Page 59 of Bratva Stalker Kidnaps His Bride

“How confident?” I push out finally, voice gritty.

“Confident enough to make a move.”

My gaze falls to the photograph on the desk, the one of my mother near the south-facing window, the light falling across her shoulder so reminiscent of the Ionian range before Elena had even confirmed it, her eyes patient and weary.

A matchstick sitting in my chest coldly for a very long time, just in the space of thirty seconds, begins to warm.

“What’s the plan?” I ask.

“We can move in forty-eight hours,” he informs me. “I want the surveillance confirmation before we commit to it.”

I can only manage a nod, at a loss for words right now.

Hope rises through me slowly, warming me up from the inside, colored with a seed of dread.

My mother, in the photograph, looks at the window.

Forty-eight hours.

Chapter 22 - Mikhail

The surveillance team confirmed the location forty hours ago. It’s a small property on the western coast of Lefkada, set back from the water behind a screen of ancient olive trees older than the people they provide shelter to.

Two individuals, matching descriptions, confirmed through three separate observation windows across a thirty-six-hour period.

The six-person team I deployed on the ground handled the operation like I expected them to. No confrontation, or coercion. A door knocked on, leading to a conversation, a decision made by two people who had been waiting, in their own way, to be found.

Apparently, the conversation at the door took eleven minutes. Arman Khan had asked one question before he agreed to come:Is she safe?

A man who left his daughter asking whether she is safe from behind a door he has kept closed for fifteen years. There’s some cruel yet affectionate metaphor hidden behind his question.

Beside me, Zara’s eyes dart all over, from the board of the international arrivals terminal of Athens International Airport, to the baggage claim.

Since we left the penthouse this morning, she has been anything but still. She’s wearing her trusted blazer and practical boots as armor against everything that threatens to undo her, carrying her notebook in her bag like it’s a lucky charm.

Her fingers strum a rhythm against the strap of her bag. She is not the type to fidget. Her hands are often stable, no matterif she’s holding a pen, the phone, or my hand in hers. Her restlessness is not something I can absorb but I try anyway.

Moving through the arrivals terminal, I keep my position slightly to her left and rear—close enough to scan for any threat, far enough that she doesn’t feel crowded.

I scan the whole floor continuously, revising what I already know. There are four accessible exits, two preferred based on the traffic pattern and sight lines; for potential threat vectors there are three groups worth monitoring, two of which are tourists.

The man near the far pillar has been stationary for seven minutes but his luggage is on the departure belt rather than arrival, and his eyes have been glued to his phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

Clear.

The arrivals board updates. The flight from Corfu has landed.

Zara comes to a stop, and so do I, beside her.

“Okay,” she breathes quietly to herself. With an inhale, she resumes walking and so do I.

They appear in the arrivals stream fifteen minutes later.

I recognize them from the surveillance photographs. The gray at Arman Khan’s temples, the way his shoulders curve inwards when he walks as if to make himself easy to overlook. Samira Khan walks beside him with a graceful, guarded posture, with her chin upright, a quiet strength in the set of her shoulders that immediately strikes me, because I have seen it before.

Her daughter has the same gait.

Their eyes must land on Zara before she can spot them because Samira halts, jaw unhinging. Her hand instinctively finds Arman’s arm, and he follows her line of vision.