Page 52 of Bound By the Bratva

I check the magazine. Full. I slam it home and chamber a round with a sound like breaking bones.

"Sir." One of my newer men approaches cautiously. "Shouldn't we wait for more intelligence? We don't know who we're dealing with, how many of them there are, what their?—"

I spin around and press the barrel of the rifle against his chest. He goes very still.

"My son," I say quietly, each word precise as a scalpel, "is out there with people who think they can take what's mine and walk away breathing. You can either help me find him, or you can stay here and explain to my uncle why you thought waiting was a good idea. What's it going to be?"

He swallows hard. "I'll get the team ready, sir."

"Five minutes." I lower the rifle but keep my finger near the trigger. "Full tactical gear. We're not going in soft."

As he runs toward the armory, I pull out my phone and scroll through contacts until I find the one I need. Arman picks up on the second ring.

"I need everything you have on vehicles moving on this side of the city in the last ten minutes," I say without preamble. "Black SUVs, three occupants, heading east from my location."

"Rolan? What's?—"

"My son has been taken." The words taste like blood in my mouth. "Find them, Arman. Use every camera, every traffic system, every fucking satellite you can access. Find them or find another job."

I hang up before he can respond and dial Derrick.

"I need a cleaner on standby," I tell him. "Multiple bodies. Tonight."

"How many are we talking about?"

I think about Anya's blood on my hands, the way she couldn't even speak my son's name without breaking apart.

"All of them," I say. "Every last fucking one."

The line goes quiet for a moment. "Understood. I'll have a crew ready."

My men are loading into two black Escalades when my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.

We have the boy. Fifty million rubles. Instructions to follow.

Fifty million rubles. They think this is about money.

I show the message to Stepan as he adjusts his tactical vest. His face goes hard.

"Orders, sir?"

I ignore the message without responding and slide the phone back into my pocket. Let them think I'm considering their offer. Let them get comfortable, maybe make mistakes.

"We find them first," I tell him.

"And when we do find them?"

I think about Nikolai's laugh, the way he calls meBatyaeven though he doesn't understand what that word really means yet. I think about Anya, broken and bleeding because she tried to protect him. I think about the fear that must be tearing through my son right now, wherever he is.

"When we find them," I say, checking my rifle one more time, "we remind the world why the Vetrov name still means something in this city."

The second SUV's engine turns over with a growl. My phone buzzes again—probably Arman with camera footage, or maybe the kidnappers getting impatient. I don't look at it.

I slide into the passenger seat and roll down the window. The night air is crisp, carrying the scents of rain and exhaust and something else. Something that smells like war.

"Drive," I tell my man behind the wheel. "And when I tell you to stop, we paint the fucking streets red."

The Range Rover lurches forward, carrying me away from the safety of my estate and toward whatever hell is waiting in the darkness. Behind us, the second vehicle follows like a shadow, loaded with enough firepower to level a city block.

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