Page 55 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
The path winds deeper into the property, past more gardens and what looks like a small orchard. I've been running for maybe twenty minutes when I realize I have no idea where I am. The main house is no longer visible through the trees, and the path has narrowed to barely more than a trail.
I should turn back, should head toward the house where the guards can see me. But something keeps me moving forward, some stubborn part of me that refuses to be afraid.
I'm the Pakhan’s wife now. This is my home, whether I like it or not. I should be able to run wherever I want on the property without fear.
The path curves again, sharper this time, and I round the bend without slowing down.
Then I stop so fast, I nearly trip over my own feet.
Three men are blocking the path ahead. They're not wearing the dark suits Andrey's guards favor. They're dressed casually, in jeans and jackets, but there's nothing casual about the way they're standing. Nothing casual about the way they're looking at me.
These aren't Andrey's men.
My heart slams against my ribs, and my breath catches in my throat. For a second, I can't move, can't think. I can only stare at the three strangers blocking my way, their faces hard and their intentions clear.
Then the one in the middle smiles, and it's the most terrifying thing I've ever seen.
26
ANDREY
The docks reek of blood and gunpowder.
I step out of the SUV before Matvey even brings it to a complete stop, my boots hitting the concrete with purpose. The scene before me is chaos contained. Bodies lie scattered across the loading area, some covered with tarps, others still being tended to by my men. The fighting is over, but the aftermath is brutal.
Two of my men are dead. I can see their bodies lined up near one of the shipping containers, covered but unmistakable in their stillness. The sight makes my jaw clench so hard, my teeth ache. These were good men. Loyal men. Men with families who'll now have to be told their husband, father, or brother isn't coming home.
Several others are wounded, sitting or lying against crates while someone with medical training works on them. Blood stains the concrete in dark pools, and bullet casings litter the ground like deadly confetti.
"Boss." One of my captains approaches with a limp. His left arm is wrapped in a makeshift bandage, blood seeping through the white fabric. "We held them off."
"How many?" I ask, scanning the area.
"Six attackers. We killed four, wounded one, and captured another." He gestures toward a shipping container at the far end of the dock. "The prisoner's in there."
Matvey is already moving in that direction, his massive frame cutting through the scattered men like a shark through water. "Cleanup crew is on their way," he says, referring to a crew I keep on hand at all times for just this occasion, to clean up before the cops arrive.
I follow Matvey, my mind working through the implications. An attack on my docks isn't unusual. Territory disputes happen. But the timing feels wrong. Too convenient, coming right after the library bombing.
Inside the container, a man is tied to a chair. He's young, maybe late twenties, with short blond hair matted with blood. His face is a mess of bruises and cuts, but his blue eyes are alert. Defiant. He watches us enter with something that looks almost like amusement.
That's my first warning sign.
"Who sent you?" I ask, circling him slowly.
He spits blood on the floor. "Fuck you."
I nod to Matvey, who steps forward and drives his fist into the man's ribs. The sound of impact echoes in the metal container, followed by a grunt of pain. But when the man looks up at me again, he's smiling. Actually fucking smiling.
"Let's try again," I say, keeping my voice calm. "Who sent you?"
"You don't know?" He laughs, the sound wet and painful. "That's fucking hilarious."
Matvey hits him again, this time in the face. Blood sprays from his nose, but the smile doesn't fade. If anything, it gets wider.
Something's wrong. This isn't how interrogations usually go. Most men break quickly when faced with real pain. Especially from one of Matvey's meaty fists. They talk, they beg, they give up information to make it stop. But this guy? He's enjoying himself.
"New family," he finally says, his words slurred from his broken nose. "Just moved here from Russia."
