23. Victor
VICTOR
Istare out the window at the glittering water, but I barely register it.
The entire foundation of my intelligence just collapsed.
Every assumption I made, every strategic calculation, wrong.
Dimitri isn't the head of the Volkov Bratva.
He's a parasite. A shadow king building a coup under his brother's nose, using Ivan's name to fund trafficking networks, distribute Siberian Ice, and ignite a war with my family.
And Danika has no idea.
Did my father?
Maybe that's why he worked with him, because he was just as corrupt. When Father paid the fifty million to have Elena taken, he thought he was buying an alliance with the Volkovs. He wasn't. He was funding Dimitri's shadow coup, and Maxim was reaping the rewards.
My jaw clenches with rising frustration.
Danika's been loyal to Ivan her entire life, from what she told me. She trusts him completely. Which means she and Ivan himself have no reason to suspect Dimitri is the real threat, not until either of them opens that data and sees the proof.
I lean back against the cracked leather seat, forcing myself to think strategically.
Part of me knows why she left: to protect herself, to keep her loyalty to Ivan intact. She probably rationalized it as completing the mission, clearing the Volkov name, and repaying some imaginary debt.
I close my eyes and see her again, her blonde hair falling loose across the pillow, her blue eyes finally softening as she curled into me. For a few hours, she wasn't a Bratva cleaner. She wasn't my enemy.
She was just Danika.
And I let her walk away.
The taxi lurches to a sudden stop, throwing me forward. My hand shoots out, bracing against the seat in front of me.
"What the hell?" I ask.
The driver gestures helplessly at the windshield. "Traffic, signore. The tourists, they are everywhere this time of morning."
I look out the window. We're stuck in a bottleneck of cars near the marina and the luxury hotels lining the coast. Well-dressed couples stroll along the sidewalk, talking and laughing.
I grit my teeth and check my watch.
"How long?"
The driver shrugs. "Two minutes only. The Continental Hotel entrance is just around the corner. This is the back side of it."
I exhale sharply through my nose, and my gaze drifts out the side window, scanning the street out of habit.
And then I see it.
Down a narrow side alley near the service entrance is a black SUV parked at an odd angle, its doors flung open. Three men in dark suits walk toward the vehicle, one of them holding a struggling figure over his shoulder.
My pulse spikes.
The person fights hard, twisting and jerking against the guard's grip, but he overpowers her easily.
I can't see her face, but I don't need to.
I know the shape of her body. The way she moves. The defiant arch of her back, even as they shove her into the back seat.
It's Danika.
Ice floods my veins.
I lean forward, my breath fogging the window as I press closer to the glass. The men slam the SUV door, trapping her inside. One of them climbs into the driver's seat. Another stands guard, scanning the street.
And then, casually, Dimitri Volkov walks out past them, adjusts his suit jacket with a calm expression, and climbs into a black Bentley.
Shit. They found her, and they know.
Dimitri knows she took the intel. He knows she broke into his penthouse, copied his tablet, and compromised his entire operation.
And now he's taking her somewhere no one will hear her scream, so Ivan never finds out.
He'll torture her, find out where the data is, and then he'll kill her to protect his coup.
That's what I would do.
The Bentley takes off, and I watch as the SUV pulls out of the alley, merges into traffic, and follows Dimitri.
Shit. They're heading in the opposite direction.
I lean forward, my voice stern.
"Follow them," I say, pointing.
The driver's eyes widen in the rearview mirror. "Signore?"
"The black SUV. Follow it. Now."
He hesitates, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "Sir, I don't want any trouble."
I reach into my jacket and pull out a thick wad of cash. I slam it onto the center console between the front seats.
The driver flinches at the sound.
"No trouble," I say. "Just keep that black SUV in sight."
He stares at the cash for a moment, then back at the road, then at the money again.
Finally, he nods.
"Sì. Okay, okay."
He yanks the steering wheel to the left, cutting off a red Fiat. The other driver lays on the horn, shouting in Italian, but my driver ignores him. He merges into the lane a few cars behind the SUV.
"Keep a safe distance," I say, and the driver nods.
The taxi weaves through traffic, following the convoy as it leaves the tourist-heavy marina district and climbs into the hills overlooking the coast. The roads narrow, winding up through large trees and gated villas.
I remain leaning forward, gripping the headrests of the front seats. My gaze never leaves the SUV. I'm so focused, I don't think I even blink.
I've been in gunfights. I've stood in rooms where one wrong word would've gotten me killed. I've stared down rival leaders and corrupt politicians without flinching.
But this...
This is different.
Because it's Danika, and I know she wouldn't have gone without a fight.
And I know the way Dimitri treats women.
I check my weapon. The gun is still tucked into the holster at my side, and I reach into my jacket and confirm the spare magazines are accessible. Three full magazines.
It won't be enough if Dimitri has a full security team wherever it is we're going, but I'll make it work.
I have to.
The driver glances at me nervously in the rearview mirror. "Signore, where are we going?"
"Just keep driving."
He swallows again and nods, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
I stare at the SUV ahead, my jaw tight.
I'm not a politician right now. I'm not a strategist or a fixer. Hell, I'm not even acting like the mafia prince I was trained to be.
Right now, I'm a man watching the woman I... I care for being taken against her will.
I stop the thought before analyzing it, but the truth is there, raw and undeniable.
If Dimitri lays a hand on her, I won't just kill him.
I'll tear him apart.
The convoy turns off the main road, heading up a steep private drive lined with iron gates and high stone walls. The Bentley passes through an open gate, the SUV close behind.
I tap the driver's shoulder. "Pull over. Here."
He eases the taxi to the side of the road, stopping in the shadow of a cluster of trees. I can still see the gate at the top of the hill, the villa perched on the cliffside beyond it.
The driver turns in his seat, his face pale. "Signore, I think..."
I pull out another thick stack of bills and toss it onto the passenger seat.
"Stay here. If I'm not back in two hours, leave. Take my bag to the airport and leave it at the front desk under my name: Victor Ionescu. You got that?"
"Yes. Victor Ionescu."
I nod as I pull my silencer out of a side compartment in my bag, slip it into my pocket, and open the door.
He opens his mouth to protest, but I'm already shutting the door behind me.
I start up the hill on foot.
The hunt begins.