Nikolai
Ivan’s fingers danced over the laptop in front of him, pulling up surveillance feeds, traffic loops, and half a dozen flagged burner routes. Maxim was on the phone with a judge who owed him a favor. Sergei was triple checking the weapons cache. Aleksei was silent, pacing, a blade in one hand.
I stared at the screen like it owed me blood.
“I’ve got something,” Ivan said, voice clipped. “Two vans. Unmarked. One was parked near the venue on a side loop, no plates. Disappeared six minutes after Sloane was last seen on cam.”
“Where did it go?” I asked.
Ivan tapped, zoomed, tracked.
“Warehouse district. South Boston. Corner of Greeley and Wain. It’s one of Stillwell’s clean shell corps on paper—‘McAllen Freight.’ Never had a real shipment logged.”
Maxim glanced over. “Security?”
“Light. They’re not expecting company.”
Aleksei leaned against the wall, spinning the knife slowly. “So, we go in quiet.”
Ivan didn’t look up. “As quietly as we can, anyway.”
He tapped a final file open, his voice colder now.
“I’ve got what we need.”
The screen lit up with a bank transaction chain: numbers, names, a paper trail masked in false charities and redirected consulting fees. But it was what sat at the end of that string that mattered: Stillwell’s signature, a shipping manifest, and a digital photo from a private escort catalog cross-referenced with a missing person file from Virginia.
She couldn’t have been more than fifteen.
Ivan looked at me, his voice sharp like a weapon.
“Stillwell didn’t just authorize the trafficking, he financed it. And now we have the proof.”
“Leak it,” I said.
“Drip or flood?”
“Flood.”
He didn’t ask twice.
With one command, Ivan launched the file. The data went straight to the inboxes of six journalists with competing allegiances. One loyal to my brother. One loyal to her father. One who’d been investigating trafficking on the downlow for years. One just hungry enough for blood to run it live. The other two? Insurance.
Within minutes, it would spread. Stillwell was going to burn, but not before I took back what he stole.
Sergei locked eyes with me. “How do you want to enter?”
“South approach,” I said. “No vehicles. Black gear. Three points: rooftop, side door, and freight. Quiet. No bodies unless necessary.”
Aleksei chuckled darkly. “Necessary’s such a flexible word.”
Maxim checked his watch. “We’re ten minutes out.”
I nodded once and stepped away from the table.
“Stillwell’s mine. He made a mistake touching what belongs to me and he’s going to pay for it.”
My brothers knew better than to say anything at all.
The air outside the warehouse tasted like metal.
We moved in silence, wearing black gear, hoods up, radios off. No chatter. Nothing. The city was quiet in this corner, but it wasn’t the calm of peace.
It was the calm before an execution.
The warehouse sat along the edges of South Boston, three stories of forgotten freight and rusted siding.
Maxim and Sergei took the south wall, sneaking inside through a broken window. Aleksei slipped around toward the freight loading dock, knife drawn, face unreadable. I went straight up the side with Ivan behind me, climbing the rusted stairwell of the building for a roof entry.
Every second she was still inside that place tightened something in my chest I didn’t know how to loosen anymore.
We reached the rooftop and Ivan tapped once on my shoulder.
“Three guards. Two inside front. One walking the outside perimeter. Minimal coordination. They’re not expecting an assault.”
“Then we give them one.”
I noticed that the skylight was cracked, propped slightly open for ventilation. I knelt, peering through the gap.
I could see that the warehouse was mostly empty. There were crates lining the far wall, a hallway and a door tucked in the back that was probably an office of some kind. That was where they’d be keeping her. I could almost feel her inside it.
I held my breath and didn’t blink. All I could feel was that pressure behind my ribs building.
Please God, let her be okay.
Ivan passed me a silencer.
Maxim’s voice crackled once in my ear. “Set.”
Aleksei: “Dock is clear.”
Sergei: “Eyes on entry team.”
I closed my eyes and gave the command.
“Go.”
Maxim breached the front.
One shot, quick and clean. A thud. The second guard turned and Aleksei got him from behind; knife across the throat, body dropping without a sound.
We moved, sliding through the skylight, our feet hitting the floor on the third level.
The air inside the warehouse was damp and heavy.
My boots were silent as I moved across the cheap tile, heartbeat synced to each footfall. We moved down the stairwell to the ground floor. I watched as Sergei cleared the west corridor, taking out the perimeter guard as he rounded the corner with a swift shot between the eyes. Maxim moved through the front, taking out the two guards there with two quick shots followed by two thuds two seconds apart. Aleksei made his way through from the loading docks, taking out a guard at the back with a quick slash of his knife across the man’s throat.
Ivan and I stayed focused on the office at the back.
We moved through the narrow hallway, the hum of flickering fluorescent lights buzzing above us.
And then I saw him.
Fucking Stillwell.
He was standing just outside the door to the office like he was waiting for a car instead of orchestrating a kidnapping. Two more guards flanked him, earpieces in, weapons drawn but lowered. Stillwell wasn’t armed, that I could see. He was just standing there casually in a tailored navy suit, like this was a press event and not a death sentence.
He looked up and the bastard fucking smiled.
“There he is,” he said, sounding amused. “The man of the hour.”
I didn’t stop walking. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t break eye contact with the standing dead man.
My gun was already up.
One guard reached for his weapon. Sergei dropped him with a single shot to the throat before he could clear his holster. The other turned to run. Maxim caught him from the side, slammed him into the wall, and put him down with two clean shots to the chest.
Stillwell didn’t blink.
I stopped three feet in front of him, gun aimed squarely at his heart.
“You have three seconds to open that door,” I growled. “Or I paint this fucking hallway with your blood.”
Stillwell raised an eyebrow, hands still in his pockets.
“Relax,” he said. “She’s fine.”
Wrong answer.
I stepped forward, fast, grabbed him by the throat, and slammed him into the wall. The crack of his spine against concrete echoed down the corridor. My gun pressed under his jaw, hard enough to bruise.
“You think this is a game?” I growled. “You think you’re untouchable?”
Stillwell tried to speak, but I didn’t let him.
My forearm pressed across his throat, pinning him harder to the concrete wall behind him. I leaned in closer, pressing my weight forward until his breath came in short, shallow gasps.
“I want you to know,” I whispered, “that when they find your body, it’ll be wrapped in your campaign banner.”
He struggled, but only slightly, hands raised, palms open. Fake composure.
“You kill me,” he rasped, “you prove everything they say about you.”
I smiled, but it was as cold as ice.
“I don’t care what they say,” I said, pressing the barrel of the gun under his chin. I braced my grip, my finger curling over the trigger.
And then—
The door behind us burst open and slammed into the wall next to it.
The sound cracked through the hallway like a gunshot and Sloane stumbled through the doorway. Her dress—ivory silk now gray at the hem—was torn across one thigh, streaked with grime and dirt. One heel was gone. Her hair, pinned so carefully that morning, was a tangled ruin, loose strands plastered to her cheek with sweat. There was blood on her chin and God fucking help us all if it was hers.
But her eyes…
God, her beautiful green eyes.
They were wide. Blazing. Alive.
They locked on mine like they’d never left me.
“Stop,” she said, her voice hoarse but clear.
Stillwell exhaled like he thought that meant I was done.
Wrong.
My woman strode forward, her head held high. Her arms were ramrod straight at her sides, fingers curled like she was ready to walk straight into a fight.
“Don’t give him that. Not yet,” she ordered, her voice stronger now.
I looked at her, seeing the way she stood there in a ruined wedding dress like some war-born goddess who’d clawed her way back from the dark just to look me in the eye and remind me who the fuck I was.
A king who was here to rescue his queen.
Hesitantly, I stepped back from Stillwell. It took more effort to stop than it would have taken to shoot him. He sagged against the wall with a breathless wheeze and went to run, but he didn’t get far because Sergei and Aleksei were already there.
Sergei grabbed Stillwell by the collar and slammed him against the wall hard enough that we heard something crack, one hand fisting in his jacket, the other pressing a gun between his ribs. Aleksei stepped beside the two of them, pressing his knife against Stillwell’s throat, daring him to twitch even an inch.
I didn’t look at them. I was already moving. I pushed everything away, holstered my gun, and closed the space between Sloane and me in two massive steps.
Then she was in my arms.
Her body trembled when she folded into me, legs nearly giving out beneath her. My hands moved instinctively—one at her waist, the other at the back of her head, holding her close, tighter, tighter, like I could press her heartbeat into mine.
She let out a soft, shuddering sound, half sigh, half sob.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured, my voice more growl than whisper. “I’ve fucking got you now.”
