Chapter 18
Nik
I’ve debated it for weeks. Stared at it for over an hour today. Still, the burner phone from my father feels radioactive in my hand. Every time I reach for it, something twists in my gut. I know once I press the call button, there’s no going back.
I tell myself it’s not about loyalty. Not about family. But that’s a lie. Isn’t Lina all of those things?
I power it on and call the only number saved: ‘V.’
Volk answers on the second ring.
“Nikolai.” His voice hasn’t changed. Still ice and gravel, like the sound of iron doors closing.
How the fuck does he always sound like a threat?
“Volkov,” I greet, my tone flat and clipped. “I need information. About something Rutledge is funding.”
There’s a pause on his end. The kind that doesn’t come from surprise, just calculation.
Volk is my cousin, older by ten years. He’s also my father’s enforcer.
His executioner. The sharp edge to the Russian family blade.
He’s the kind of man who doesn’t speak unless it’s in threats or orders. So, when he does speak, you listen.
“You’ve been quiet a long time,” he says at last. “Why now? You finally decide to remember where you come from?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snap. “This isn’t about you, and it’s not about my father.”
He exhales a sound that might be amusement. Or disdain. With him, it’s hard to tell.
“Ah,” he drawls. “Personal, then. Always the sentimental one. You always were ruled by your emotions. Such a novice mistake. It makes you weak, Nikolai.”
“And you’re a fucking asshole,” I snap.
He chuckles. “No more so than you.”
That’s debatable. But, I let it go. Be the bigger man…
“There’s a property,” Volk continues, calmly. “Not officially listed. Operates under a shell charity called ‘Women’s Transitional Housing.’” He pauses. “The kind that doesn’t transition anyone, if you catch my meaning.”
I do. And my stomach turns, bile climbing up the back of my throat.
“Address?” I ask.
He instantly rattles off a number and street name and gives me a time.
Then, just to be a dick, he adds, “You gonna play hero now, Nikolai?”
I grind my teeth. “I’m planning to put a stop to it.”
“You always were soft. Thought you could build a life outside the family. Pretend blood doesn’t stain.”
“Better than bathing in it like you do.”
“You’re a disgrace. Your father deserves a better heir than you.”
“Like who? Someone like you?”
“You and I both know I would be the better choice. You’ve been out too long,” he warns, voice sharp now. “You’ve forgotten how this world works. If you go sniffing around, you better be ready. You don’t get to half ass this.”
“I’m not,” I snap. “I’m in.”
“Doubtful. You’re not built for this life anymore.”
Click. The line goes dead.
Broody bastard.
∞∞∞
The “safe house” sits in a wooded patch of nowhere, about forty minutes outside the city. This far out, the roads dissolve into gravel, then dirt. Streetlights vanish. Trees swallow the horizon.
The place isn’t marked. No sign, no mailbox.
Just a big, dull-gray house swallowed by nature and silence.
The kind of house you forget even existed.
It doesn’t look like much… until you look closer.
Blackout curtains. Reinforced doors. High-mounted cameras with tilt-pivot motion tracking.
There’s a signal jammer mounted on the roof, disguised as a vent.
This isn’t a shelter. It’s a cage.
I park a half mile out and hike the rest, picking my way through underbrush and mud. My old instincts kick in. Quiet steps, measured breath, no light. I move like a ghost and perch up in the trees with a clear line of sight.
I watch.
Three cameras cover the perimeter. The back door is padlocked. Side windows are sealed tight. No noise. No music. Not even birdsong. Inside, shadows pass behind the curtains. Figures moving in that slow, weighted way that says they’ve forgotten how to run.
Then, I see her. A girl, maybe sixteen, appears in the upstairs window. She barely gets two seconds before a hand yanks the curtain back in place.
My blood ices. I know what this is. This isn’t a safe house, it’s a holding pen.
I stay for hours observing the comings and goings. A delivery van drops off unmarked boxes. A man in khakis and a clipboard takes inventory. Another guy, tall and cocky, flashes gold chains and a pistol tucked into his waistband. But it’s the last man who makes my skin crawl.
He shows up just before dusk in a black car with no plates. Steps out in a sharp gray suit, his posture too relaxed, too in control. He’s older, maybe mid-fifties.
Everyone reacts to his appearance. The tension in the air thickens like fog. I can’t hear what he says, but I don’t need to. That’s the man in charge. He doesn’t knock. Just walks in like he owns the place.
Is this Joe?
The name’s haunted the Underground for years. The kind of name only spoken in whispers. I’ve never had a face to match it, but something in my gut says: That’s him.
He stays fifteen minutes, tops. Then he leaves, unbothered. Like nothing in that house has weight.
As night falls and silence returns, I slip away, unseen and unheard.
No confrontation. Not yet. Not until I know more and have a plan.
I hike back to my car with mud on my boots and blood humming under my skin.
I should feel scared, but I don’t. I feel ready.
My heart pounds and fury simmers. Now, I see the shape of the thing we’re fighting.
This isn’t just about Joe. It’s not even just Rutledge. It’s a whole machine. One that turns girls into ghosts, and monsters into kings… and I’m going to tear it apart. Bolt by bolt. Brick by brick.
When I’m done, they’ll wish I’d just called my father instead.