Page 53 of Ruthless Vow
VIKTOR
Idon’t sleep for days. I sit in the control room until the feeds blur, then I pace, then I sit again, and none of it changes the only fact that matters: Anya is gone. The house is compromised. The men who were supposed to be watching her are dead. The people who took her moved like they had rehearsed it, which means someone helped them, or someone watched long enough to learn our patterns, or both.
The worst part is the quiet that follows after the violence. The cleanup. The calls. The lists. Sergei’s voice tightening as he gives me names and numbers like that is supposed to make this manageable.
None of this feels manageable.
There is a gap in my chest that keeps widening with each passing hour. I keep thinking that if I move fast enough I can outrun the grief. That if I keep making decisions and issuing orders, I can keep my hands busy enough to stop them from shaking.
My men keep checking my face to see if I’m going to crack. They keep waiting for an explosion. They keep waiting for the moment I lose control.
In my darkest moments, I embrace the explosion. I want it to bring the whole city down. Not just Brooklyn, but all five boroughs. I want my anger to destroy everyone in its wake.
“The attack team pulled back across three different routes,” Sergei tells me. “We have traffic camera pulls on two vehicles, but plates are clean. The third vehicle is a dead end.”
“Who talked?” I ask tensely. It’s the most important question that I’ll likely get answered now.
“We don’t have confirmation yet,” Sergei answers. “We have a list of suspects, and we have two men in custody.”
“Where?” I look up at him sharply.
He doesn’t flinch. “In the basement.”
I nod once. I walk past Sergei and down the stairs. The air becomes cooler as soon as I hit the lower level. It smells like cement and metal and bleach. Soon, it’ll smell like blood.
There are two men tied to chairs under a single overhead light. One is a dock worker I recognize, and one is a driver I recognize. Both have fear on their faces. Both of them look like they already know what is coming.
The dock worker’s eyes widen when he sees me. “Boss, I swear?—”
I pistol-whip him before he can get another word out. Guilty until proven innocent is the name of today’s game.
Sergei steps down behind me. “They were picked up within the hour after the breach,” he says. “Both of them had recent contact with someone tied to Grinkov.”
“Who contacted you?” I ask them.
The driver swallows. “A man offered me money to sneak a phone into the house. I said no.”
“You said no,” I repeat.
“Yes,” he insists. “I said no. I would never betray you.”
I stare at him for a long moment, assessing his body language and the fear in his eyes. “Then why are you sweating?”
His face flushes. “I’m tied to a chair in a basement. I think I’m allowed to sweat.”
“Answer the question,” I tell him, raising my gun in warning.
His eyes flick to Sergei, then back to me.
“I’m scared, Mr. Kovalev,” he says earnestly. “I don’t think there’s anything I can say that’s going to absolve me, but I promise you that I said no.”
His pupils dilate and I narrow my own eyes at him.
“You told him no, but you knew someone else who would take the bait,” I say calmly, reading him like a book. “Was it him?”
I turn on the dock worker, who starts talking very quickly.
“I don’t know nothing about a cell phone,” he says in sheer panic. “I’ve been with you for years, boss. I’d never betray you. Please, I have a family.”
