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Found him. South side. Old Brickhouse Bar. He’s alone.

My lungs tightened. Relief punched hard enough to hurt. I was already grabbing my coat when Yelena stepped into the hallway, her face strained, worry radiating off her.

“Did you find him?” she asked quietly.

“I got a lead.”

“Oh, thank god.” Her hand pressed to her chest. “Papa, I’ve been so worried about him.”

“I’ll take care of him.” I shrugged on my coat. “You need to make up with Zasha. He’s been groveling for two days now, and as much as I liked seeing him suffer, he’s still your husband, printsessa. Don’t let my business with Yuriy come between you two.”

“But for the first time, I can see that you actually care about someone, and he had to ruin it. I want you to be happy.”

“Nothing’s ruined.” I cupped her face and kissed her forehead. “Don’t wait up in case I don’t make it home tonight, but I’ll keep you updated. By the time I get back, you and Zasha should have made up.”

“All right, Papa. Be safe. And tell Yuriy, I approve of him.”

That’s my girl.

I squeezed her shoulder once, then turned for the door. My mind had already left the house. Was already speeding toward the south side. Toward Yuriy.

Brickhouse was the kind of place that stank of stale beer and bad decisions. Neon lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they were on their last breath, and a jukebox in the corner choked out an old rock song no one was listening to.

I stepped inside, scanning the room. No Yuriy at the bar. No Yuriy at the tables. No Yuriy in any of the dim corners. Just a handful of men who looked like they’d lost fights with their own shadows. Had the message been a hoax to pull me out into the open?

My phone vibrated with another message.

On my way to you.

Before I could move, someone approached, shorter than me, wide in the shoulders, a scar running from brow to cheek like someone once tried to peel his face off.

“You Stanislav?” he asked, voice like gravel in a blender.

I did not like the way he smiled when he said my name. “Yes.”

His grin widened. “Follow me. Got something you’ll want to see.”

Every muscle in my body tensed, but I followed him down a narrow hallway, past a locked storage room, to a metal door. He swung it open, and my heart stopped.

Yuriy.

Hanging from a pipe by his bound wrists, shirt shredded, face bruised, head slumped forward. His skin was an ugly, mottled mess of purple and red. Blood crusted on his lip. He reeked of vodka.

For a split second, the world went silent. Then everything in me erupted. I rushed forward to check his pulse with trembling fingers. He was alive. Thank god.

I turned.

The man—Ivan, according to his earlier message—was smiling like we were sharing a joke. “Quite the favor, huh? Heard you two were rivals. So I thought—why not rough him up a bit before I call you? Save you the trouble.”

A favor?

My fist connected with his jaw in a flash. He crashed into the wall, skull hitting concrete with a dull thud. I didn’t stop. Rage flooded me in a way I hadn’t felt in years—hot, old, violent.

He raised an arm to block the next hit. I broke it with a twist, and he screamed.

“Favor?” I snarled, slamming him into the floor. “Does this look like a favor to you? You just fucking put your hands on my man.”

Another punch produced more blood. He wheezed, spitting teeth, scrambling backward.