Page 18 of Enforcer Daddy
Cops taking envelopes in parking garages. Judges at dinner with known Morozov enforcers. The deputy commissioner getting a briefcase from Viktor Chenkov himself, the Morozov's psychotic number two who liked to tell people about his medical training while removing their fingers. Every image was high resolution, dated, devastating. You could see the serial numbers on some of the bills being handed over.
"You have no idea what you stole," I said, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
"Three hundred dollars and a USB full of boring spreadsheets?" Eva said, but I heard the fear underneath the bravado. She knew this was bad. She just didn't know how bad.
This wasn't just evidence—it was a nuclear weapon that could destroy half the criminal infrastructure in New York. The Morozovs owned those cops, those judges, that entire system of corruption that kept their organization running. Without it, they'd be exposed, vulnerable, finished. No wonder they wanted her dead. No wonder the bounty was so high.
Except they didn't want her dead. They wanted her alive, which meant they wanted to know what she'd seen, who she'd told, whether there were copies.
I pulled out my phone, dialing Ivan on the encrypted line. My youngest brother picked up on the second ring, because Ivan always picked up on the second ring. Efficiency was his religion.
"I need information on Morozov operations," I said, keeping my voice neutral, professional. "They're hunting someone. A thief with distinctive eyes."
"Already on it," Ivan replied, on speakerphone. I heard his keyboard clicking in the background. He probably had eight screens open, tracking police chatter, dark web postings, street-level intelligence networks. "Five hundred thousand bounty, went live two hours ago. They want her alive."
Eva had gone very still in the chair, her whole body tense like prey that had just heard a predator. Her eyes were wide, her face incredibly pale.
"Description?" I asked, though I was looking right at her.
"Just the eyes. One blue, one green. They're calling them 'unforgettable.'" More keyboard clicks. "Every crew in Brooklyn has her description. They're checking hospitals, shelters, known drug houses. Chenkov is personally overseeing the hunt."
Chenkov. That sadistic fuck who'd learned torture techniques in some Siberian medical school before deciding crime paid better than surgery. He'd once kept a rival enforcer alive for three weeks while slowly disassembling him. The man had a whole workshop dedicated to his hobby, complete with medical equipment to keep his subjects conscious through things that should have killed them.
"Understood," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the image of Eva in Chenkov's hands that flashed through my mind.
I hung up and looked at Eva, who was staring at me with those impossible eyes, and for the first time since I'd grabbed her, thefight had gone out of her. She looked young suddenly, fragile in a way that all her cursing and violence couldn't hide.
"Five hundred thousand?" she whispered. "For me?"
"Congratulations, little one," I said, lowering the phone. "You just became the most hunted person in New York."
She processed this, and I watched her work through the implications. Every criminal crew in the city looking for her. Nowhere safe to run. No one to trust. Even if she escaped me, she'd be caught within hours, probably less. And then she'd be delivered to Chenkov, who'd spend weeks taking her apart to find out what she knew, who she'd told, whether there were copies of that USB floating around.
"You're going to turn me over," she said, and it wasn't a question. Her voice had gone flat, resigned, like she'd already accepted her fate. "Take the money and hand me to them."
I should.
It was the clever move, the logical move, the move that almost every member of almost every bratva would make. But we were different. We were the Volkovs, and we didn’t use vulnerable women the way others would.
"I should," I said finally. "It's the smart play. Clean, profitable, solves multiple problems at once."
Her jaw clenched, that defiance flaring back to life even in the face of certain death. "Then fucking do it already. Call them. Get your money. Just stop pretending you give a shit what happens to me."
The anger in her voice was better than the resignation. Anger meant she still had fight left. Anger meant she hadn't given up completely.
"You're right," I said, making a decision that went against every instinct I'd developed over thirty-two years in this life. "I don't give a shit what happens to you."
She flinched, just slightly, like even expecting the words didn't make them hurt less.
"But I do give a shit about Chenkov getting his hands on that USB," I continued. "And I definitely give a shit about the Morozovs having that much power over the NYPD. So congratulations—you're mine now. My problem, my responsibility, my property until this is resolved."
"I'm not property," she spat, but there was confusion mixed with the anger now.
"You are now," I said simply. "The alternative is Chenkov's workshop, and trust me, little one, whatever you think I might do to you is nothing compared to what he'd do."
She stared at me for a long moment, those mismatched eyes searching for the lie, the trap, the angle I was playing. But there wasn't one. This was pure stupidity on my part, keeping her when I should hand her over, protecting her when she meant nothing to me except complications I didn't need.
Except she didn't mean nothing.
