28. Ilya
ILYA
Viallentinka is going to be the death of me.
I’m still breathing hard from the drive back from the southern channel. The rain has stopped, but the damp, grey mist is still clinging to the windows of the corridor.
My jaw is tight, my shoulder throbbing under the fresh bandage, but there’s a quiet, dangerous anticipation humming in my blood.
I’m going to open that door. I’m going to walk into our bedroom, look at her stubborn, angry face, and tell her that her father’s security is paid for the next six months.
I want to see the sharp, clever spark in her eyes when she realizes I actually listened to her about the docks.
I reach the heavy oak doors of the master suite. My hand goes into my pocket, my fingers locking around the key, but my eyes drop to the smart-home control panel mounted on the wall.
The digital ring is glowing a steady, bright green.
The physical iron bolt inside the door frame is retracted.
My heart stops, a cold, heavy hand suddenly clamping down around my throat. I don't use the key. I push the door with my palm, and the heavy oak swings open slowly, the hinges silent in the quiet room.
The bed is empty. The white duvet is thrown back, the silk sheets cold and vacant under the pale morning light.
The silver proposal ring is still sitting on the glass jewelry tray near her perfume bottles, catching the grey light from the window, but the grey sweater she was wearing last night is gone.
"Via?"
I walk to the bathroom, throwing the door open. Empty. The cold washcloth she used yesterday is still sitting on the edge of the sink, dry and stiff. I turn back to the bedroom, my eyes scanning the carpet, the vanity, the closet. Nothing.
I run down the corridor, my heavy boots thudding against the hardwood like a drumbeat. I reach the west wing, my chest contracting as I stop in front of Ekaterina’s door. Pyotr is standing there, his rifle held low, his face turning pale the second he sees me.
I grab him by the throat, my fingers digging into the collar of his tactical vest as I slam him flat against the brick wall. "Where is my sister?"
Pyotr’s eyes widen in terror, his hands clawing at my forearm as he tries to find air. "Pakhan... she’s... she’s inside. You sent Mrs. Kovalevskiia to—"
"I didn't send anyone," I growl, my voice a low, terrifying rasp that doesn't sound human.
I throw him aside, his body hitting the floorboards with a heavy clatter, and kick Ekaterina’s door open.
Her four-poster bed is empty. Her drawing pad is lying on the carpet, the pages fluttering in the draft from the half-open window. Her thick black coat is gone from the wardrobe, her boots missing from the floor.
She ran. She bypassed the smart-home fire-containment lock, she tricked my guard, she took my sister, and she walked out of my house.
"Dmitri!" I roar, the sound bouncing off the stone arches of the hallway. "Dmitri!"
Dmitri runs up the stairs, his boots thudding loudly, his hand already on his holster as he sees me standing in the doorway of Ekaterina’s room. "Ilya? What is it?"
"They're gone," I say, my voice dropping into a flat, deadly whisper that makes him freeze. "Both of them. Find the guards who were on the greenhouse gate. Bring them to the courtyard."
"Ilya, the perimeter sensors didn't—"
"Now, Dmitri!" I scream, the veins in my neck bulging, my fist slamming into the plaster wall next to the door, leaving a deep, shattered crater in the wood. "Bring them to the courtyard!"
The courtyard is cold, the grey mist rolling off the river wrapping around the stone pillars like smoke.
Two enforcers are kneeling on the wet gravel, their hands bound behind their backs, their faces dead white under the pale sky.
They’re shaking, their eyes fixed on the gravel as my boots thud softly toward them.
Dmitri is standing behind them, his face a hard, silent mask, while ten of my captains stand in a semi-circle near the brick archway, their rifles held low.
I stop three feet from the first guard, a younger man named Mikhail who has been on my perimeter detail for six months.
"You were on the greenhouse gate," I say, my voice flat, cold, and completely quiet.
He doesn't look up, his jaw trembling as he stares at my boots. "Pakhan... the Volvo... the old gardener’s truck went through at nine. I thought... I thought it was just the trash detail. The driver had the wool cap on, and the passenger—"
"You thought," I say.
I pull my Glock from its holster under my arm and press the barrel directly against the center of his forehead.
"Ilya, wait," Dmitri says, his voice quiet, warning. "We need them to tell us which direction the truck—"
"They don't know anything," I growl.
I pull the trigger.
The concussive slap of the shot echoes through the stone courtyard, the force of the round snapping the guard's head back as he tumbles onto the wet gravel, a dark, thick pool of red instantly spreading through the stones.
The second guard screams, trying to scramble backward on his knees, his face covered in his partner’s blood. "Pakhan, please! I didn't see! I was checking the eastern fence! I swear to God—"
I step over the first body, my face cold, blank, and completely empty of any human mercy. I press the barrel to his temple and pull the trigger again.
The second shot cuts his scream off, his body falling limp next to the first on the wet stones.
I tuck the gun back into its leather rig under my arm, my eyes scanning the captains standing near the archway. None of them move. None of them look at the bodies. They stare at me, their faces tight with a sudden, absolute terror that is the only thing keeping this house from falling apart.
"If anyone else fails their post today," I say, my voice carrying a flat, freezing weight that travels through the quiet courtyard, "I’ll hang your bodies from the main gate to show the Russos what we do to cowards. Get the cars ready. We’re going to the city."
"Ilya," Dmitri steps forward, his hand touching my shoulder. "We have a ping on her credit card. She just used it at the Esplanade. Ten minutes ago. A French boutique."
I turn to him, my eyes narrowing into slits. "The Esplanade?"
"She’s in the financial district," Dmitri says, his face shadowed with worry. "She bought a coat, some shoes. Ekaterina’s card was used at the same terminal."
"She’s shopping," I rasp, a sudden, dark, and completely wild laugh escaping my throat. "She took my sister, broke my security, and she went to a mall to buy shoes. She’s trying to prove I don't own her."
"I don’t know about that," Dmitri says, his voice dropping. "Mikhail is out there, Ilya. If he has eyes on the mall—"
"Get the strike teams," I command, my boots thudding as I walk toward the double doors of the war room. "Every enforcer we have in the southern sector. I want the Esplanade surrounded in ten minutes. If a single person in a beige suit looks at her, I want them erased."
The war room is a long, narrow cellar beneath the east wing, insulated with heavy concrete and lined with steel tables, digital monitors, and gun racks. The air smells of ozone, gun oil, and the dry scent of stale coffee.
I’m standing in the center of the room, my hands moving fast as I load thirty-round magazines into my rifle.
The heavy metal clatters against the steel table, the cartridges clicking sharply into place as I slide them into my tactical vest. I’m packing everything—frag grenades, extra mags for the Glock, a tactical blade.
My captains are scrambling around me, their voices a chaotic, overlapping noise as they check the satellite feeds and radio the outer patrols.
"Dmitri, what is the status of the Vostok lanes?" I shout over the hum of the ventilation fan.
"Secured!" Dmitri shouts back from the main console, his fingers typing fast across the keyboard. "The insurance clearance went through the London underwriter at noon. Petr’s courier has already confirmed receipt of the first transfer. He’s safe, Ilya. The Feds didn't flag the payout."
"I don't care about Petr anymore!" I scream, slamming a fresh magazine into the well of my rifle. "I want my sister! I want my wife! Where is the secondary team?"
"They’re five minutes from the Esplanade entrance!" Lev shouts from the radio desk. "But they’re reporting heavy static on the local relays. The cell towers in the financial district are dropping offline."
My hand freezes on my rifle, a sudden, cold dread settling deep into my stomach.
Static. Cell towers dropping.
My mind begins to churn, calculating the threat. Is it the Russo family capitalizing on our chaos? Viktor Russo has wanted to seize our western ports for three years. If his scouts spotted the Volvo leaving the estate, this is the perfect opportunity to strike. Or maybe they are working together.
Suddenly, my private cell phone vibrates hard in my tactical vest pocket, the sharp buzz cutting through the static on the radios.
I pull it out, my fingers slick with sweat as I unlock the screen. An incoming message from an unknown, encrypted routing number.
There is an image file. It loads slowly, the pixelated colors resolving into a shot taken inside the back of a dark vehicle.
Via and Ekaterina.
They are slumped against each other on a dark vinyl bench, their eyes closed, their heads resting together.
Their wrists are bound tightly with thick black plastic zip-ties.
Via’s face is pale, a small smear of black grease marking her forehead, her cream coat torn at the shoulder.
Ekaterina looks like she is sleeping, but the plastic around her small wrists is tight enough to turn her skin white.
Below the image, a single line of text appears.
This is for daring to take what’s mine.
My blood turns to liquid fire. The room disappears behind a red, blinding fog. It isn't a Russo hit. It’s him.
"He’s got them," I whisper, my voice barely a thread in the noisy room.
"Ilya, look at the gate monitor." Dmitri’s voice is suddenly tight, completely losing the professional calm he’s maintained all morning.
I look up at the bank of security screens on the main wall.
The camera at the main entrance of the estate, the heavy, iron-reinforced gates that lead to the highway, shows a massive, grey utility truck barreling down the gravel driveway.
It’s a twelve-ton construction dump truck, its steel bed loaded with heavy, dark grey containers that are smoking under the pale sky.
It isn't slowing down. It’s accelerating, its massive tires throwing up a high spray of dirty gravel as it aims straight for the iron barrier.
"Thermite," I rasp, my eyes widening as I see the white, blinding sparks shooting from the containers in the truck bed.
"Get down!" Dmitri screams, throwing himself behind the steel console.
Before the first captain can even hit the floor, chaos erupts.
A blinding, white-hot flash of light obliterates the security monitors, turning the entire war room into a screaming furnace of pure energy.
A split second later, a deafening, bone-shattering BOOM shakes the foundation of the house, the sheer force of the blast throwing me twenty feet across the concrete floor like a ragdoll.
My body hits the heavy steel gun rack, the metal snapping under my weight as I slam into the concrete wall behind it.
The ceiling collapses. Massive blocks of reinforced concrete, plaster, and iron rebar rain down in the dark, a thick, suffocating wave of grey dust and heat filling the room.
A heavy steel beam from the overhead cable tray falls straight across my legs, pinning my thighs to the floor with a crushing, agonizing pressure that makes the bones scream.
My ears are ringing with a high, painful whine that drowns out every other sound.
I can’t breathe, my lungs filled with the hot, chemical scent of burnt thermite, sulfur, and pulverized plaster.
I try to move, to push the heavy steel beam off my legs, but my left hand is useless, my fingers broken, my shoulder dislocated from the impact.
I cough, a thick, hot rush of blood rising to my lips and running down my chin in a dark streak.
"Dmitri..."
Dmitri is lying ten feet away, his face covered in white plaster dust, a long, jagged piece of glass from the monitor embedded deep in his chest. He isn't moving.
His eyes are wide, glassy, and staring blankly at the burning ceiling.
Lev is gone, completely buried under a massive pile of concrete near the radio desk, his hand the only thing visible, sticking out from the rubble like a dead branch.
The entire war room is a ruin of fire, smoke, and blood.
Ekaterina. Via. My empire.
The realization hits my chest with a force that is far more agonizing than the steel beam crushing my legs.
In a single afternoon, he had taken everything.
He’d taken my sister, the only person in this world I had left to love.
He’d taken my bride, and he’d burned my house to the ground, leaving me pinned under the rubble of my own fortress like a trapped animal.
It’s the greenhouse all over again.
I’m seven years old, pinned under the iron bench, watching the smoke rise, holding a hand that is slowly turning cold.
No. A sudden, primal scream tears from my throat, a raw, bloody sound of pure, unadulterated fury that shakes the dust from the air. I grab the heavy steel beam with my one good hand, my muscles bulging, my teeth grinding together so hard, they chip as I try to lift the weight.
I don't care about the pain. I don't care about the blood running down my face or the broken bones in my hand.
And if I have to crawl through the ashes of this entire city on my hands and knees, I’m going to find him.
I’m going to find my sister. I’m going to find my wife.
And then I’m going to tear Mikhail’s throat out with my bare teeth.