Page 63 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
“Honor. Loyalty. The idea that a man’s word was worth more than gold.” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Seems naive now, considering what we’ve become.”
“Does it?” She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. “You’ve kept every promise you’ve made to me. You came back when I thought you were dead. You’re here now, planning to tear the world apart to save Sasha.”
She was right, of course. The code my dad had taught me might be wrapped in violence and shadow, but at its core, it was about protecting the people who mattered. About keeping faith with those who trusted you to come back.
“This baby,” I said, my hand moving to rest over her still-flat stomach. “I want them to have more than I did. More choices. A safer world.”
“They will.” Her fingers found mine, intertwining in a gesture that felt like a promise. “We’ll make sure of it.”
We talked for another hour about names and nurseries and the impossibility of bringing new life into our dangerous world. She told me about her next doctor’s appointment, scheduled for Thursday, if we could manage to keep everyone alive that long.
“I can’t wait for the next appointment,” I said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. The idea of seeing our child on a sonogram, of making this miracle real and tangible, filled me with an anticipation I’d never experienced.
But even as we planned for the future, the present intruded. Somewhere, Sasha was being held by people who saw her as nothing more than a bargaining chip. And in our interrogation facility, Mila Kozak sat chained to a chair, holding the key to finding her.
I couldn’t leave Trev alone with that for much longer.
“I have to go,” I told Anya, already moving to stand despite my body’s protests.
“Lev—”
“I can’t leave Trev alone in this situation. Not when Sasha’s life depends on what we can get out of Mila.”
She nodded, understanding written across her features. This was the reality of our world—stolen moments of peace between storms of violence.
“Bring her home,” Anya said as I dressed. “Whatever it takes.”
***
The interrogation facility reeked of iron and old sweat, desperation and fear soaked into the concrete walls over decades of use. Dim lights flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows that danced across the figure shackled to the steel chair in the center of the room.
Mila Kozak was drenched in blood—some hers, some probably not. Her ethereal beauty was marred by split lips and bruised cheekbones, but her pale eyes burned with the kind of fanatical fervor that made my skin crawl.
Trev stood over her, and I’d never seen my twin look so much like our father in his darkest moments. Sleep and mercy had both abandoned him, leaving behind something primal and dangerous.
When I walked in, Mila’s voice rose in that same chant I’d been hearing reports about: “Saint Michael, defender of the faithful, slayer of evil….”
The words grated under my skin like nails on glass. This wasn’t confession or prayer—it was programming. Petro had turned his own daughter into a weapon wrapped in religious fanaticism.
“Trev.” I kept my voice level, professional. “Take a break.”
He looked up at me, and for a moment I saw the brother I’d lost at ten years old—scared, angry, desperate to make the pain stop. But this wasn’t childhood trauma. This was about Sasha, about the woman who’d managed to crack open his carefully constructed walls.
Mila laughed, the sound sharp and broken. “You’ll never find her in time. Saint Michael leads souls into light and guards them from the pit.”
More religious rhetoric. More of Petro’s poison dressed up as divine mandate.
“We’ll see about that,” I said, then turned to Trev. “Come on. Let’s let her pray in peace for a while.”
I shut the door behind us, sealing Mila in with her chants and her certainty. In the observation room next door, Anya waited with Drew and Maxim, her face pale but determined.
“She only talked to Sasha through Mila’s phone,” Anya said as soon as she saw me. “I found it weird that Sasha never wanted to do video calls anymore. Always had some excuse.”
Of course. Mila had been playing both sides, feeding Anya just enough contact to keep suspicion at bay while keeping Sasha isolated and under control.
“She destroyed her phone after planning to kill you,” Drew added, fingers flying over his laptop keyboard. “But I might have something.”
He turned the screen toward us, showing a complex map overlaid with data points and signal traces.
