This is military-grade, secure and utilitarian, built to survive a war zone.
Both guards flank around me when it’s set down onto the table. The younger one steps forward and lifts the receiver. Without speaking, he brings it to my ear, hovering it there until I raise my free hand to take it from him. My fingers tremble, but I grip it anyway, curling my hand around the cold plastic.
The moment I press it to my ear, static hisses through the line. It crackles and stutters, drowning out everything else.
And then I hear a voice on the other end of the line say, “Ivy.”
There’s amusement bubbling just beneath the calm surface, a cruel edge to every syllable, a mocking lilt in his tone that scrapes over my nerves like sandpaper. It’s subtle but unmistakable.
He’s enjoying this.
Of course he is.
I grip the receiver tighter, my knuckles whitening. For a split second, the urge to hurl the phone against the wall is so strong I almost do it. I can see in my mind the plastic shattering as soon as it hits the concrete, the cord snapping loose from the encryption box, the satisfyingcrackof it echoing through the cold room.
I almost do, but I don't because that’s what he wants. He’s waiting for me to lose it, testing me to see if I’m actually as weak as I’m pretending I am.
“They tell me you aren’t doing well. Is that true?” he asks. Each word presses harder against the bruises that he left on me the last time I stupidly let myself believe, even for a moment, that he might listen.
My jaw tightens as rage swells in my chest, dark and all-consuming. I want to tell him to go to hell. I want to spit every vile, furious thought I’ve been choking down since the moment he took Leo from me. I want to scream that I hope whatever reckoning is crawling its way toward him drags him down screaming, and that I pray I’ll be there to watch it happen with nothing but satisfaction burning in my heart.
I swallow the fire in my throat and carefully say, “I want my son.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line followed by a laugh. It’s a rich sound, filled with a strange kind of delight I’m not expecting. It seems whatever part he thought I was going to play is the exact one I nailed.
“Straight to the point. No dramatics. I can appreciate that in a person,” he muses.
“I want him back. Whatever it takes.” The words leave my mouth before I can second-guess them, heavy with desperation. I don’t care how it sounds. I don’t care what it costs me. I just need my son back.
Mikhail doesn’t respond right away. On the other end of the line, there’s only silence for a long enough moment where I’m terrified the line has disconnected. Then a soft, thoughtful sound rings down the line. “And what are you willing to do for that? Because you of all people should understand that everything has a price.”
My fingers tighten around the receiver. “Tell me what you want.”
Mikhail lets out a low chuckle. “You sound tired but you don’t sound completely done. I like that about you, Ivy. Ittells me you’re an honest person, one I can trust to relay this message properly. I want something simple. I want Maksim’s Bratva. Of course, that’s not somethingyoucan give me. Which is unfortunate.”
My throat tightens.
“So,” he finishes, “you’ll stay right where you are until Maksim finally sets aside his pride and gives me what I’m owed.”
Helplessness surges in my chest, but I swallow it down.
I don’t know why it hasn’t truly hit me until this moment, why I’ve been so stubbornly blind to it. Maybe I didn’t want to believe someone could go this far, could stoop this low. All along, I thought Mikhail had taken Leo and me out of revenge. To settle an old score and punish Maksim for what happened to his father.
And while that may have been part of it, it isn’t the whole truth. This isn’t just about vengeance. It’s aboutreclamation. Mikhail doesn’t just want to hurt Maksim. He wants toreplacehim. He wants the Bratva not as a trophy, but as payment. As inheritance. As something he believes isowedto him like he said.
He wants to watch Maksim bleed and then take everything he’s built, his power, his name, hislegacy. Somewhere in all of this, Leo and I became tools to leverage that final blow.
A sudden, sad realization comes to me.
“He’ll never agree to that,” I say.
He’s worked too hard to preserve what he’s built. He spent five years taking down his enemies, his own kin, in order tomaintain the vision he had for the Bratva’s future. While he may want Leo and me back, we aren’t worth throwing away all that work.
Especially if his inner circle has anything to say about it.
They would never, ever, allow him to step down. They’d sooner drug him and put him on a plane back to Russia before watching him concede to Mikhail.
Mikhail speaks again, his tone untouched by emotion. It’s serenely cruel. “There is no bargaining with me beyond that. If he chooses to let you go in order to keep the Bratva, then that is his choice. You are, and always will be, collateral damage when it comes to him. While you may not agree with it, that’s exactly what you signed up for when you jumped in bed with aPakhan.”