Page 88 of Prince of Control
“Okay, give me a minute, so you only have to update us once.” A moment later, he video calls us from my father’s desk. Maxim, Dima, and my dad look back at us.
By now, I’ve had time to think it through. To run scenarios in my head. I have a half-baked idea for rescuing Lara.
“Are you all right, Ben?” my dad asks.
Am I? Not even fucking close. And it’s not just because I had the shit beat out of me. It’s because Lara’s gone. I had one job–to protect her–and I failed at it.
Worse than that–I hurt her. All I wanted to do was win her love and trust.
I thought I was there, but my misstep demolished everything I’d worked so hard to build.
“Lara’s gone,” I say. Admitting my failure has a bitter taste. “Brash had a spy at Thornecroft who was involved in an assault on Gabe Tracy’s daughter. It was meant to bring me and Baranov House down. They drugged her and brought her to a hospital where the spy must have had contact with her. I’m guessing while she was drugged, she told him something I shared with her in confidence about my arranged marriage, which was that it was made urgent because Lara had interest from another party.”
My friends all stare at me in surprise. They weren’t privy to the conversation I had on the lawn–they just witnessed it from the windows.
“Brash used those exact words–the ones I used with Melinda–when he showed up tonight. Oh, and in case you didn’t know–Adrian didn’t trust Lara with the truth, so she showed up here believing our marriage was actually arranged from birth, and I was the asshole. A heads’ up on that would’ve been nice. So anyway, Lara was understandably upset about being manipulated, and she left with him.”
“Also, they showed up with AK-47’s, so Baron couldn’t go after her,” Anya interjects.
I continue, “He’s got her on a flight to Turkey right now. I’m going to fly in solo, go in, and take her back. Could you arrange a plane for me?”
My father stares back at me impassively. We share the trait of keeping our expressions inscrutable while processing complicated situations. “Do you think she’ll go with you?”
The pain of hurting her floods to the surface, raw and fresh. Will I find the words to make her forgive me?
No, wait. That’s irrelevant. Her choice to love me or not is less important than her safety.
Like her father, I would choose her safety from Rostov over her forgiveness any day.
“I’ll be persuasive,” I say.
Zoe and Lily give me dubious looks. They must hear the resolution in my tone. The certainty that I’ll take Lara back whether she wants rescuing or not.
“The Rostovs have a property in Istanbul. There'll be ten times as many guards there as came to pick her up. How will you get around them?” Maxim asks.
“I’ll go in quietly. Like a secret ops mission. That way we can avoid a war.”
My father’s face still shows nothing. He considers me for what feels like an eternity. “Okay,” he says at last. “She’s your wife. You should be the one to go in.”
Relief rushes through me. I was afraid he would try to protect me and hold back his assistance to dissuade me from going. “You will wait until Adrian and his team are in place as backup or for extraction in case things go wrong.”
I nod. That makes sense. They can get there from Moscow faster than I can. “Don’t let them go in without me.”
My dad hesitates then nods. “I will give that order. But I can’t guarantee Adrian will follow it. A father will do anything for his child, including disobeying his pakhan.”
Right. This is why families are normally forbidden in the bratva. But my mother’s pregnancy with me changed everything for the Chicago Bratva and later for the Moscow arm that Adrian runs now, too.
“But your plan may avoid a war. If it doesn’t…” –my dad spreads his hands– “we go to war. The Rostov brat can't abduct my daughter-in-law and lay hands on my son without me fighting back.”
I swallow, grateful for his full backing.
“Dima will work on getting through their security and providing you with whatever you need.”
“I can help,” Anya says.
Her dad nods at her. “We’ll work as a team.”
“I’m going with Baron,” Leo says.
