Page 86 of Mission Shift

I registered his reluctance, sensed something even worse coming, and forced myself to breathe.

“What, Nik?”

He dragged a hand down his face, then finally met my eyes.

“Her father has sold her to his underboss, Yakov Malinov…as his sex slave.”

Silence.

A thick, heavy silence stretched between us.

Then I moved.

The laptop flew from my hands, crashing into the wall with a violent shatter of plastic and metal.

My chest heaved, and my hands shook with pure rage, a red-hot fury so intense it nearly blinded me.

How the fuck could a father sell his own daughter—and for such a vile purpose?

Like property, just some disposable thing.

To a man that could make Nik Volkov pale.

“Tell me, Nik. Who the fuck is this Malinov?”

“He’s a sadistic psychopath with a taste for cruelty, an underboss to the Tambovskaya Bratva. He’s a man my father’s age, and he’s feared even among the worst of the Russian underworld.”

Nik stayed where he was, watching me carefully.

I braced my hands against the table, trying to control the storm tearing through my body.

“You’re sure?” I asked, my voice guttural.

Nik’s face was somber. “My informant wouldn’t lie. Not for what I paid.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, inhaled sharply, then forced my spine straight.

“There’s more,” Nik added.

My eyes snapped open.

“What else?” I ground out.

Nik ran a hand through his hair.

“Malinov wants an heir, so he’s going to claim her as his wife. There’s an engagement party being planned for ten days from now at his estate on Stone Island in St. Petersburg.”

I went utterly still.

Nik continued, his voice not wavering, “It’s going to be a huge event. Press, dignitaries, massive security.”

She would be paraded in front of the world as Malinov’s woman. Her father’s hands would appear clean while Malinov staked his claim, with the Kremlin watching in the background, ensuring their piece of the game remained firmly in control.

Nik leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he processed the information. He drummed his fingers slowly against the desk, his mind already running a thousand calculations at once.

“There’s an opportunity here,” he finally muttered.

“What kind of opportunity?”

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