The gray sedan pulls up beside us, trying to force us into the row of parked cars on the left. I can see the driver through the tinted glass—a man in a dark cap, his face completely blank. He yanks his wheel toward us.
Mikhail slams on the brakes.
The sudden deceleration is violent. My seatbelt locks, cutting into my collarbone so hard I let out a choked cry. The Dodge overshoots us, its tires smoking as the driver tries to react to the sudden loss of his target.
Before the Dodge can stop, Mikhail guns the engine again, cutting behind their rear bumper and tearing down a narrow alleyway on the right. The walls of the brick warehouses are so close I can hear the side mirrors scraping against the masonry. It’s a dark, wet tunnel of brick, the smell of burning rubber and hot oil filling the cabin through the vents.
We burst out of the alley onto a wide, deserted road near the shipping canals. Three black Morozov SUVs are already there, idling in a chevron pattern across the asphalt, completely blocking the street. Lev and four other enforcers are standing beside the doors, their long guns drawn and aimed at the alley exit.
Behind us, the gray Dodge screeches to a halt at the mouth of the alley. The driver hesitates for a single heartbeat, taking in the wall of black SUVs and heavy firepower, before throwing the sedan into reverse and blasting backward out of sight.
Mikhail slows the car, pulling up to Lev’s SUV. He kills the engine, the silence in the cabin sudden and heavy.
I’m shaking. My hands are vibrating so violently I can’t even untangle my fingers from the door handle. My chest is heaving, my forehead damp with sweat, the taste of copper and adrenaline sour on my tongue.
"Are you okay?" Mikhail asks. His hand comes over mine, his grip warm and solid, trying to stop the shaking.
"I’m... I’m going to throw up," I whisper, my eyes fixed on the cracked windshield.
"No, you're not," he says, his voice gentler now. "You're alive. We're clear."
"They almost killed us," I say, my voice cracking as I look at him. "That has to be my father… I can’t believe he is actually trying to kill us.”
"I’m going to kill that bastard," he growls. He opens his door and steps out, gesturing for Lev to take the wheel. "Get into the back, Irina. We’re heading to Artyom’s house."
The estate is a fortress today. There are men on every corner of the block, their hands tucked into their heavy coats, their eyes scanning the street with a quiet, lethal focus.
The living room is crowded. Artyom is sitting on the leather sofa, a thick wool blanket draped over his legs, his face still pale but his gray eyes sharp and clear. Kira is standing right behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder. Calina and Milana are sitting near the fireplace, while Konstantin Belov stands by the window, his arms crossed, looking like a gargoyle carved out of gray stone.
"Who hit you on the way here?" Artyom asks as we walk in.
"A Dodge Sedan," Mikhail says, tossing his keys onto the side table. He doesn't look like he’s just survived a high-speed chase. He looks like he’s ready to go back out and find the driver. "They tried to run us off the road near the canal. Boris is getting desperate."
"That’s because he the warehouse losses are catching up to him," Konstantin says from the window. His voice is smooth, devoid of any warmth. "He’s losing his grip on the Council. He needs the Morozov routes to survive the winter."
"It’s more than that," I say, stepping into the center of the room. My voice is quiet, but it carries through the quiet brownstone.
Everyone looks at me. Milana’s eyes are wide with worry, while Calina’s face is a hard, unreadable mask.
"Irina," Kira says gently. "What is it?"
I take a deep, ragged breath, my hands tucked into my sweater sleeves to hide the lingering tremor. I look at the sisters. I’ve spent years hiding my shame, hiding the secret that my father used to turn me into a ghost.
But as I look at Mikhail, who is standing right behind me, his hand resting on my lower back, I find the strength to speak.
"M-My father is blackmailing me," I say, my voice steadying. "That’s why he’s hitting you. That’s why he’s trying to force his way into your business. He’s using my son."
Milana gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. "A son?"
"When I was sixteen, I got pregnant," I say, the words feeling heavy but clean as they hit the air. "By an older, married man. My father was furious. He saw me as a ruined asset. He locked me in a house in New Jersey until I gave birth, then he took my baby and forced me to sign adoption papers. He told me the boy was lost to the system. But he lied. He’s had him this whole time. He’s keeping him in New Jersey."
I wait for the judgment. I wait for them to tell Mikhail that his wife is damaged goods, a Petrov embarrassment that brings nothing but rot into the family.
Artyom’s gray eyes turn to flint.
"A father who uses his own grandson as a hostage is a coward," Artyom says, his voice a quiet, flat rasp that carries the weight of a Pakhan’s decree.
Kira steps away from the sofa, walking over to me and wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a brief, tight hug. "We’re going to find him, Irina. I promise you."
