Chapter 24 – Lev
I sit back in the low-lit booth of the private bar, glass of whiskey in hand, letting the burn settle along my throat. Roman sits across from me, shoulders relaxed, though I know better.
“I say we hit first,” I tell him, voice low but steady. “Take the initiative. Deal with the consequences after.”
Roman chuckles, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Lev…sometimes you’re too eager to spill blood before you even plan the first sip.” He takes a slow drink. “I just want to enjoy the whiskey first. We’ll talk business after.”
I scowl, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Roman, I’m not here to savor anything. I’m here to make sure Sasha’s safe.”
He gives me a knowing look. “Then you better pace yourself. Breathe. You can’t help her by lashing out.”
I mutter under my breath but take a slow sip anyway, letting the warmth spread. Planning is fine. But patience? That’s a luxury I can’t afford when she’s out there in danger.
“One glass,” I tell Roman. “I can’t settle knowing I left Sasha alone back at the villa.”
He rolls his eyes, smirking. “Never thought the day would come when Lev Rusnak would be so obsessed with a girl.”
I shoot him a look, voice low and dry. “I didn’t think so either.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Guess some things change, huh?”
I set my glass down, the weight of it meaningless compared to the pit in my stomach. Obsession isn’t the right word. Protection. Fear. Anger. All of it wrapped up in one. Sasha isn’t just someone to care about—she’s mine to keep safe, and I’ll do whatever it takes.
My phone buzzes on the bar. I glance down and see Mikhail’s name flashing on the screen. My chest tightens. Why is he calling?
I snatch the phone and press it to my ear. “Mikhail. What—”
“Lev,” he bursts out, voice tight, clipped. “I just got to the villa…. It’s chaos. Sasha—she’s gone. We can’t find her anywhere. The cameras…nothing. She didn’t leave the house on record.”
My stomach drops, a cold, hollow weight settling in. My heart slams against my ribs. Every worst-case scenario explodes at once, and I can’t breathe fast enough.
Sasha.
My mind races, images flashing—her in the villa courtyard, her laughing, her soft hair brushing against my hand…gone. My hands ball into fists, nails digging into my palms.
I grit my teeth, trying to swallow the surge of fear and fury. Whoever did this is going to pay. Whoever dares touch her is going to regret it.
I push my chair back hard, the scrape of wood on tile loud in the quiet bar. I’m already moving toward the door when Roman catches up, hand on my shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his eyes sharp, reading me.
“Sasha’s missing,” I say, voice low but dangerous. “The villa’s in chaos. Cameras didn’t catch her leaving. She’s gone, Roman.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”
We hit the street in silence for a beat, then Roman slams the gas. The car lunges forward, and my fists clench on my knees, heart hammering. Every second she’s out there, she’s in danger. I can feel it in my bones.
We’re cutting through Athens like a knife through silk, every light, every turn a blur. My mind races—where she could be, who would take her, and how I’m going to bring her back.
The villa is silent when we pull up, but I already know the truth before I step inside. Sasha isn’t anywhere. My chest tightens as I slam the door open and storm through the foyer.
I check the bedroom first—empty. The bathrooms—empty. The library—nothing. Every room is a cruel confirmation of my fear.
“Lev,” Roman says softly, his voice cutting through the haze of panic. He comes up beside me, steady as ever. “You need to be strong for her. She needs you calm, not losing it.”
I grind my teeth, my hands balling into fists. “Strong?” I growl. “Strong doesn’t fix this, Roman. She’s—” My throat tightens. I can’t even finish the sentence.
Roman places a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll find her. We’re going to get her back, Lev. That’s a promise. Trust me on this one.”
I swallow hard, trying to draw in a steady breath, but my gaze keeps darting around the empty rooms. Every second she’s gone is a second too long.
I finally rise to my feet, and a strange calm settles over me. What was I doing, letting my panic take over? Heartbreak won’t get Sasha back. There’s no time for despair. I’m not leaving her to them—not for a second. I’m getting her back.
I stride into my study, Mikhail and Roman following in a precise tow behind me. Their eyes meet mine, reading the same fire I feel burning under my skin. No words are needed. They know.
The air in the room feels charged, thick with static and fury. I take my seat at the desk, and the weight of the chair feels heavier than usual—like it knows what’s coming. My fingers move on instinct. The laptop hums to life, the glow of the screen cutting through the shadows like a blade.
Back in London, before I came home, I’d spent five years in tech and cyber security—not the kind they teach in classrooms, but the kind that makes governments nervous.
Encryption, surveillance bypass, satellite mapping—my playground.
I haven’t needed that side of me in years; finance became my new weapon when I returned to the family.
But right now? I can’t delegate this. I can’t trust anyone else’s hands to move as fast or as ruthlessly as mine.
I have to find her myself.
Mikhail paces behind me, restless energy coiling in his muscles.
He mutters in Russian, half prayers, half curses.
Roman sits across from me, his leg bouncing, eyes following every flick of my hand on the keyboard.
The only sound in the room is the rapid click of keys and the low hum of the servers powering up.
I connect to my private network—layers upon layers of firewalls and ghost routes. The interface blooms across multiple screens. Every feed from the villa, every external camera, every traffic node in a five-kilometer radius loads in real time.
“Talk to me, Lev,” Roman says. His voice is calm, but I hear the tension under it.
I don’t look up. “I’m syncing all the security feeds. If they took her by car, they’ll show up somewhere—highway cams, port CCTV, private satellites.”
Mikhail stops pacing and leans over my shoulder. “You think they knew about the blind spots?”
“They knew,” I say, jaw tightening. “No camera caught her leaving. That means whoever took her had access to our systems—or help from someone inside.”
Roman curses under his breath. “You’re saying—”
“I’m saying nothing yet,” I cut in. “I’ll know soon enough.”
I pull up the satellite overlay, zooming in on the coast. The system I built in London years ago—the one I swore I’d never use again—unfolds like a living organism.
Within minutes, the map of Greece glows with motion markers.
Vehicles, boats, aircraft, all tagged and traced by AI.
I start narrowing parameters, filtering by timestamp and velocity.
My hands don’t shake. My pulse doesn’t race. I am calm—terrifyingly calm. Because panic won’t find Sasha. Precision will.
My focus narrows to a single moving blip on the screen—a black SUV with a scrambled license plate, leaving the villa’s vicinity at the exact time the cameras glitched.
I freeze the frame. My chest tightens.
“Got you,” I whisper.
Roman is on his feet before I finish the sentence, the old reflex of a soldier snapping into place. “Any lead?” he asks, voice flat.
I nod once and drag the map wider, fingers flying over the track. The SUV’s vector feeds through my filters: exit, service road, a single ragged line that ends at an abandoned dock two kilometers north of the industrial quay. The dot blinks, poi locked.
“Dock,” I say. The word lands like iron.
I don’t wait for debate. I grab my jacket, throat already tight with the clean, cold edge of what needs to be done. Roman and Mikhail fall in behind me without a word—you move, they move. That’s how we’ve always worked.
“Roman,” I bark as we pass the console, “you take point, stealth approach. No fireworks until I give the signal. Mikhail, lock down the villa perimeter, patch comms to me. I want drone thermal on a ninety-second loop over that quay and a fast boat standing by at point Charlie. Pull the northern port cams—now.”
They execute. Their faces harden into business. They slip into roles like armor.
Outside, the night is thin and cold. Roman holds the keys and slides behind the wheel without ceremony.
Mikhail takes the back with the comms pack; I climb in front, already running contingencies in my head: entry points, choke lines, escape vectors, worst-case extractions.
The car tears from the drive, tires spitting gravel.
Roman slams the gas, and the villa collapses behind us.
My chest is a tight drum. Every second hums. We have a lead. We have a place. Now it’s a matter of getting there before they move her again.
The dock smells of salt and diesel when we pull up—sharp, metallic, alive. Roman eases the car into a shadowed cut in the warehouse line; we park where the floodlights won’t pick us up. Everything else falls away. There is only the plan and the men executing it.
We move like a machine. Roman is already in command mode: quiet, efficient, his voice a low thread of orders. He checks weapons with the same methodical calm I’ve seen on the range a thousand times—magazines seated, safeties off, lights and silencers snapped into place.
Mikhail kneels by the console in the back of our car and feeds the live drone thermal into my earpiece. The screen shows the dock like a cold x-ray: heat signatures in stark white against the black. We sweep the bay and mark no movements.
“There’s no movement in the dock,” Mikhail says, his voice clouded with confusion. “Either it’s empty, or something is wrong,” he adds.
“Then let’s go confirm.”