I wake up with my head pounding and the taste of copper in my mouth. Everything feels wrong, from the position of my body to the rough texture against my back, and the way my arms ache behind me. I try to move and discover my wrists are bound to what feels like a metal chair. The rope cuts into my skin, already raw and burning from whatever struggle happened while I was unconscious.
I blink against the low, buzzing light overhead that makes everything look sickly and yellow. The warehouse around me is exactly what I expected from the video calls I’ve seen in crime dramas, with concrete walls, exposed pipes running along the ceiling, and the kind of industrial emptiness that swallows sound and hope in equal measure.
My stomach churns with nausea that might be from the head injury or from the terror creeping up my throat like acid. The baby. I focus on the familiar weight low in my belly and gentle pressure that tells me she’s still there and still moving. I’m only twenty-four weeks. That’s still too early, still so vulnerable, but she would have a good chance of surviving now. I think about that micro-preemie onesie I saw in the baby boutique and silently tell her to hang on and stay inside longer. I try to shift my weight and feel her respond with a small kick against my ribs, and the relief nearly makes me sob.
“Finally awake.”
The voice comes from my left, and I turn my head carefully to see a woman standing near a stack of wooden crates. She’s blonde and elegant in the way that comes from expensive clothes and careful maintenance. Even in this hellhole, her hair is perfectly styled, and her makeup looks like it was applied by a professional. She’s wearing a baby pink cashmere sweater and designer jeans that fit her like they were made specifically for her body.
I know who she is before she introduces herself. The bone structure, the height, and the way she carries herself with predatory confidence give it away. This is the woman Nikandr spent years hunting, who led his brother into a trap that cost Yaraslov his life.
“Irina?” I croak out, my voice rough from being unconscious.
She smiles, and it’s like looking into a funhouse mirror version of myself. “The resemblance really is striking, isn’t it? When Vadim first showed me your picture, I thought it was some kind of joke, but seeing you in person…” She tilts her head, studying me like I’m an interesting piece of art. “It’s almost uncanny.”
I study her face more carefully, seeing the similarities that made Nikandr mistake me for her that night in the club. We have the same basic bone structure hair color, general height, and build, but where my features are softer, hers are sharp. Where I have freckles across my nose, her skin is porcelain perfect. Where my eyes show whatever emotion I’m feeling, hers are calculating and cold.
She moves closer, circling my chair with fluid grace. “I would never be careless enough to get knocked up, especially by someone in the bratva. It’s a crazy risk, bringing a child into this world. It makes you vulnerable in ways you can’t even imagine.”
The casual cruelty in her voice makes my chest tighten with protective fury. “Maybe some things are worth the risk.”
“Like what? Love?” She laughs, and the sound is sharp and bitter. “Love is a weakness that gets you killed. Look where it got you.”
“Did you ever love Yaraslov at all?” The question comes out before I can stop myself, but I need to know for Nikandr’s sake, and the closure he’s been seeking, I need to understand whether his brother died believing in something real or something fabricated.
Irina’s expression flickers for just a moment with surprise, or maybe guilt, making her look almost human, before the mask slides back into place. She drums her perfectly manicured fingers against her thigh, and she looks away from me for the first time since I woke up. “Yaraslov was…” She starts to speak, then stops herself. “He was different than I expected.”
“Different how?”
“Gentler. Kinder. He brought me flowers every time we met and always asked about my day like he actually cared about the answer.” Her voice grows quieter, almost wistful. “He had this way of looking at me like I was something precious instead of something to be used despite paying for my time.”
“But you betrayed him anyway.” I can’t hide my disgust.
“I did my job.” The words come out sharp and defensive. “That’s what I was paid to do.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but footsteps echo through the warehouse before she can speak.
“I told you she could be your twin.” The voice belongs to a man who enters the space like he owns it, moving with the fluid confidence of a predator who’s already fed. He’s older than Nikandr, maybe fifty, with silver threading through dark hair and scars along his jawline that suggest a violent history.
Everything about him radiates controlled menace, from his expensive suit to the way his hands rest casually near weapons I can’t see but know are there. This has to be Vadim Morozov, the man who killed Yaraslov, been hunting Nikandr, and orchestrated my kidnapping with surgical precision.
He’s followed by two other men who are younger and broader, with the kind of casual violence that comes from years of following orders without question. One of them carries a tactical bag that clanks when he sets it down, probably full of weapons or surveillance equipment. The other has dried blood on his knuckles and a fresh cut across his cheek that suggests he was in the van that hit my guards.
“Though the resemblance is stronger in photographs,” Vadim says, studying me with clinical interest. “In person, there are obvious differences. The way she holds herself, and the expression in her eyes… Irina, you project danger. This one…” He gestures toward me dismissively. “Projects vulnerability.”
Irina sniffs and examines her perfectly manicured nails. “She has a surface resemblance but lacks my elegance.”
I meet her gaze directly, letting her see the disgust I feel. “And your cold heart.”
Vadim laughs. “Maybe you’re more interesting than I thought. That makes this so much more interesting.”
He begins circling my chair like a shark testing the water, and I force myself not to flinch away from his presence. Fear is what he wants because it gives him power. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how terrified I am for my daughter.
“Tell me,” he says conversationally, “What do you know about your boyfriend’s business operations?”
I keep staring ahead. “I know he’s trying to get out of them.”
“Is he? Or is that just what he told you to keep you compliant?” Vadim stops directly in front of me, leaning down so his face is level with mine. “Men like Nikandr don’t retire, little fool. They die in the life, or they die trying to escape it.”
I meet his gaze, managing not to flinch. “He’s not like you.”
He laughs again, though it holds no amusement. “No? What makes you so certain?”
I think about Nikandr’s gentle hands on my belly, the way he reads pregnancy books, and the careful way he’s been dismantling his empire piece by piece to build us a different future. “Because he knows what he’s fighting for.” I’m more inclined to be forgiving of him not telling me about his last mission beforehand despite breaking a promise to me now that I see the man he’s fighting against. He was clearly trying to protect me, though he did break his word.
He arches a brow. “And what’s that?”
“Our family.”
Vadim straightens up, his expression shifting to something that might be amusement or contempt. “Your family. How sweet. Your boyfriend should be arriving soon to rescue his precious family.”
I frown. Why would Vadim tell me Nikandr’s on the way? “What do you mean?”
“We’ve given him coordinates to a lovely abandoned textile factory about fifteen miles from here. My men made sure to leave plenty of evidence that you’re being held there, including heat signatures and movement patterns—all the little details that make surveillance specialists feel confident about their intelligence.”
The casual way he describes the deception makes my blood run cold. “He’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe, but probably not until after the explosion.” He sounds neutral about that.
The word makes me gasp. Explosion. Bomb. They’re not just sending Nikandr to the wrong location but into a trap designed to kill him and anyone following him into the building.
“There’s a bomb waiting there,” Vadim confirms, reading the horror on my face with obvious satisfaction. “Remote detonation, of course. We’ll wait until he’s inside with his entire strike team, then…” He makes a small gesture with his hands, mimicking an explosion. “No more Nikandr Belov. No more organization. Just a very sad story about a crime boss who died trying to rescue his pregnant girlfriend after forgetting one of the tenants of the vory v. zakone is to have no familial ties.”
One of the men near the door pulls out a tablet and shows Vadim the screen. “Thermal surveillance confirms multiple vehicles approaching the factory, boss. ETA four minutes.”
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. Nikandr has four minutes before they detonate the bomb and kill him along with everyone who followed him into danger. “This is my fault,” I whisper.
“Yes, it is,” Vadim agrees cheerfully. “Your stupid, reckless choice to rush out of the apartment without thinking, and your desperation to help your friend let us use you perfectly. We played you like a violin, exploiting your compassion and your trust and your pathetic need to protect everyone around you. Your friend Eli sold you out for a hundred dollars.” He sneers in contempt.
The words are designed to break me, to make me collapse into guilt and self-recrimination, but instead of breaking, something shifts inside me, crystallizing into cold determination that burns away the panic and despair. “Eli isn’t my friend,” I say as my thoughts keep working. Allowing this plan to come to fruition is my fault, because I don’t think like a ruthless criminal, but wallowing in guilt won’t save Nikandr or our daughter.
I start scanning the room, taking inventory of every detail that might be useful, noting every bolt in the concrete walls, every pipe running along the ceiling, and every sharp edge that could cut rope or be used as a weapon. The chair I’m tied to is industrial metal with welded joints that create rough edges where the back support meets the armrests. There’s a toolbox visible near one of the support pillars, probably left behind by whoever used this space before it was abandoned.
My wrists are bleeding where the restraints have rubbed them raw, and my whole body is trembling with adrenaline and fear, but my mind feels clear, focused with the kind of laser precision that comes when everything is on the line.
If Nikandr doesn’t save me in time—if he’s already walking into that trap and is already dead even if I don’t know it yet—I’m going to save myself. I’m going to save Elizabeth. I won’t let my daughter die before she ever has a chance to live because her mother was too naïve to recognize a setup, and too angry with her father to stay where it was safe.
“You’re very quiet,” says Vadim, stopping his predatory circling to study my face. “Most people in your situation spend a lot more time begging or crying or demanding to know what we want.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “What’s the point? You’ve already decided what you’re going to do.”
“True, but the process is usually more entertaining.” He seems disappointed. “Irina, perhaps you could encourage our guest to be more interactive?”
Irina moves closer to my chair, and I catch the scent of expensive perfume mixed with something that might be cocaine. Her pupils are slightly dilated, and there’s a manic energy in her movements that suggests she’s high on something stronger than adrenaline.
“What would you like to know?” she asks, her voice sing-song and mocking. “How it felt to watch Yaraslov die believing I loved him? How satisfying it was to see the light go out of his eyes when he realized I’d been lying the entire time?”
The words are designed to hurt, to break something inside me that will make me scream or cry or give them the emotional display they’re looking for, but I just study her more carefully. My emotions are still present but pushed back, since they can’t be allowed to dominate right now. I have to remain as dispassionate as possible. I observe the way she holds her shoulders, the slight tremor in her hands, and the way her voice catches on Yaraslov’s name despite her attempts at casual cruelty.
“You did love him,” I say quietly. “That’s why you look guilty when you talk about it.”
Her hand moves so fast I don’t see it coming until her palm cracks across my cheek with enough force to snap my head to the side. The taste of blood fills my mouth, and my ear rings from the impact.
“I don’t feel guilty about anything,” she hisses. “Yaraslov was a mark. A job. A means to an end.” Her voice wavers on the last sentence, and I know I’m right.
Whatever else happened, whatever led her to betray him, there was something real between them. She loved him, and that love is eating her alive even now. “Then why do you look like you’re about to cry?”
This time I see the slap coming and brace for impact, but Vadim catches her wrist before she can follow through.
“Enough,” he says calmly. “Save your energy for more important things.”
He releases her arm and checks an expensive watch on his wrist. The man with the tablet approaches him again, holding the screen so I can see thermal imaging that shows multiple figures moving through what must be the factory building.
“They’re inside,” says the man.
My stomach clenches as Vadim pulls out a phone and speed-dials a number. This is it. They’re going to detonate the bomb while Nikandr is inside the building, probably while he’s searching room by room for any trace of me.
“Nikandr should be approaching the main warehouse space right about now,” Vadim says conversationally while the phone rings. “I think it’s time we made that call.”
As he waits for someone to answer, I notice something that gives me the first real hope I’ve felt since waking up in this chair. His expression isn’t the confident satisfaction of a man whose plan is proceeding perfectly. It’s tense and focused, like someone who’s trying to coordinate a complex operation with multiple moving parts. Which means there are multiple moving parts, and things could go wrong.
I test the ropes around my wrists again, more carefully this time. If I can create enough friction with the chair’s rough edges while they’re distracted with their phone calls and explosions, I might be able to weaken the binding enough to slip free.
It will hurt. The rope is already cutting into my skin and working it against metal will make the wounds deeper, but pain is temporary. Death is permanent, and I refuse to let my daughter die because I was too scared to fight for her life.
