Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
T hin morning light cuts through the heavy velvet curtains, casting long shadows across the bedroom floor.
I wake slowly, my body warm and heavy, tangled in the silk sheets under the massive weight of Mikhail’s arm.
He’s still asleep, his breathing a deep, rhythmic rumble against the back of my neck.
I stay still, enjoying the quiet. For once, the morning doesn't feel like waking into hell; the knot in my stomach is softer, eased by the memory of his hands and his promise.
I shift slightly, trying to pull the duvet higher.
The arm around my waist instantly tightens, pulling me back until my spine is pressed flush against his chest.
"Stop moving," Mikhail grumbles into my hair, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.
"I'm cold," I say, my voice a quiet murmur. "And you’re heavy. It’s like being pinned by a sleeping bear."
"I'm not a bear," he mutters, though he doesn't let go. He shifts, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below my ear. "And you aren't cold. You're just impatient."
"I have things to do," I say, a small, reluctant smile touching my lips. "What time are we meeting that detective today?"
Mikhail grunts, his hand sliding down my hip, his warm palm resting against my skin.
"Miller? In the early afternoon. He’s retired Bureau.
He doesn't have any ties to my father or yours. If there’s an active trust fund or a utility bill under Verona Holdings, he’ll have the exact house number by noon. "
I turn in his grip, rolling onto my back to look at him. His dark hair is a messy tangle, his blue eyes half-closed and soft. He looks younger like this, the hard, defensive lines of his face smoothed by sleep.
"You really found him?" I ask, my hand coming up to touch his bruised jaw, fingers tracing the purple edge of the skin.
"I told you I would," he says, his gaze locking onto mine with steady, unblinking intensity. "I don't leave jobs half-finished. Especially not this one."
"Thank you," I whisper.
Mikhail reaches up, his fingers sliding into my hair, pulling my head down until our lips are inches apart. "Don't thank me yet. We haven't got him back. But when we do, we’re going to have a very long conversation about how many more of these little monsters we’re going to put in this house."
I let out a soft, breathless laugh, my face heating up. "You’re very arrogant."
"I'm efficient," he mumbles, his mouth closing over mine in a slow, sweet kiss that tastes of morning and quiet safety.
We stay in bed for another twenty minutes, the banter quiet and easy—a small sanctuary of warmth before the storm. But we both know the clock is ticking. My father is expecting the warehouse locations. The trap has to be set.
I get dressed in a simple dark sweater, my hair pulled back into a loose bun.
Mikhail is already waiting by the door, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit that hides his bandaged ribs, though his movements are still a bit stiff.
He looks at me, his eyes tracking the line of my jaw, before wrapping his hand around mine. His grip is rough and completely solid.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready," I say.
We walk down the quiet staircase. Stefan nods respectfully as we pass him at the front door. Outside, the morning air is crisp and cool against my cheeks, the sun breaking watery through gray clouds.
The burner phone in my coat begins to vibrate.
A sharp, violent jolt of panic hits my chest.
I freeze on the gravel. Mikhail stops beside me, his grip tightening instantly as he senses my tension.
"Is it him?" he asks, his voice dropping.
"Yeah," I whisper. I pull the cheap phone out, my hand shaking as I press the receiver to my ear. "Papa."
"You really thought you were clever, Irina," Boris’s voice is a cold, oily purr over the line, carrying a flat, terrifying certainty that makes my knees weak.
"I don't know what you mean," I say, trying to keep the practiced panic in my voice, though the terror in my throat is suddenly very real. "I gave you the Newark codes. My husband is furious. He’s been on the phone all morning trying to figure out how the leak happened."
"Do you take me for a fool, child?" Boris snaps, his tone turning sharp as a razor. "Did you really think I would send my trucks to a warehouse on Ferry Street without verifying the perimeter first? My spotters saw Konstantin’s men setting up the snipers three hours ago."
My breath catches in my throat, my vision instantly tunneling. He knows it was a trap. "Papa, please," I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. "It wasn't me. Mikhail... he must have changed the codes. He’s paranoid."
"Silence!" Boris roars. "I am done."
"Don't touch him," I hiss, my stubbornness entirely vanishing, replaced by a raw, desperate maternal instinct that rips my chest open. "Please, Papa. He’s just a child. He has nothing to do with this."
"He has everything to do with this," Boris says, his voice dropping to a quiet, clinical whisper. "He’s sitting right in front of me, Irina. He’s eating pancakes.
And my associate, Sergei, is standing directly behind his chair.
Do you want to hear what a suppressed nine-millimeter sounds like over a telephone, Irina?
Because if you or Mikhail take one step toward Alpine, or if I see a single guard near my estate, Sergei will pull the trigger. Do you believe me?"
My legs give out completely.
I collapse onto the gravel, my knees scraping the sharp stones. I hyperventilate, gasping for air as a blind, absolute terror takes over.
"I believe you," I scream into the phone, my voice cracking as tears stream down my face. "I believe you! Please, just don't hurt him. Don't let Sergei do it. I’ll do whatever you want. Anything."
Mikhail is on his knees beside me in an instant, his large hands anchoring me as I shake. His blue eyes are dark and wild with protective fury as he yanks the phone from my hand, pressing it to his ear.
"Boris," Mikhail growls, his voice a low, terrifying vibration. "If you so much as touch a hair on that boy’s head, I will skin you alive. I swear to you on my mother's grave, I will burn your entire legacy to ash."
"Ah, Mikhail," Boris purrs, completely unbothered.
"The volatile brother. The terms have changed.
I don't want the Newark warehouse anymore.
I want the Morozov empire. Fifty percent of your shipping lanes, your union contracts, and your North Dock holdings, signed over to Petrov Holdings by tonight. "
"You're out of your mind," Mikhail growls.
"I'm a businessman," Boris says. "And I have the ultimate leverage.
We meet tonight at ten o'clock. I will send the location.
Your wife has to be there. If I don't see her, or if my men spot a single one of Konstantin’s shooters within three blocks of the exchange, Sergei pulls the trigger.
Have the contracts drafted. Don't be late. "
The line goes dead.
The phone slips from my fingers, clattering against the gravel.
I collapse against his chest, my hands clawing at his suit jacket, burying my face in his neck as I sob. The terror is suffocating. He knows.
"He’s going to kill him," I sob, my body shaking violently. "He’s going to kill my boy. We can't... we can't outplay him. We have to give him the fifty percent. Please, Mikhail. I don't care about the money. I don't care about the docks."
Mikhail wraps his massive arms around me, pulling me tight, his chin resting on my head. He is solid, hot, and completely still.
"I've got you," he murmurs, his hand stroking my hair with slow, reassuring pressure. "I've got you, Irina. Look at me."
I pull back slowly, my eyes red and wet.
Mikhail reaches up, his large, scarred hands framing my face, his thumbs wiping the tears from my cheeks. His blue eyes are dark, filled with a cold, absolute certainty.
"He is not going to touch Oleg," Mikhail says, each word a heavy iron peg driven straight into the ground. "I promise you, Irina. Boris is a coward who uses a child because he’s too weak to fight me face-to-face. But his time is up. We are going to get your boy back tonight."
"But the codes... he knows Newark was a trap," I gasp.
"Then we make the trap bigger," Mikhail says, standing and pulling me with him. Keeping a firm grip on my hand, he guides me back toward the house. "We don't have time for the detective. We need Artyom and Konstantin. Now."
Ten minutes later, we are in the private office of the Brooklyn brownstone.
Artyom is sitting on the leather sofa, pale but sharp, while Kira stands beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder. Konstantin stands by the window with crossed arms, his unreadable face a sheet of gray slate.
"He’s not taking the Newark bait," Mikhail says, pacing the room like a caged panther, his jaw set tight. "He’s got spotters near Ferry Street. He knows we set up the snipers."
"Then we keep the Newark transfer in play," Artyom rasps from the sofa.
"If we pull the trucks now, Boris will know we’ve abandoned the decoy.
We have to make it look real. Load the trucks with lower-value inventory, decoy crates, and keep the regular security rotations.
Let his spotters see that we're still moving the cargo. "
"And the meeting?" Konstantin asks, his voice smooth and devoid of emotion. "He wants fifty percent. He wants the North Docks."
"We’ll draft the deeds," Artyom says, looking at his brother.
"But we’ll use conditional clauses that require the physical seal of the Pakhan.
It will buy us twelve hours. Boris will think he has the leverage, but the papers won't be legally or underground-binding until I sign them tomorrow morning. "
"The meeting is at ten," Mikhail says, stopping to look at Konstantin. "He’s sending the location. He said if Irina isn't there, Sergei pulls the trigger."
"I’m going," I say, stepping forward, my stubbornness returning to fight the terror. I look at Mikhail. "If he doesn't see me at the table, he’ll know it’s a trap, and he’ll call Sergei before you can even draw your weapon."
"No," Mikhail growls, turning to glare at me. "I’m not putting you in a room with him. If the Newark team fails, or if he realizes the deeds are conditional, he’ll turn on you first."
"I don't have a choice!" I snap, taking a step toward him, my blue eyes flashing with a desperate light. "That’s my son! He’s seven years old and he has a gun to his head because of me! I am not sitting in this house while you go play hero."
Mikhail stares at me, his chest heaving under his charcoal suit. He looks furious, but seeing the iron resolve in my eyes, he knows I’m not backing down.
"Fine," he growls, his voice dropping into a rough, dangerous register. "You go. But I’m right next to you. If he so much as breathes in your direction, or if he looks at you the way he did yesterday, I’m putting a bullet between his eyes."
"I wouldn't expect anything less," I say quietly.
"Konstantin," Artyom says, breaking the silence. "Where are we positioning our men?"
Konstantin steps away from the window, pulling a large tactical map of Jersey City onto the coffee table. He points to three highlighted sections near the industrial piers.
"Boris will likely choose a neutral, open site near the water," Konstantin says, his voice clinical. "Somewhere with clear exit routes and no cover for snipers. We’ll use the casino contacts' men to secure the outer perimeter. Boris knows our vehicles, but he won't recognize Silas’s or Vance’s trucks. We’ll have fifty shooters within two blocks of the exchange point before the meeting even starts. "
"The Newark decoy has to be loud," Artyom says, leaning his head back. "Let Boris’s spotters think they're successfully hijacking our cargo. It will keep his primary enforcers occupied in the city while you're in Jersey City."
I look at the map, the lines and highlighted sections looking like a chessboard where the pieces are made of lives. My son and husband are both on that board, and I have to play the opening move.
Mikhail’s hand comes over mine, his fingers wrapping around my knuckles, his grip a hot, heavy anchor in the cold room.
"We’re ready," he says, his voice a low, terrifying whisper that promises nothing but blood.
The silence in the office is heavy, the clock on the wall ticking down the hours until ten o'clock. The trap is set, the pieces are moving, and the war for my son’s life is finally about to begin.