Mikhail is on his knees beside me in an instant, his large hands anchoring me as I shake. His blue eyes are dark and wild with protective fury as he yanks the phone from my hand, pressing it to his ear.
"Boris," Mikhail growls, his voice a low, terrifying vibration. "If you so much as touch a hair on that boy’s head, I will skin you alive. I swear to you on my mother's grave, I will burn your entire legacy to ash."
"Ah, Mikhail," Boris purrs, completely unbothered. "The volatile brother. The terms have changed. I don't want the Newark warehouse anymore. I want the Morozov empire. Fifty percent of your shipping lanes, your union contracts, and your North Dock holdings, signed over to Petrov Holdings by tonight."
"You're out of your mind," Mikhail growls.
"I'm a businessman," Boris says. "And I have the ultimate leverage. We meet tonight at ten o'clock. I will send the location. Your wife has to be there. If I don't see her, or if my men spot a single one of Konstantin’s shooters within three blocks of the exchange, Sergei pulls the trigger. Have the contracts drafted. Don't be late."
The line goes dead.
The phone slips from my fingers, clattering against the gravel.
I collapse against his chest, my hands clawing at his suit jacket, burying my face in his neck as I sob. The terror is suffocating. He knows.
"He’s going to kill him," I sob, my body shaking violently. "He’s going to kill my boy. We can't... we can't outplay him. We have to give him the fifty percent. Please, Mikhail. I don't care about the money. I don't care about the docks."
Mikhail wraps his massive arms around me, pulling me tight, his chin resting on my head. He is solid, hot, and completely still.
"I've got you," he murmurs, his hand stroking my hair with slow, reassuring pressure. "I've got you, Irina. Look at me."
I pull back slowly, my eyes red and wet.
Mikhail reaches up, his large, scarred hands framing my face, his thumbs wiping the tears from my cheeks. His blue eyes are dark, filled with a cold, absolute certainty.
"He is not going to touch Oleg," Mikhail says, each word a heavy iron peg driven straight into the ground. "I promise you, Irina. Boris is a coward who uses a child because he’s too weak to fight me face-to-face. But his time is up. We are going to get your boy back tonight."
"But the codes... he knows Newark was a trap," I gasp.
"Then we make the trap bigger," Mikhail says, standing and pulling me with him. Keeping a firm grip on my hand, he guides me back toward the house. "We don't have time for the detective. We need Artyom and Konstantin. Now."
Ten minutes later, we are in the private office of the Brooklyn brownstone.
Artyom is sitting on the leather sofa, pale but sharp, while Kira stands beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder. Konstantin stands by the window with crossed arms, his unreadable face a sheet of gray slate.
"He’s not taking the Newark bait," Mikhail says, pacing the room like a caged panther, his jaw set tight. "He’s got spotters near Ferry Street. He knows we set up the snipers."
"Then we keep the Newark transfer in play," Artyom rasps from the sofa. "If we pull the trucks now, Boris will know we’ve abandoned the decoy. We have to make it look real. Load the trucks with lower-value inventory, decoy crates, and keep the regular security rotations. Let his spotters see that we're still moving the cargo."
"And the meeting?" Konstantin asks, his voice smooth and devoid of emotion. "He wants fifty percent. He wants the North Docks."
"We’ll draft the deeds," Artyom says, looking at his brother. "But we’ll use conditional clauses that require the physical seal of the Pakhan. It will buy us twelve hours. Boris will think he hasthe leverage, but the papers won't be legally or underground-binding until I sign them tomorrow morning."
"The meeting is at ten," Mikhail says, stopping to look at Konstantin. "He’s sending the location. He said if Irina isn't there, Sergei pulls the trigger."
"I’m going," I say, stepping forward, my stubbornness returning to fight the terror. I look at Mikhail. "If he doesn't see me at the table, he’ll know it’s a trap, and he’ll call Sergei before you can even draw your weapon."
"No," Mikhail growls, turning to glare at me. "I’m not putting you in a room with him. If the Newark team fails, or if he realizes the deeds are conditional, he’ll turn on you first."
"I don't have a choice!" I snap, taking a step toward him, my blue eyes flashing with a desperate light. "That’s my son! He’s seven years old and he has a gun to his head because of me! I am not sitting in this house while you go play hero."
Mikhail stares at me, his chest heaving under his charcoal suit. He looks furious, but seeing the iron resolve in my eyes, he knows I’m not backing down.
"Fine," he growls, his voice dropping into a rough, dangerous register. "You go. But I’m right next to you. If he so much as breathes in your direction, or if he looks at you the way he did yesterday, I’m putting a bullet between his eyes."
"I wouldn't expect anything less," I say quietly.
"Konstantin," Artyom says, breaking the silence. "Where are we positioning our men?"
