Page 61 of Brutal Bratva’s Owned Hostage

“Understood, brother.”

“And Dmitri.” Mikhail held my gaze a moment longer. “If he’s not there, you don’t chase him further. You secure the location, confirm the network’s collapsed, and you come home. It isn’t the night to go hunting him personally through the city if the intelligence turns out wrong.”

“I understand.”

“I want to hear you actually agree, not simply acknowledge that you heard me.”

“I agree, Mikhail.” I met his eyes steadily, understanding exactly why he needed to hear it plainly rather than simply implied. “If he’s not there, I secure the location and come home. I’m not interested in turning it into something reckless.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned his attention back to Nikolai, who finalized the assignments across the display. The precision of it struck me as almost beautiful in its cold efficiency, five separate fronts collapsing at once, leaving Vale with no time to consolidate, no warning significant enough to matter, no path back to whatever influence he’d spent years quietly accumulating in this city.

There was no celebration in the room once the plan was finalized. No satisfaction, no triumphant energy the way certain operations sometimes carried once a difficult decision finally resolved into action. Rather, it was just the settled inevitability of five men who understood exactly what tonight’s decision required and had already made peace with the cost of delivering it.

Once the plan was finalized, the meeting ended without ceremony, each of us gathering our own materials, already shifting mentally toward the logistics of preparing our individual teams for what came next.

As I left the room, I understood something clearly that hadn’t fully crystallized until that exact moment.

This wasn’t simply about ending a rival anymore. It was about ensuring nothing like Vale’s operation could ever rise again inside territory my family had spent generations building. A clean, total dismantling, thorough enough that no successor could simply step into the vacuum and start the entire cycle over again with different names attached to the same ambitions.

It was a total, absolute end.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Valentina

I spent the entire evening preparing something I’d never actually done before.

It was not an event, not a work shift, and certainly not anything structured or professional in the way most of my life had been organized around for years. This was something personal and deliberate. Something built entirely around the two of us rather than around danger or strategy.

I arranged a quiet dinner on one of the penthouse terraces, the lights dimmed low and soft against the glittering skyline, candles instead of the usual bright, functional lighting Dmitri’s staff kept throughout the rest of the apartment. I sent security further back than usual, close enough to respond if anything actually required it but far enough that the terrace felt like it belonged entirely to the two of us rather than to the watchful presence that usually surrounded us.

I’d asked Nadia for help with the food when she arrived earlier today, something simple rather than elaborate, and she’d smiled at me in a way that suggested she understood exactly what I was actually trying to build tonight.

“He works too hard to notice these small things most nights,” Nadia said, helping me arrange the candles along the terrace railing. “It’s good what you’re doing. He needs a reason to look up from all of it every once in a while.”

“I hope it comes across the way I mean it to.”

“It will. Men like Dmitri notice effort, even when they don’t always know how to ask for it directly.” She squeezed my arm gently before retreating inside, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of the city and the nervous energy still building in my chest.

When Dmitri arrived, still dressed from whatever final preparations had occupied his afternoon, he paused at the terrace entrance for a long moment, something shifting behind his expression as he took in the candlelight.

“This is different,” he said, something careful in his voice.

“It is.”

“Should I be worried?”

“No.” I managed a small laugh despite the nervous flutter sitting low in my stomach. “Just sit down. Please.”

He crossed the terrace slowly, coming to place a kiss on my temple before settling into the chair across from me. He studied my face with obvious attentiveness, like he was searching for what was beneath the surface of the whole arrangement.

We ate for a while in easy, gentle conversation, drifting through small, ordinary things.

He told me a story about Alexei’s disastrous attempt at cooking during their younger years, mentioning something about their mother’s garden that he mentioned almost accidentally before catching himself and moving past it quickly. He seemed more relaxed than I’d seen him in weeks, the weight of tomorrow’s plan against Vale—which I was intentionally holding back from discussing now—not yet fully settled over his shoulders the way I suspected it would be by morning.

“Tell me more about your mother,” I said, catching the thread he’d nearly let slip past. “You rarely mention her.”

“She died when I was fourteen. Cancer, slow and drawn out in a way that gave everyone plenty of time to prepare and none of us actually did. She kept a garden behind the old estate, roses mostly, though she tried everything at some point. It was the one part of that house that never felt like it belonged to my father’s business.”