Page 114 of Vendetta Crown

Blood seeps into the pristine white carpet of the dining room as we step over three more bodies. Heart pounding and sweat beading on my forehead, I move toward the double doors at the end of the hall.

I know what lies beyond.

The dining room.

Is he sitting there right now, surrounded by his men?

Is Kristofer with him? That thought of the man who hurt Aurora and dared to put his disgusting hands on my wife sends a surge of white-hot rage through my veins.

And what of Tamara? Is she there too? Is she playing both sides like she's done her entire life?

Or did she truly mean it when she gave us this way in?

These questions swirl in my mind like smoke, but they don't matter now. Only action matters.

I take a deep breath, tightening my grip on the weapon. My men stack up on either side of the double doors like dominoes, their faces hard masks of focused intensity. Waiting for my signal.

I catch Afanasy's eye and give a curt nod. He returns it with grim determination.

I take one final breath, centering myself.

Three.I gesture.

My men tighten their grips on their weapons.

Two.

I shift my weight to my right leg, preparing to kick the door open.

One!

I slam my foot against the door with all my strength. The wood splinters around the lock as the doors fly open, crashing against the walls with a thunderous bang that echoes through the penthouse.

And all I find is an empty dining room on the other side.

No Semyon. No Kristofer. No Tamara.

Just an immaculate twelve-seat dining table, polished to gleaming perfection. Crystal glasses stand in perfect formation. Fine china plates await food that isn't there. Not even a single napkin out of place.

"What the fuck?" I mutter, sweeping my weapon across the room.

My earpiece crackles. "Ruslan." Artyom's voice is tense. "Office is empty. Master bedroom clear. He's not here."

Ice settles in my gut. "Check all rooms. Every closet, bathroom, panic room."

"Already on that. I don't think he's here."

My men flood the dining room, checking behind curtains, under the table, opening every door.

"Nothing, Pakhan," Afanasy reports.

I slam my fist against the wall. "We've been played."

"Ruslan." Artyom's voice comes through again, sharp with urgency. "Something's wrong. The guards. They're not Mikonov men."

A chill runs down my spine. "What?"

"Look at the tattoos. Look at their fucking faces!"

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