Page 60 of Crimson Sin
“This cabin. Where is it exactly?”
“Up near the Adirondacks. Old logging territory. I don't have an exact location.” The words tumble out in a desperate rush. “He bragged about it being off the grid, completely isolated.”
I release him only to slam him back against the wall, my fist cracking across his cheekbone. He crumples unconsciously before he hits the ground.
Lex steps forward, calm as ever, but his voice is edged. “If Viktor is at that cabin, we'll root him out.”
Maksim cleans his blade with a slow swipe against his pants. “And when we do, he'll beg for mercy he won't get.”
“Search the house,” I order. “Make sure she's not here. Check every room, every closet, every basement corner. If there's even a trace of her presence, I want to know about it.”
While they work, I pace through Viktor's ostentatious home, noting the expensive artwork, the imported furniture, the obvious displays of wealth meant to intimidate and impress. It all reeks of new money and someone trying too hard to prove himself worthy of respect he hasn't earned.
In his study, I rifle through papers, looking for anything that might give me more information. Bank statements, property deeds, correspondence with other families. Most of it is routine business, but tucked in the bottom drawer, I find something interesting: architectural plans for a compound in the mountains, complete with security specifications and supply lists.
Back at the mansion, my men are waiting. Roman meets me at the door, his expression stern, but steady. “Any sign?”
“Viktor is hiding at a remote location,” I tell him. “We’ll find it.”
Roman nods. “What do you need?”
I pace the length of the study, the map spread across the table. My finger jabs at every property, every route, and name tied tohim. “Sweep them all. Every contact. Every safehouse. I want his movements tracked before nightfall.”
“The Adirondacks are a big area,” Roman points out. “It could take days to search every cabin and hunting lodge.”
“Then we narrow it down.” I pull out my phone, scrolling through contacts.
Lex nods sharply. “I'll spearhead it myself. Roman will cover the outer territories with Maksim.”
“Activate the networks,” I order. “Informants, brokers, street rats. If they've heard even a whisper, I want it reported to me. Tonight.”
The men disperse, their orders clear. The estate fills with motion, radios crackling, engines roaring to life beyond the gates. Phone calls are made to contacts throughout the region, favors are called in, and debts are collected. Within an hour, my entire organization is mobilized, focused on a single objective: finding Naomi. But inside me, the fire doesn't calm down. Nothing will ease it, not until I see her and hold her again.
Hours bleed together. Reports trickle in from various sources. A gas station attendant remembers a convoy of black SUVs heading north two days ago. A local sheriff mentions increased activity around some of the old logging roads. Each piece of information is catalogued, analyzed, and added to the growing picture of Viktor's movements.
I retreat to the one place I swore I would never let myself linger, the locked room. The shrine. Sasha's scent still lingers faintly here, trapped in paint and canvas, in old fabric and memories I can't destroy. My hand drags across the frame of her last painting as I lower myself into a chair.
The canvas shows a woman dancing, her hair flowing behind her as she spins. Sasha always loved to dance. She would put on music and move through our house like she was floating. I study her frozen form, remembering the way she would laugh when she caught me watching, and how she would pull me into her arms and try to teach me her steps.
The walls close in, the past angling its blade against my throat. Sasha was stolen from me, her body torn apart in an explosion. And now Naomi. If Viktor has touched her, if he has laid even a finger on her, I will burn the world down until there is nothing left but ash.
The parallels are too painful to ignore. Sasha was taken because of my enemies' need for revenge. Naomi was taken because of my enemies' need for power. Both women paying the price for being connected to me, for existing in my orbit of violence and darkness.
From the ashes of grief, a vow rises like a phoenix, burning and eternal. Naomi isn’t just mine. She is the line no man crosses and lives.
22
NAOMI
The train rattles beneath me, its steady rhythm echoing the beat of my pulse as I stare at my reflection in the scratched window. Naomi Carter no longer exists. Not here. Not now. With Charlotte's help, I've become someone else who can vanish into the folds of Chicago's underground, invisible to Daniil's men and the Bratva.
The fake ID tucked into my wallet bears a name I don’t recognize, but I repeat it in my head until it feels real.Sarah Mitchell. Sarah Mitchell. Sarah Mitchell.The syllables are foreign on my tongue, like speaking a language I learned in childhood but forgot. The plan is simple: disappear and hide until I figure out what to do. But the simplicity of it feels like a lie. I am not just running from Daniil, I am running from myself.
The train car smells of stale coffee and sweat. A businessman across the aisle taps furiously on his phone while a woman with grocery bags dozes against the window. Normal people living normal lives. I forgot what it feels like to exist without constantly checking over your shoulder and memorizing every exit in every room. The conductor's voice crackles over the intercom,announcing the next stop. The one that will take me deeper into a life I never chose.
I gather my bag. Everything I needed fit into the canvas messenger bag Charlotte gave me. Inside there are three changes of clothes, a toothbrush, the fake ID, Charlotte’s old laptop, and enough cash to last a few weeks if I'm careful. The wedding ring Daniil placed on my finger gleams in the fluorescent light. I should throw it away, sell it, or do anything but wear it. Instead, I twist it around my finger, a nervous habit I've developed over the past few days.
The city hums with noise above me, neon lights bleeding through grates as I slip down another alley. Steam rises from manholes, creating ghostly shapes in the evening air. The smell of grease from a nearby diner mingles with exhaust fumes, making my stomach turn. I press my hand to my mouth, swallowing hard. These waves of nausea come without warning, proof of the secret growing inside me.
