Chapter 47
CHAPTER
FORTY-SEVEN
KIRILL
The three trucks roll to a stop in formation at the Newtown Creek loading zone, headlights cutting through the industrial wasteland. Beyond the cracked asphalt and chain-link fencing, there’s nothing but abandoned warehouses and skeletal building frames stretching into the dark.
I step out of the lead Humvee, cold air biting through my jacket, and scan the perimeter while my men pour out of the convoy vehicles behind me. They move fast, weapons ready, every man aware that we’re being watched.
The Ghost is out there. I can feel it, like a crawling sensation on the back of my neck. Unseen eyes are tracking our every move.
But they’re not the only ones watching.
Hidden on nearby rooftops, inside the warehouse, in the shadows of collapsed loading docks and burned-out offices, are five hundred soldiers with enough firepower to turn this lot into a graveyard.
We planned this down to the last detail and everyone knows their role. No radio chatter unless absolutely necessary, because if the Ghost is monitoring our frequencies and sees us talking on a channel they can’t intercept, they’ll know something’s wrong.
I turn back to the trucks as my crew starts the unloading process. Real product, because we couldn’t risk the Ghost sniffing out a fake shipment. Fifty million in heroin, brick by careful brick, carried from the trucks into the warehouse by men who know that at any second this could go sideways.
I play my part. Checking manifests, nodding at crew leads, directing traffic like a man protecting a fortune instead of setting the world’s most expensive bait.
Let them think we’re vulnerable.
The first truck is almost empty when I catch myself reaching for my radio to check in with Dinara.
I stop, hand halfway to my belt, and force myself to stand down.
She’s locked into her command center right now, managing surveillance feeds and encrypted communications across five families’ worth of soldiers who’d normally be trying to kill each other.
The last thing she needs is me interrupting because I can’t go twenty minutes without hearing her voice.
“Boss, second truck’s clear.” One of my men gestures toward the warehouse, voice low. “You want us to start inventory?”
“Not yet. Wait until all three are unloaded, then do a full count inside.”
He nods and heads back to work.
I check my watch. Forty-five minutes since we left Red Hook. The Ghost should be watching, calculating their approach, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. My pulse is steady, my hands are calm, and for once the violence simmering under my skin has a clear target.
This ends tonight.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out expecting a coded update, but the screen lights up with something that makes my stomach bottom out.
It’s a photo of Dinara tied to a chair, wrists bound behind her back, a dark strip of cloth pulled taut between her teeth. A bruise blooms dark across her cheekbone, a smear of blood at the corner of her lip where the rough fabric chafes her skin. Her eyes are dazed, staring straight at the camera.
My lungs seize and I can barely suck in my next breath.
The warehouse lot, the convoy, the soldiers—all of it vanishes into white noise as my brain tries to process what I’m seeing and fails completely because this can’t be real. She’s supposed to be safe, coordinating this operation from behind reinforced walls and encrypted channels.
Text appears below the photo.
It’s an address and a note that says I have thirty minutes to get there. Come alone, come unarmed, and tell no one.
The phone nearly slips through my fingers. My hands have gone numb. Everything has gone numb except the screaming animal panic clawing its way up my throat.
This has to be the Ghost. They figured out what we were planning, how important Dinara was to our mission and knew exactly where to hit to make me bleed.
I consider bringing every soldier we have here and burning whoever sent this message down to ash and bone. But I know with bone-deep certainty that if I don’t follow the rules, if I show up with an army, she dies.
I strip off my earpiece, my Glock, my backup weapon, and the knife strapped to my ankle and hurl them into the shadows between shipping containers. One of my men approaches to ask me something but I don’t hear it.
Nothing else registers except that address. Nothing matters except her.
How did this woman become the center of my world? My beating heart? Everything good worth living for?
Because the idea of her no longer being here destroys something essential inside of me.
I throw myself into the nearest Humvee, engine still running from the convoy, and slam the gas pedal to the floor. The vehicle rockets forward, tires shrieking as I punch through the loading zone and onto the street beyond. Someone’s yelling my name, but I don’t slow down or look back.
I blow through red lights and ignore every traffic law in the book, weaving between cars, cutting across lanes, pushing the Humvee faster around every turn.
The address is in an industrial development zone on the outskirts of Queens—half-finished construction projects and abandoned lots stretching into the dark.
There’s construction equipment scattered everywhere like forgotten toys, and the whole area feels hollow and abandoned. How appropriate.
Only one building has lights on.
I kill the engine and sit there in the dark for three seconds, staring straight ahead. Is this a trap? Probably. But I’ll paint this city in blood before I let anyone think they can get away with hurting her.
I step out of the Humvee and barely make it five steps before two masked guards materialize from the building’s entrance. They look identical to the soldiers that attacked us at Rosa’s.
“Hands up,” one of them barks.
I raise my hands slowly. “No weapons. I got the message loud and clear.”
One covers me with his rifle while the other runs his hands over my body with the kind of thoroughness that says they know what they’re looking for. He checks my jacket, my waistband, my boots, every place I could hide a weapon.
“He’s clean.”
“Move.” The one with the rifle jerks his head toward the building.
They march me in, one on each side, close enough that any sudden move would be my last. The interior is a gutted shell of concrete pillars wrapped in shadows, plastic sheeting, and stripped rebar. How fitting that the Ghost found a ghost town for our final showdown.
We follow the only path available, a long corridor that ends in a pale wash of light. Dread coils in my stomach considering what I might find. What if they’ve already hurt her, or worse? Fuck it. If I let my mind spiral now, I’m in trouble.
The hallway opens into a massive warehouse floor stripped down to steel and concrete. The guards push me forward with enough force to make their point and then fall back to guard the entrance, rifles still trained on me.
I scan the space and my heart stops.
In the center of the room under a single overhead work light is Dinara.
She’s tied to a chair exactly like in the photo, with her wrists bound behind her, the cloth gag digging into the corners of her mouth, and her ankles secured to the legs. The bruise on her cheekbone has spread into a dark, angry purple, and my jaw locks so tight I think a tooth might crack.
Relief floods her expression but her eyes are blazing with urgency. She’s shaking her head, trying to tell me something, but my body moves on instinct, closing the distance between us.
“Stop.”
The familiar voice is like a punch to the solar plexus.
The overhead lights come on all at once, fluorescent white flooding the space so bright I have to blink against it.
When my vision clears, my father stands in the shadows behind Dinara’s chair, one hand resting on her shoulder like she’s his to touch.
He’s not dressed in his usual three-piece suit but in tactical gear that makes him look like the soldier he used to be instead of the pakhan he became.
He appears totally calm, totally in control.
And then, something else catches my attention.
Beside Dinara, tied to an identical chair with a thick fabric gag stifling her cries, is Katya. Tears pour down her face and she’s making these broken sounds coming through the gag.
My vision tunnels. The floor drops out from under me, and it feels like I’m free-falling through a nightmare.
“You wouldn’t…” I seethe. “You wouldn’t hurt your own daughter.”
Ruslan blinks, unfazed. “I won’t be hurting anyone. You will. This is the price of leadership, Kirill. Sacrifice. Duty before love.” He trails a thumb over Katya’s cheek with a tenderness that makes me sick. “One of these women will die tonight by your hand. The choice is yours.”