him exactly where he could shove his accusations—his expression shifted. Stiffened. The casual mask slipped away, replaced by the cold calculation I recognized from a hundred battlefields.
I turned to see what had caught his attention and felt my stomach drop.
Trev was standing in the doorway, blue eyes taking in the scene with professional assessment. The family resemblance was unmistakable, even with his arm in a sling. Same height, same build, same dangerous stillness that marked us both as predators.
My hands went up automatically. “I can explain.”
And then I laid it all out. Twenty-seven years of lies and grief and survival, condensed into brutal honesty that left all of us bleeding.
The fire that wasn’t supposed to leave survivors.
The fake funeral I’d attended while my brother grew up on another continent.
The father who’d sacrificed his family to keep his sons alive.
When I finished, the silence stretched between us like a chasm.
Finally, Maxim spoke. His voice was quiet, thoughtful. “So you really saw me as a brother all these years…and didn’t tell me?”
Of all the reactions I’d expected—rage, betrayal, violence—that wasn’t one of them. I stared at him, nostrils flaring. “Out of everything I just told you, that’s what you picked up on?”
A laugh slipped out of me, harsh and broken. The tension in the room cracked like ice on a frozen lake.
Maxim shrugged again, but there was something softer in his expression now. “Just saying. You’re a cold, emotionally constipated bastard, but you’re my cold, emotionally constipated bastard. Would’ve been nice to know I wasn’t the only one who gave a shit.”
Before I could process that admission, Trev reached into his jacket pocket.
“I’ve been doing some digging since I found out about Dad,” he said, placing a photograph on my desk.
“This showed up in an old case file from three years ago. Unsolved assassination in Melbourne—victim was a Ukrainian expatriate with ties to organized crime.”
The photo was grainy, pulled from security footage, but clear enough to make out the figure. A young woman in black, her face covered by a simple mask that revealed only her eyes—pale gray with steel blue specks that seemed to glow even in the poor quality image.
“Those eyes,” I said quietly, something cold settling in my chest.
“Same woman who attacked me yesterday,” Trev confirmed. “Same ritual too—witnesses said she whispered something that sounded like a prayer before she fired. Security footage caught her making the sign of the cross.”
I pulled up the button camera footage I’d retrieved from Dad’s belongings and fast-forwarded to the assassination. When I paused on the clearest shot of the killer’s face, Trev leaned forward.
“That’s her. Same eyes, same build, same movement patterns.”
“Professional,” Maxim observed, studying both images. “Trained from childhood, if I had to guess. The way she moves, the precision—this isn’t street talent.”
I stared at those haunting eyes, trying to place why they seemed so familiar.
“Drew,” I called, not taking my eyes off the screen. “I need you to dig deeper into Petro Kozak’s network before you head back to Russia.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Drew’s voice came from behind me, and I turned to see him standing in the doorway. “Rafael made me permanent. Seems he likes having someone who can break codes as well as bones.”
He moved to peer over my shoulder at the frozen images. “Also, check the red folder on your desk. Already done.”
The folder was thick, filled with intelligence that painted a picture I didn’t like.
Petro Kozak wasn’t just a traditional crime boss—he was a fanatic.
A man who’d convinced himself that every murder was an act of divine justice, every death a cleansing of the wicked through Saint Michael’s vengeance.
“He has a daughter,” Drew continued, settling into a chair. “Mila Kozak. Acts like a ghost—no photographs, no confirmed sightings, no official records. But the intelligence suggests she’s his primary weapon. Trained from birth to be the perfect assassin.”
I studied the grainy footage again, comparing it to Trev’s photograph. “Timeline matches for both hits. Skills match. But without a clear face shot, we can’t be certain it’s the same person.”
“It’s her,” Trev said with certainty. “I looked into those eyes yesterday while she tried to kill me. I’d recognize them anywhere.”
I studied the grainy footage again, looking for details I might have missed. “You think she’s the one who attacked Anya’s car?”
Drew shrugged. “Timeline matches. Skills match. But I was focused on getting the car back to the mansion, not getting a positive ID on the shooter.”
Maxim leaned forward, his expression grim. “If Petro’s using his daughter as an assassin, that changes the game. Family loyalty runs deeper than professional obligation. She won’t break, won’t negotiate, won’t stop until her father tells her to.”
“Or until she’s dead,” I added quietly.
Trev shifted in his chair, wincing as the movement pulled at his wounded shoulder.
“Petro believes he’s fighting a holy war.
The psychological profile suggests he sees himself as a moral crusader, using his daughter as an instrument of divine vengeance.
Every target is a sinner that needs cleansing. ”
The pieces were starting to form a picture, but it was one I didn’t want to see. A fanatic with nothing to lose, using his own child as a weapon in a war that had already lasted too long.
“So, how do we find a ghost?” Maxim asked.
Trev’s smile was sharp, predatory. “We don’t find the ghost. We make the ghost find us.
” He gestured toward the frozen image on my screen.
“She’s been watching, learning our patterns, our weaknesses.
But she’s also been making mistakes. The hesitation at my shooting, the ritual prayers that give targets time to react—these aren’t the actions of a perfect killing machine. ”
“You think she can be turned?”
“I think she’s nineteen years old and has never known anything but her father’s version of righteousness.” Trev’s voice was thoughtful. “That kind of conditioning can be broken, given the right pressure points.”
I stared at the girl’s face on my screen, trying to reconcile the cold professionalism I saw there with Trev’s assessment. She looked like she could cut your throat while reciting scripture, but there was something else in those pale eyes. Something that might have been doubt.
“It’s risky,” I said finally. “Using ourselves as bait.”
“Everything we do is risky,” Maxim pointed out. “The question is whether we take the initiative or wait for her to pick us off one by one.”
Drew pulled up another file on his tablet. “I’ve been tracking Petro’s movements. He’s been consolidating power, calling in old debts, preparing for something big. This isn’t just about revenge anymore—he’s planning a war.”
The room fell silent as we absorbed the implications. A war meant civilian casualties. It meant dragging innocent people into a conflict that should have died with Taras Kozak twenty-seven years ago.
I thought about Anya, sleeping peacefully in our bed this morning, her face soft with dreams that didn’t include bullets and blood. I thought about the life she’d built for herself, the business she’d created from nothing, the future she deserved.
“Then we end it,” I said, closing the laptop with a sharp click. “Before it starts.”
Trev nodded slowly. “Hunt the ghost first. Take away Petro’s primary weapon, and he becomes just another aging crime boss with delusions of grandeur.”
“And if the ghost can’t be turned?” Maxim’s question hung in the air like smoke.
I met his eyes, seeing my own resolve reflected back at me. “Then we put her down like any other rabid animal.”
The words tasted like ash in my mouth, but they were true. I’d killed before—men, women, anyone who threatened what I considered mine. Mila Kozak’s age and parentage wouldn’t save her if she came for my family again.
Because that’s what this was about now. Not just survival or revenge or settling old debts. This was about protecting the people I loved from a war that should have ended before it began.
And I’d burn the world down before I let anyone take them from me.