“Get the plane ready,” I said, my voice low and razor-edged. “I leave for Greece today.”
Giovanni’s eyes widened. “You want to wage war on Ruslan Baranov?”
“Ruslan has my family.” I turned on him, teeth bared. “Do you expect me to sit here while he keeps my wife and son inside his empire? No. I will burn Greece to the ground if I have to.”
“Boss—listen.” Giovanni stepped closer, careful, steady. “If any aircraft enters Ruslan’s airspace without clearance, his defenses will shoot it down. Anti-air batteries. Fighters on standby. Everyone knows his territory is a no-fly zone. You won’t even reach Athens.”
I stared at him, chest heaving, vision tunneling.
Giovanni exhaled slowly. “Call him. Threaten him if you want. But do it from here. From safety. He might listen. He owes you nothing—but he respects strength. And he’s the only one who can give you your family back.”
The truth of it hit harder than any blow.
I collapsed back onto the bench, suddenly exhausted, hands trembling openly now. Rage warred with terror, pride with desperation. I had conquered nations. Broken empires. And yet—
I had lost her in a single morning.
“Get me my phone,” I said hoarsely.
Giovanni nodded and hurried away.
I sat alone in the ruined garden, legs bouncing against the gravel in a furious, uncontrollable rhythm.
My jaw ached from how hard I clenched it.
Rage burned through my veins—hot, corrosive, demanding release.
I wanted blood. I wanted Ruslan Baranov torn apart with my bare hands, his empire reduced to ash. I wanted to stormGreece, kick down his gates, and take back what was mine by right.
But I couldn’t.
That truth sat heavier than the stone bench beneath me.
Ruslan wasn’t some petty warlord or regional crime boss I could intimidate with force or money.
He didn’t operate on fear alone. He was the fear—structured, global, untouchable.
His reach spanned continents, his defenses layered so deeply that even governments hesitated before crossing him.
Giovanni was right.
For the first time in my life, brute power wouldn’t save me.
Footsteps crunched on gravel. Giovanni returned, face set, eyes wary. He didn’t speak—just handed me the phone.
I stared at it for half a second longer than necessary, then dialed the number I’d kept memorized for years. Ruslan’s private line. The one you never called unless the world was ending.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
My grip tightened. “I knew that bastard wouldn’t—”
The line clicked.
“Son.”