Page 30 of Bratva Hostage

A corridor leads into darkness, which is broken only by flickering overhead fixtures. I signal for the men to split upand search. Almost immediately, I hear a scuffle behind some crates. A voice shouts. Gunfire pops in the distance. My instincts click into place, and I rush forward, rounding the corner. One of the Kovalev men tries to bring a weapon up, but I’m faster. I fire three times, dropping him. He sprawls onto the ground, motionless.

Maksim handles a second foe, and the man collapses, and everything quiets. We find a survivor crouched near the back, evidently wounded and trying to hide behind a crate. One of our enforcers yanks him to the center of the corridor, forcing him to kneel.

I approach, scanning the immediate area to ensure no one else remains. The building is silent except for our footsteps. “We secure?” I ask Maksim.

He nods. “No sign of others. Just this one.”

I kneel beside the prisoner and snatch the weapon from his shaky grip. “Your name?”

He mumbles something I can’t catch. Blood trickles from a graze on his temple. His eyes dart between me and our men. I snap my fingers near his face. “Name.”

“Radek,” he manages. “Please… I don’t want any trouble.”

“Bit late for that,” Maksim counters. “Who do you work for?”

“Kovalev,” he croaks.

“Where’s your boss?” I ask. “And why is Kovalev muscling in on our turf?”

Radek’s eyes drift to the crate. He tries to inch away, but two of our men hold him firmly. I gesture for them to pull him back to the center. “Answer,” I command.

He stammers, “K-Kovalev heard you might be distracted with that Thorne business, so he thought we could take advantage.”

“So you’re hoping to pick apart our territory while we chase Thorne around.”

Radek glances at the dead bodies and pales. “We never wanted a full confrontation. We just wanted an opening.”

Maksim snorts. “Where’s Kovalev now?”

“I don’t know,” Radek moans, “He moves constantly.”

I don’t have time for half-truths, so I nod to two of our men, who jerk him to his feet. We drag him deeper into the warehouse, away from the front entrance. In a cramped side room, we set him on a chair and tie his hands behind him.

“What do you know about Thorne’s plans?” I ask him.

Radek twists in the chair, but he’s too secure to move much. “Only rumors. We heard he’s rallying anyone who hates the Barkovs.”

“Where?” I demand.

His mouth falls open, and I sense his fear. Maksim steps forward with an expression that promises pain, and Radek babbles, “People say he’s targeting Redwood Point next month. I swear I don’t have details. That’s what I heard. We just wanted to slip in while your attention was on Thorne.”

I’m aware Redwood Point is a crucial shipping outlet. If Thorne manages to sabotage that location, we’ll lose a major source of leverage. Everything within me heats with anger that he’d try such a bold move.

I give Maksim a tight nod. “He told us what we needed to know.”

Radek’s eyes move from me to Maksim. He senses the finality in the exchange. “Wait—”

One of our men clamps a hand over his mouth just as I turn back toward the door. A gunshot rings out. I don’t look back. This is the method we’ve employed a thousand times: gather what’s useful, neutralize the threat, and move on.

“We burn any evidence that ties this to us,” I explain. “Kovalev might guess who took out his men, but he won’t have proof.”

Maksim waves for two men to handle the cleanup, then we gather in the SUVs and head back to our estate. On the drive, I stare out the window, thinking through everything. Redwood Point is our next major front. If Thorne organizes a concentrated attack, the marriage to Cecily won’t be enough to thwart him entirely.

Still, it will remove his motivation to capture her, which might free us up to defend Redwood Point. I hate that I’m combining these two issues—our urgent logistics and my forced wedding—but that’s the reality of our situation.

The clock shows late evening by the time we get home. I lock myself in the office, assembling a final list of phone calls. Tomorrow, I’ll be saying vows I never imagined I’d speak. The idea unsettles me. I fought to keep the Bratva strong all these years, never letting personal attachments complicate matters. Yet here I am, forcing a marriage because it’s the most efficient way to neutralize Thorne.

I close my eyes for a beat, grappling with a mix of resentment and satisfaction. I shouldn’t want this. I tell myself I don’t. It’s just a tactic, another step in a long line of forced decisions. Still, a possessive thrill coils inside me every time I recall how she looked when I said she’d be my wife. She wasoutraged, cornered, furious. Yet in that fury, I spotted something that tugged at my defenses. She’s unlike any woman I’ve known: defiant even when logic says she should submit.