Chapter 8 Luka #2
“I'm certain he deserves to be.” Otets exhales, the sound rough and wet, his lungs struggling with the effort of sustained conversation.
“We tracked him to Nevada. He was running shipments for the Italians, living in a compound outside Las Vegas like a king.
But before we could reach him, he vanished again.
No body. No confirmation. Just rumors that he'd moved east or fled to South America or any of a hundred other ghost stories men tell when they want to believe justice exists.”
The bitterness in his voice clings, refusing to let go.
My father built an empire with certainty, knowing where every piece stood on the board and controlling their movements with absolute authority.
Ray Bellamy's escape represents more than betrayal.
It represents chaos, the one thing Isaak Barinov has spent his life eliminating.
Otets voice crackles faintly through the receiver.
“Ray Bellamy was never the real mind,” he says.
“It was his brother, Thomas. The quiet one. He moved our money through clean companies, and made it look legitimate. When Ray reached too far, Thomas tried to walk away. Men like that always think they can. He died for it.”
“You’re certain?” I ask, straightening, the edge in my voice impossible to hide.
“I buried the men who cleaned the mess,” Otets answers. “Do not let that bloodline cost us twice.”
“His name surfaced again,” I tell him. “Buried in files that should’ve stayed closed.”
“Why dig up old rot?” he asks after a moment, suspicion coloring his tone.
I glance at the screen. Sage shifts on the bed, the movement soft, unaware of the conversation deciding her fate. “A woman. Sage Bellamy. I don’t know if she’s connected but the coincidence is too neat.”
“Coincidence,” he repeats with disdain, the word dripping venom.
“Then trust your instincts. Bellamy blood is poison.
Don't drink from it.” The warning comes wrapped in exhaustion, in the voice of a man who learned this lesson at a cost I'm only beginning to understand.
“You forget sometimes that mercy built nothing. Only fear keeps men loyal.”
“I haven't forgotten.”
“Good.” Another pause, longer this time, filled with the rasp of his breathing and the distant sound of nurses moving through the halls of the estate.
“If she is tied to him, end it before it festers.
A clean cut heals faster than a wound you keep reopening because you're too soft to use the knife.”
The line goes dead before I can respond.
My father has never been a man for goodbyes, even less so since the stroke.
I set the phone down and stare at my reflection in the dark screen.
The kiss replays again, unwanted and unavoidable.
Sage's taste, her heat, the way she fought me, and then melted into me like she couldn't decide whether to run or surrender.
The door opens again. Misha returns without knocking, water beading on his jacket from a trip outside. “We have another problem.”
I don't need details to know I won't like what he has to say. “Speak.”
“One of the locals on our payroll sold information about our shipment. He didn't get far. Albert intercepted the buyer at the gas station near the highway, but the leak exists.”
My pulse slows, the familiar rhythm of violence preparing to meet necessity. “Where is he now?”
“Downstairs.”
I nod once and grab my jacket from the back of the chair.
The cameras follow as I leave the room, their feeds glowing in the dark like watching eyes.
The hallway smells like cedar and rain-wet wool.
Lightning flares through the tall windows, turning the world outside into white glass.
Misha keeps pace beside me, silent as always, his presence a comfort born from years of standing together against threats.
We find the man in the lower hall near the generator room. He's young, early twenties, maybe, drenched from the rain, mud streaked across his boots. Fear hangs on him like smoke, visible in the way his hands shake and his eyes dart toward the exit that Albert's bulk effectively blocks.
I stop a few feet away, studying him with the detachment I've learned to wear like a scar that never fades. “Name.”
“D-Dylan,” he stammers, the syllables breaking apart in his mouth.
“Do you know who I am, Dylan?”
His Adam's apple bobs violently. “Yes, pakhan.”
“Then you know what happens to men who sell information about my business.”
His knees nearly buckle. Albert's hand on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him upright. “I swear I didn't mean… I just needed the money. My girlfriend's pregnant and we can't—”
I lift a hand. The word dies on his tongue, choked off by survival instinct.
Misha folds his arms, watching with clinical interest and evaluating whether mercy or brutality serves better in this moment. Albert doesn't move at all, his grip neither tightening nor loosening, just holding the man in place for judgment.
I step closer until the scent of his fear thickens in the air.
“You think betrayal always starts with intention?
It doesn't. It starts with greed small enough to excuse. A favor. A phone call. A secret whispered to the wrong ear.” I take his phone from Albert and hold it up.
The screen is cracked but still glowing with recent messages. “One call. That's what this shows.”
He nods, trembling so hard I can hear his teeth chatter.
“You're lucky the buyer was intercepted,” I continue, my voice dropping lower, forcing him to strain to hear over his own ragged breathing. “Luck is not loyalty, Dylan. And loyalty is what keeps you breathing.”
His eyes widen, hope and terror warring for dominance. “Please, I have a kid coming, I can't—”
“You'll go home tonight,” I interrupt, studying his face for a lie worth punishing. “You'll tell your family you lost your job. You'll pack a bag and leave Colorado before dawn. If you speak my name again, even to your reflection, Misha will find you. Do you understand?”
He nods violently, relief making him sag against Albert's grip. “Yes, pakhan. Thank you. Thank you.”
I turn away, already done with him, my mind moving past this minor threat to the larger problems waiting in the shadows. “Albert, before you escort him off the property take a finger as a reminder of what will happen if he disobeys me. Then take his phone and burn whatever he left behind.”
“Nooo!” Dylan cries out, his eyes widening in panic. “P-please, pakhan! I’ll do what you said!”
Albert drags him out of the room, tears staining his cheeks as he chokes on his sobs.
When they're gone, Misha raises an eyebrow. “Merciful.”
“Efficient,” I correct, my eyes drifting toward the ceiling where Sage sleeps. “Fear lasts longer when it breathes. Dead men can't spread warnings.”
He smirks, understanding even if he doesn't fully agree with the application. “I'll make sure the others understand as well.”
We walk toward the stairs leading back to the security room. “Any word on Ray?”
“Not yet. But something's moving.” Misha's expression darkens, his instinct recognizing patterns before they fully form. “The rival family he ran to all those years ago have been active again in Nevada. Small shipments. No signatures. Feels like a test.”
“Keep eyes on it,” I tell him, my mind already working through possibilities. “If Ray Bellamy is crawling out of his grave, I'll be there when he surfaces.”
Misha nods, already sending texts from his phone and running through contacts and resources. “You should get some sleep.”
“I'll sleep when I know exactly who she is.” I run a hand through my hair, gripping the ends until the sting clears my head.
Misha doesn't argue. He just leaves me to it, closing the door quietly behind him.
The storm continues to howl around the cabin, shaking the shutters and rattling the glass.
The monitors flicker, caught between lightning and darkness.
On the main screen, Sage rests on her side on the bed, the lamplight soft against her hair, turning the honey-blonde strands to gold.
She looks fragile, small, and vulnerable in my world of violence and suspicion.
But I know better now. She's fire contained in glass, waiting for the first crack to escape. She proved that when she shoved at my chest and hissed her hatred while her body contradicted every word. She proved it when she kissed me back with the same fury she used to push me away.
Vega settles against her side and sighs. My father's warning echoes through the static hum. Bellamy blood is poison.
Maybe. But poison has uses. It kills your enemies faster than a bullet, and sometimes it teaches you what antidote your heart still lacks.
I zoom the camera closer. Her eyes are closed, her lashes resting against her cheeks. She appears peaceful, unaware of the chaos circling her name. The innocence in her expression is the same innocence I stopped believing existed long ago.
If Ray Bellamy's betrayal bled into her generation, she's the key to finding him.
If it didn't, and she's just a woman who stumbled too close to my world through random chance and bad luck, then I've already done enough damage to ruin whatever life she built in this small town with its tourist cafés and mountain views.
Lightning flashes again, painting her face in silver. My reflection stares back from the monitor, a man carved from control and exhaustion.
Somewhere beyond these mountains, Ray Bellamy might still be alive, laughing at the ghosts he left behind, living under a new name with new allegiances.
If he is, I'll find him. And when I do, he'll learn that the Barinovs never forget a debt, forgive betrayal, or stop hunting until blood balances the scales.
But tonight, my eyes remain on Sage. Her fingers twitch in sleep, reaching for Vega's warmth. The dog lifts his head as if answering a call only he can hear, his loyalty simpler and more honest than anything humans manage in this world of uncertain allegiances.
I whisper into the hum of machines, low enough that no one else can hear. “You don't know it yet, printsessa, but you're already inside my war.”