Chapter 17 #3
Dr. Held pulled up more documents—phone records, surveillance logs, communication patterns.
The evidence was overwhelming when assembled together.
Andrei Morozov had met with Kozlov operatives multiple times.
Money had flowed from Kozlov accounts to Morozov-adjacent businesses.
The bombing had been planned with inside knowledge only someone in Viktor's position could provide.
"This proves the marriage should stand," I said, already running through the legal implications. "Article Seven doesn't apply if the father participated in the threat. External sabotage with internal facilitation—the Code is clear on this."
"We present this to the Council," Alexei agreed. "Emergency session. Force them to reverse the ruling."
"Tomorrow morning," Mikhail suggested. "We can have packages prepared for each family, make the evidence undeniable."
But something nagged at me. Viktor wasn't stupid. He had to know we'd investigate, had to know the financial trails existed. Which meant either he was confident we'd never find them, or—
"He's going to claim ignorance," I realized. "Say Andrei acted alone. Throw his own nephew under the bus to maintain his position."
"Let him try," Dmitry growled. "The evidence—"
"The evidence proves Andrei's involvement clearly. Viktor's is more circumferential." I pulled up the files again, looking for the smoking gun that wasn't quite there. "He's maintained plausible deniability. Careful bastard."
Alexei's expression darkened. "Then we need Anya's testimony. She knows her father's operations better than anyone. She might have seen or heard something that connects him directly."
Anya. Who was currently locked in her father's house, beyond our reach, probably being systematically broken down to ensure she'd never testify against him.
"Speaking of Anya," Held cleared his throat. "You asked me to establish surveillance on the Morozov estate."
"You have something?" My voice came out strangled.
"Audio recordings. Conversations. Evidence of how Miss—Mrs. Volkov is being treated." He pulled out a tablet, fingers flying across the surface. "The source made contact an hour ago. They've already provided some initial intelligence."
"Play it," I demanded.
Held hesitated. "Mr. Volkov, some of this content is... disturbing."
"Play. It."
He touched the screen, and Viktor's voice filled the war room, clear despite the obvious concealment of the recording device:
"—need to understand that your judgment has been compromised. This 'Daddy' degeneracy, these infantile behaviors—this is what happens when I'm not here to provide proper structure."
Then Anya's voice, smaller than I'd ever heard it: "It's not degeneracy. It's—"
The sound of a slap. Sharp. Clear. Unmistakable.
The table cracked under my grip.
"There's more," Held said quietly. "About two hours of recordings so far. Your wife is . . . she's trying to resist, but he's systematically breaking her down. Destroying her possessions, limiting food, isolation tactics."
"We're going to war," Dmitry announced, already moving toward the weapons. "Right now. Tonight. I'll kill every last—"
"No." Alexei's command cut through Dmitry's rage. "We do this smart. We present the conspiracy evidence to the Council, get the ruling reversed legally. Then we retrieve Anya."
"Legally?" I laughed, the sound devoid of humor. "You just heard him hitting her. You heard—"
"I heard evidence that will make our case stronger," Alexei interrupted. "Viktor abusing Anya while claiming to protect her? The Council will have to act."
But I was already calculating different scenarios. Legal channels would take time. Days at minimum, possibly weeks. And every hour Anya spent in that house was another hour of psychological torture, another piece of her destroyed.
I stood so abruptly my chair crashed backward.
"We're getting her out," I said. My voice didn't sound like mine—too calm, too cold, like something had frozen inside me. "Tonight. Now."
"Ivan—" Alexei started.
"NOW!" The word ripped from my throat. "He's torturing her. I don't care about Council approval," I continued, my voice deadly quiet now. "I don't care about evidence or investigations or legal channels. My wife is being tortured by her father, and we're getting her out."
Alexei and Dmitry exchanged a look—one of those wordless brother conversations that happened in moments of crisis.
"Finally," Dmitry said, and there was savage satisfaction in his voice. "I thought you'd never snap. I've had an extraction plan ready since day one."
I turned to stare at him. "What?"
He was already moving to the wall of maps, pulling down blueprints I recognized—Viktor's estate, but annotated with Dmitry's distinctive handwriting. Entry points. Guard positions. Camera blindspots. All of it mapped with the obsessive detail of someone who'd been planning this for days.
"You think I was going to let that bastard keep her?" Dmitry spread the blueprints across the table. "I've been running surveillance since the moment you drove away from his gates. Guard rotations, security protocols, weak points—I have it all."
"You've been planning an unauthorized extraction?" Alexei's voice carried warning.
"I've been planning a rescue," Dmitry corrected. "And now that Ivan's finally ready to stop playing by the rules, we can execute it."
Held cleared his throat again. "If you're serious about this, my source inside can help. Disable certain security systems, ensure specific doors are unlocked."
"Your source," I said, focusing on him. "Who are they?"
"Better you don't know. But they're motivated—apparently Mrs. Volkov was kind to them over the years. The only family member who treated them as human. They want her out as much as you do."
Someone Anya had been kind to, now willing to risk everything to help her. That was my wife—leaving gardens of loyalty in the wasteland of her father's cruelty.
"When?" I asked Dmitry.
"Tomorrow. Viktor has a meeting with the Besharovs at 2 PM. Mandatory attendance—he can't skip it without losing face. Four-hour window while he's gone."
"His guards—"
"Skeleton crew during his absence. Six men max, positioned predictably." Dmitry traced routes on the blueprint. "We go in quiet. Three-man team. In and out in under twenty minutes."
"Three men against six guards plus electronic security?" Alexei asked.
"Three men with inside help," Dmitry corrected. "You private dick’s source will disable cameras in the residence wing. We avoid confrontation, extract Anya, get her to a safehouse."
"Which safehouse?" I asked. "Viktor will check all our properties."
"Not ours," Alexei said quietly. We all turned to look at him. "The Besharovs have a property in Connecticut. Officially neutral ground. Mikhail Besharov has . . . indicated . . . that if Anya needed sanctuary, it might be available."
The Besharovs. The family that had married us, that had tried to oppose Viktor's reclamation. They were offering shelter, taking sides in their own quiet way.
"That's where we take her," I decided. "Safe, neutral, and protected by Besharov authority."
"And then?" Alexei asked.
"Then we present the conspiracy evidence to the Council with Anya safe and Viktor exposed. He can't reclaim her if she's under Besharov protection, and he can't claim we kidnapped her if she testifies about his abuse."
It was a desperate plan. Dangerous. Probably illegal. Definitely against every protocol the bratva had about family sovereignty.
I didn't care.
"Timeline?" I asked Dmitry.
"Tomorrow, 2:15 PM. Fifteen minutes after Viktor leaves for his meeting."
Less than twenty-four hours. Less than twenty-four hours until I got her back or died trying.
"I'm coming with you," I said.
"Obviously." Dmitry grinned, all predator now. "Wouldn't dream of doing this without you, brother."