I turn to face him, my eyebrows rising. "You know?"
"I've known for weeks." Matvey's expression is serious but not unkind. "The way you look at her when you think no one's watching. How you changed the security protocols after she started pushing boundaries. You don't do that for someone you're indifferent to."
My jaw tightens. "I didn't want to admit it."
"Why not?"
"Because admitting it makes it real." I move away from the window, pacing the length of the office. "And if it's real, then losing her becomes unbearable."
Matvey is quiet for a moment, watching me pace. "You're not going to lose her."
"You don't know that."
"No," he agrees. "But I know you. And I know you won't stop until you find her."
He's right. I won't stop. I'll tear this city apart brick by brick if that's what it takes. I'll burn every Bratva operation to the ground, interrogate every contact, and follow every lead, no matter how thin.
But first, I need to know where to start.
"We're going back to the wharf," I say, already moving toward the door. "There has to be something we missed. A witness, a camera angle, anything that tells us which direction they went."
Matvey nods and follows without question.
The drive to the waterfront takes twenty minutes through midday traffic. I spend the entire time staring out the window, my mind racing through scenarios. What if they hurt her? What if she's already dead and I'm chasing a ghost?
No. I violently shove the thought away. Mariya is alive. She has to be.
The wharf is quieter during the day, the usual nighttime activity replaced by legitimate shipping operations and dock workers moving cargo. We park near the warehouse where Mariya's meeting took place, and I step out into the cool air, my gaze sweeping across the area.
Matvey moves beside me, his eyes scanning the surroundings with the same intensity. "Where do you want to start?"
"The exit routes." I gesture toward the main road leading away from the docks. "They had to leave somehow. Even if they avoided our checkpoints, someone must have seen something."
We spend the next hour canvassing the area, questioning dock workers and warehouse employees. Most of them claim they saw nothing unusual last night. A few mention seeing black SUVs, but that's hardly helpful when half the Bratva families in the city use identical vehicles.
Frustration builds with each dead end. I'm about to suggest we expand the search radius when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Unknown caller.
I pull it out, staring at the screen. My contacts are carefully curated, every number logged and verified. Unknown calls are rare, and they're never good news.
I answer anyway, lifting the phone to my ear. "Yes?"
"Andrey Melnikov?" The voice is male, unfamiliar, with a faint accent I can't quite place.
"Who is this?"
"Someone who knows where your wife is being held."
35
MARIYA
Isit on the plush cream sofa in Anatoly's living room, my hands folded carefully in my lap while I fight the urge to bolt for the door. The room is elegant in that cold, sterile way that screams money but no soul. Everything is white or beige or some shade of expensive neutrality. Even the guards positioned near the windows blend into the background like well-dressed furniture.
Anatoly sits across from me in a leather chair, one leg crossed over the other, his posture relaxed. He's objectively attractive. I can admit that. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features and dark hair styled perfectly. His suit is tailored to show off his build, and there's a dangerous edge to him that would probably make most women weak in the knees.
But his eyes are dead.
