Chapter 26
ANDREY
The docks reek of blood and gunpowder.
I step out of the SUV before Matvey even brings it to a complete stop, my boots hitting the concrete with purpose.
The scene before me is chaos contained. Bodies lie scattered across the loading area, some covered with tarps, others still being tended to by my men.
The fighting is over, but the aftermath is brutal.
Two of my men are dead. I can see their bodies lined up near one of the shipping containers, covered but unmistakable in their stillness.
The sight makes my jaw clench so hard, my teeth ache.
These were good men. Loyal men. Men with families who'll now have to be told their husband, father, or brother isn't coming home.
Several others are wounded, sitting or lying against crates while someone with medical training works on them. Blood stains the concrete in dark pools, and bullet casings litter the ground like deadly confetti.
"Boss." One of my captains approaches with a limp. His left arm is wrapped in a makeshift bandage, blood seeping through the white fabric. "We held them off."
"How many?" I ask, scanning the area.
"Six attackers. We killed four, wounded one, and captured another." He gestures toward a shipping container at the far end of the dock. "The prisoner's in there."
Matvey is already moving in that direction, his massive frame cutting through the scattered men like a shark through water. "Cleanup crew is on their way," he says, referring to a crew I keep on hand at all times for just this occasion, to clean up before the cops arrive.
I follow Matvey, my mind working through the implications. An attack on my docks isn't unusual. Territory disputes happen. But the timing feels wrong. Too convenient, coming right after the library bombing.
Inside the container, a man is tied to a chair. He's young, maybe late twenties, with short blond hair matted with blood. His face is a mess of bruises and cuts, but his blue eyes are alert. Defiant. He watches us enter with something that looks almost like amusement.
That's my first warning sign.
"Who sent you?" I ask, circling him slowly.
He spits blood on the floor. "Fuck you."
I nod to Matvey, who steps forward and drives his fist into the man's ribs. The sound of impact echoes in the metal container, followed by a grunt of pain. But when the man looks up at me again, he's smiling. Actually fucking smiling.
"Let's try again," I say, keeping my voice calm. "Who sent you?"
"You don't know?" He laughs, the sound wet and painful. "That's fucking hilarious."
Matvey hits him again, this time in the face. Blood sprays from his nose, but the smile doesn't fade. If anything, it gets wider.
Something's wrong. This isn't how interrogations usually go. Most men break quickly when faced with real pain. Especially from one of Matvey's meaty fists. They talk, they beg, they give up information to make it stop. But this guy? He's enjoying himself.
"New family," he finally says, his words slurred from his broken nose. "Just moved here from Russia."
"Why attack my docks?"
"Why not?" He shrugs, or tries to. The movement makes him wince. "Gotta make a name for ourselves somehow."
I study his face, looking for the lie. Territory disputes are common enough, especially with new families trying to establish themselves. It's brutal, but it's business, the kind of thing that happens in our world with depressing regularity.
But something about this doesn't sit right.
"You're awfully cheerful for someone who's about to die," I observe.
"Am I?" That fucking smile again. "Maybe I know something you don't."
I circle him slowly, watching the way his eyes track my movement. He's not afraid. Not even a little. Most men in his position would be calculating their odds, looking for an escape route or trying to bargain. This one just sits there like he's won some kind of prize.
"Six men," I say, keeping my voice conversational. "You brought six men to attack a fortified dock. My dock. The one with twenty armed guards on rotation."
He doesn't respond, but that smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth.
"That's not a raid," I continue. "That's suicide. So either you're the dumbest fuck I've ever met, or you had a different objective."
"Maybe we're just that good," he says, but there's something in his tone. Something mocking. Like he's daring me to figure it out.
I glance at Matvey. My enforcer's jaw is tight, his massive hands flexing at his sides. He feels it too, the wrongness of this whole situation. We've done enough interrogations together that we don't need words. A look is enough.
Matvey moves to the man's left side while I stay on his right. Classic intimidation positioning. The prisoner's eyes flick between us, but he doesn't look worried. If anything, he looks amused.
"How long have you been in the States?" I ask.
"Couple months."
"And in that time, you've learned enough about my operation to think you could take my docks?"
"We did our homework."
"Bullshit." I lean down, getting in his face. "You knew you'd lose. You knew most of your men would die. So what was worth that price?"
His smile falters for just a second, just long enough for me to see I'm getting close to something.
"Time," he says softly.
The word hits me like a punch to the gut. Time. They needed time. Time for what?
I straighten up, my mind racing through possibilities. What could they accomplish while I was here? What target would be worth sacrificing six men?
Then it clicks. The one thing that would guarantee I'd come running to the docks. The one thing that would pull me away from everything else.
My men. My territory. My business.
But there's only one thing more important than all of that combined.
Mariya.
My stomach drops. I glance at Matvey, and I can see the same realization dawning in his dark eyes. This attack was too small, too contained. Six men against a fortified dock? They had to know they'd lose, had to know most of them would die.
Unless that wasn't the point.
"This was a distraction," I say, the words coming out cold and hard.
The man's smile widens even more, blood staining his teeth red. "Took you long enough to figure it out."
I'm moving before he finishes the sentence, my hand wrapping around his throat. "A distraction for what?"
He doesn't answer, just keeps smiling that infuriating smile, even as I squeeze harder. His face turns red, then purple, but he doesn't break, doesn't give me anything.
"Boss." Matvey's hand on my shoulder pulls me back. "The estate."
I release the man, and he gasps for air, coughing and sputtering. But even through the pain, I can see the satisfaction in his eyes. He got what he wanted. He kept us here long enough.
"Kill him," I tell Matvey. "Make it quick. Then round up whoever's left of his crew and send them a message they won't forget."
I don't wait to see it done. I'm already running back to the SUV, my phone pressed to my ear as I dial the estate. It rings once. Twice. Three times.
"Sir?" One of the guards finally answers.
"Where's my wife?" The words come out as a growl.
"She went for a jog, sir. About twenty minutes ago."
My blood turns to ice. "Where?"
"On the grounds. She's still on the property."
"Find her. And get every available man searching." I end the call and throw myself into the driver's seat. Matvey barely has time to get in before I'm peeling out of the docks, tires squealing on concrete.
The drive back to the estate takes fifteen minutes. It feels like fifteen hours. My hands grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles are white, and my mind races through every terrible possibility. If they've taken her. If they've hurt her. If I'm too late.
I think about the way she looked this morning, standing in my office with fire in her green eyes, demanding to be treated with respect. The way her blonde hair had fallen over one shoulder, the way her T-shirt had clung to her breasts. The way she'd challenged me, pushed back, refused to be cowed.
She's magnificent. Infuriating, stubborn, and absolutely fucking magnificent. And if anything happens to her, I'll burn this entire city to the ground.
The estate gates are already open when we arrive, with guards positioned at strategic points. I don't slow down, just barrel through and onto the main drive. My security watch vibrates against my wrist, but I ignore it. Whatever alert it's sending can wait.
"There." Matvey points toward the eastern section of the grounds, where the jogging path winds through the trees.
I see her immediately. Even from this distance, I'd recognize that blonde ponytail, the athletic grace of her movements. She's running, her body moving with the kind of fluid efficiency that comes from years of practice. For a second, relief floods through me so intense, it's almost painful.
Then I see them.
Three men step out from behind a stand of trees, blocking her path. They're not wearing my colors. Not my men. And the way they're positioned, the way they're moving toward her with predatory intent, makes my vision go red.