Chapter 16 Yuri
YURI
Oleg appears in my office doorway without knocking, and I've seen that grim expression on his face before, on days when he had to provide bad news for me.
He never enters without permission unless the news won't wait, so whatever this is, it must not be good at all.
I pause working to look up at him, and he strides right to my desk and stops.
"Inessa's Primorsky showroom," he says.
"It's gone."
His hands clasp together in front of his waist, and I feel my temper rising immediately.
I set down my pen and meet his eyes.
"Explain what happened."
"It was a bomb, sir. Customers and staff were injured. Emergency crews are on the scene."
Kozlov is escalating beyond his previous business dispute with my son.
This has to be retaliation for my threats, and I'm not going to stand for it.
"How many are hurt?"
"Unknown, sir. The paramedics are still pulling people out of the building."
His posture shifts as he squares his shoulders.
His expression changes too, as if he's awaiting orders now like a good soldier.
I'm already standing and moving toward the door.
"Bring the car and call ahead to clear traffic."
Inessa waits in the hallway outside her room, her face pale but composed.
Rosa must've told her already, and judging by the jacket she is wearing, she will insist on coming along.
I don't bother trying to stop her this time.
She falls into step beside me, understanding that answers will come when we reach Primorsky.
The drive takes thirty-eight minutes through afternoon traffic.
Inessa sits rigidly in the seat, staring through the windshield at the road ahead.
Her hands rest folded in her lap, but I catch the slight tremor in her fingers.
I want to tell her she's safe, that my men will make sure no one touches her, but I hold back and instead let the silence speak.
"How many?"
Her voice is unsteady.
"I need to know who was hurt."
"Seven injured. Three of them are critical. It could've been worse."
I answer evenly, though it cuts me to see her hurt.
I can appreciate that she knows every single one of her employees personally.
It's something that humbles me—that she's more devoted to her staff than I could ever be.
She closes her eyes, wincing at the number, and when she opens them again there is raw grief in her gaze.
I rest my hand over hers, steadying the tremor.
A protective instinct burns through me at the sight of her pain.
I would carry it for her if I could.
But I can't.
So I'll do the next-best thing and burn the motherfucker down who did this.
Smoke rises from the business district in black columns that stain the gray sky.
We smell it before we see it—the acrid burn of melted plastics and synthetic fabrics, the metallic tang that comes with spilled blood.
The showroom is rubble.
Where Inessa's designs once filled display windows, twisted metal frames jut from piles of debris.
Glass covers the sidewalk in glittering fragments.
Emergency vehicles crowd the street with rotating lights flashing red and blue fingers across the destruction.
Inessa exits the car before it even stops moving.
I follow, catching her arm as she runs toward the wreckage.
"No," I say.
"You don't go near that."
She struggles against my grip with surprising strength.
"I have to help them. My people are in there."
There is panic in her voice as she lashes out.
Sobs erupt from her throat and she pounds at my fist with her free hand, attempting to free herself.
"My people will handle it," I tell her, but she's distraught, and my heart feels like it's torn down the middle.
Still, I hold her fast and don't let her go.
A paramedic approaches with blood on his uniform and exhaustion in his eyes.
"Are you the business owner?" he asks, removing a fabric mask from his face, and I see the distinct difference between clean flesh and skin that's been touched by smoke.
"I am," Inessa answers.
"Seven workers are injured, three are critical. Most of them evacuated before the structure collapsed. One of your employees is asking for you."
With a jerk of his head, he turns to go.
He leads us to an ambulance where Alina Petrova sits on a stretcher, dark curls matted with blood and plaster dust.
Her expressive brown eyes find Inessa immediately, and tears flood them.
"The spring collection," she says, her voice hoarse.
"Everything we worked on for six months. It's all gone."
Inessa takes her friend's bandaged hand and a sob lurches out of her chest as she kisses it.
"People matter more than clothes, Lina. My God. Look at you."
"But the designs existed nowhere else. Your sketches, the prototypes—"
"Can be recreated."
Inessa's sudden strength and calmness impress me.
I find my hand reaching for the small of her back as a means of support, but the way she's reacting now, I don't know if she needs it.
This is a side of her I've not witnessed.
She chokes back her cries and squeezes her friend's hand tightly.
Alina shakes her head.
"I should've seen it coming. There was this man yesterday asking questions about security, about when the showroom was busiest. I thought he was a potential investor."
My attention sharpens, and I lean in closer to Inessa, drawing her into my side.
"Describe the man," I tell her.
"Older, maybe fifties. Gray hair, expensive clothes. Foreign accent, not Russian."
Kozlov's advance scout.
The bombing wasn't even spontaneous.
It was planned, timed for maximum casualties during peak business hours.
These fuckers are crossing lines left and right, and it's making my fucking blood boil.
Reluctantly, I move away from the women.
Inessa is holding her own now as she becomes the leader of her people instead of the victim who clings to me.
I have to deal with this and call Dimitri.
He answers on the first ring.
He doesn't waste time with greetings.
"I heard," he growls, and I already hear the judgment in his tone.
"How bad?"
I hear the scrape of a chair in the background and wonder what he's doing.
"Bad enough," I reply, keeping my voice steady even though fury burns beneath the surface.
"Kozlov sent a message, and he meant for it to be heard by everyone in the city."
I shift my weight, scanning the ruined street as I speak, letting my brother hear the steel in my tone.
He's passing judgement silently, but I intend to show him I'm not a weak man.
There’s silence for a beat, then Dimitri exhales sharply.
"Well, what's your response?"
His voice is edged with anticipation, like he knows the answer but needs to hear me say it.
"Complete destruction," I tell him, making clear that nothing of Kozlov's operation will be left standing.
My grip tightens on the phone, and I watch the paramedics carry out another stretcher.
My eyes shoot to Inessa who is rushing toward them with concern etched on her face.
This has to stop.
I have to stop it.
Dimitri understands.
"How many men do you need?"
His voice steadies, though I know him well enough to hear the undercurrent of doubt in his tone.
He's humoring me, but I'm trying to prove to him that I am the leader of this family for a reason.
"I have enough," I say.
"Keep your operations secure while I handle Primorsky."
My eyes find Inessa's across the wreckage, her pale face lit by emergency strobes. I lower my voice.
"This one’s personal."
When the call ends, I pocket the phone and return to her.
She stands before the ruins of her showroom, her shoulders rigid with suppressed emotion.
She doesn’t cry this time, but I know she is full of emotion.
I've studied her long enough to know she's not going to forget this moment for the rest of her life.
"This was Kozlov too?" she asks with a raw scrape in her voice.
"Yes," I confirm, and I stay close enough for her to feel the steadiness in me, even as rage coils tighter inside my chest.
She faces me then, and I see her grief transforming into something colder.
"What happens to him?"
"He dies."
"When?"
There is no sadness left in her tone, no compassion or mercy in her expression anywhere.
And for a split second, I wonder what I've done, what hell I've created for this woman to live in that she would throw off her gentleness to absorb my brutality and violence so quickly.
"Tonight," I say, and she grits her teeth.
"Bring me his head."
Inessa's eyes are as dark as the sky as she turns and walks back to the ambulance to be with her friend, and I can't move.
I'm not sure what just transpired, but I don't think I like it.
We return home, and Inessa remains silent during the drive, but I catch her reflection in the window—her jaw set, her eyes still filled with the same cold fury I saw earlier.
She's stronger than I expected she could ever be.
Stronger than Dominic ever was.
At the compound, I leave her with Rosa, who leads her to the bathroom to clean up, and I gather my team in the den.
Oleg, Kirill, Alexei, and five others—men who understand that tonight's work requires absolute thoroughness.
They stand in a semicircle ready to take orders, and I am so filled with vengeance and rage, I can barely utter the words.
"Full tactical gear," I tell them.
"Suppressed weapons, body armor. We go in hard and leave nothing breathing." Kozlov isn't going to survive this.
If I find him, I will bleed him dry one drop at a time, and if I don't, I'll send a message so clear, he won't be able to pretend he hasn't been warned.
Kirill checks his rifle scope against the far wall, its red bead centered on the map over St. Petersburg.
"Intel on the target?"
"It's an industrial warehouse, three stories tall. There's minimal security after midnight. Kozlov keeps a small crew for night operations."
I'm busy too, loading my guns, making sure each one is ready with a bullet chambered.
"Exit strategy?" Oleg asks.
His hands grip the straps of his Kevlar vest and his chin juts out.
He's hungry for this too.
If I weren't so angry, I'd think it mildly endearing that my men are going to war for my wife.
"Burn it down. No evidence, no witnesses."
We dress in black and check our weapons one last time before heading out.
Each man knows his role and understands the stakes. Kozlov crossed a line today that demanded this response.
The warehouse sits in a district where legitimate businesses close at sunset but illegitimate work thrives in the darkness.
We approach from the east, using adjacent buildings for cover.
The perimeter fence is chain link with minimal lighting—amateur security that won't delay us more than minutes.
Oleg cuts through the fence while Kirill positions himself on a neighboring rooftop.
The first guard dies with a suppressed round to the head before he can reach for his radio.
Alexei takes the second with a knife to the throat, dragging the body into shadows, but as I walk past, I can still make out the distinct kidney shape blooming in thick liquid that reflects the moonlight overhead.
Inside, the warehouse is chocked-full of Kozlov's inventory on the ground floor—assault rifles, explosives, military hardware with no legitimate civilian purpose.
We find his men on the second floor, six of them playing cards and drinking vodka while an old radio plays American rock and roll over a din of static.
They die quickly, suppressed gunfire cutting them down before they know what hits them.
The third floor serves as Kozlov's office and living quarters.
We climb the stairs with our weapons raised, expecting resistance that doesn't come.
It seems too easy, as if we're being set up.
My men are on edge, clearing every room, though they're empty.
I find Kozlov behind his desk, pressing a blood-soaked shirt to his abdomen.
Someone's crossfire must've hit him and he got away.
He's been bleeding for at least twenty minutes.
His scarred face has gone gray with shock and blood loss.
"Yuri Gravitch," he says, his voice weak but unsurprised.
He knew we'd come, but I don't think he expected to be here.
Someone somewhere failed this man, and I'm going to make sure they never get the chance to repent of that.
"Mikhail."
"Come to finish the job?"
I sit across from him, noting the expanding pool of blood beneath his chair.
"Who ordered the attack on my wife's business?"
I lay my weapon on the desk pointed at him, but I keep my hand loosely wrapped around the grip.
He knows I'm not playing.
I can see the acceptance in his eyes.
He's already given up and knows he will die.
A man like that has nothing to lose, and he won't give up any answers.
He coughs, spraying crimson across the desktop.
"You think I work for someone else?"
A dark chuckle forms but dissolves into more sputtering and blood spatter.
"I know you do. The timing, the target selection—this wasn't your idea."
I shake my head.
"You have enough weapons in that warehouse to arm an entire country. You don't need Dominic's supplier. Just tell me who you're working for and I'll make your death painless and fast."
"Maybe I just wanted to hurt you."
He snarls at me, but it turns to a wince as more coughing attacks him.
"You wanted money. Someone paid you to hurt her, specifically?"
His eyes flicker with amusement.
The wound in his stomach will kill him within the hour regardless of medical intervention, but he still has secrets to protect.
Kozlov tries to shift in his chair, winces at the movement.
Blood seeps through his makeshift bandage.
But everything is stained red already.
It just adds to the constant river of crimson that douses his slacks.
"Even if someone hired me, what makes you think I'd tell you?"
"Because your family in Volgograd depends on your cooperation."
Fear replaces the defiance in his expression. "You wouldn't."
"Test me."
He stares at me across the desk, weighing his options.
He's a dying man, but he's still finding the balls to remain loyal to whoever it is that he's been taking orders from.
Kozlov's face twists in a bitter smile, but he refuses to give me a name.
He coughs, and blood trickles down his chin as he tries to speak again, then slumps forward across the desk.
The final rasp leaves his throat and he goes still.
I check for a pulse but find nothing.
Oleg appears in the doorway.
"Building is clear. Charges are set."
I take one last look at Kozlov's corpse, then head for the stairs.
The warehouse will burn within minutes, consuming all evidence of tonight's work.
Once outside, we watch orange flames climb toward the low clouds.
It's another message sent in the only language our world understands—attack what belongs to me and face total destruction.
But questions remain unanswered.
Kozlov didn't act alone, of that I'm certain.
The war isn't just about Dominic's failed arms deal or Kozlov's ambitions.
Someone else is pulling strings, and when I find out who, they will learn what it means to cross me.