Page 95 of Ruthless Serenade

Something fundamental shifts inside me, like tectonic plates grinding against each other. All the power, the money, the empire I’ve built – it means nothing. Family. Blood. That’s the only currency that matters. I have a daughter. A daughter who needs me, even if she doesn’t know it yet.

And her mother... Pavel’s words from last night slice through me like a blade. I’ve been a first-class fucking idiot, clinging to my anger like a security blanket. I should have listened to her, instead of holding on to made-up grudges like a grumpy old man. Now, I know that more than anything. She only did what she had to. I was just too fucking blind to see it. She was protecting Sharon from my dangerous world. She didn’t even know I was alive. I could have been dead, rotting in some ditch for all she knew. Maybe she was in pain because of it…

What would you have done in her shoes, mudak?

I shake off the self-recrimination. Time for that later. Right now, every sense needs to be razor-sharp. I’m alone out here, and I must be vigilant in case those fuckers decide to try something funny. They might be watching me from the shadows for all I know. But if they are, let them come. I’ll show them what real pain feels like. For Sharon, I’ll become whatever monster I need to be. I’ll reduce this forest to ashes if that’s what it takes.

You lost her seven years ago.

You can’t lose her again."

The GPS ping cuts through my dark thoughts like a knife. This is it. The location. Now, I just need to find that fucking house without getting my head blown off. Rachel Anderson’s face flashes through my mind - the bitch thinks I killed her sister. She’d love nothing more than to see me bleeding out in these woods.

Keep your guard up, Korolev!

The sky splits open again, rain hammering down like nature’s own execution squad. The darkness deepens, but it doesn’t matter. Let the whole fucking world try to stop me from getting to Sharon. Anderson, the devil himself – they’ll all learn what a father’s willing to do for his daughter.

My boots sink into the sodden earth with each step, the sound lost in the torrential downpour. Years of being in the Bratva have taught me to feel watching eyes before seeing them. Right now, every shadow could hide a sniper’s scope, every rustle could mean death.

Then I see it.

Through the curtain of rain and mist, a dark shape emerges - the shape of a small house against the storm-ravaged sky. My body instantly shifts into predator mode, muscle memory from countless Bratva operations taking over. But this isn’t just another hit, another cleanup job. This is different. This is my daughter. Not a single mission in my past comes close to the importance of this moment.

I halt at the clearing’s edge, wiping rain from my eyes without lowering my guard. My gaze sweeps the treeline, searching for the telltale glint of a weapon, the slight movement that could mean death. The woods remain still. Almost too still.

My legs carry me forward. The distance to the house feels infinite. Every step is measured, calculated. The old Maron would’ve gone in hot, guns blazing, ready to paint the walls red. But that Maron didn’t have a daughter to lose. Now, precision matters more than ever. One mistake, one wrong move, and I lose everything. I’d just be another Bratva ghost waiting for death.

Finally, I reach the door. This is it. I draw in a breath that tastes of gunmetal and rain, then channel every ounce of strength into my leg.

The door explodes inward, the crash echoing through the tiny house like thunder. I surge inside like an animal, every nerve ending screaming for danger, eyes cutting through the gloom like razors.

And there she is.

Sharon.

She sits on a rickety chair in the center of the space, her tiny frame swallowed by the emptiness around her. The sight of her - so small, so fucking vulnerable - hits me like a bullet to the chest. She’s shivering, pale as death, but alive. Christ, she’s alive.

Her big blue eyes find me through the gloom, wide with terror and confusion. The rain assaults the rotting roof, but in here, time stands frozen. Then recognition floods her face, and my world stops turning.

"You came for me. Again," she says quietly.

My daughter.

She’s talking to me.

Something in me shifts. My throat closes up, and for the first time, I’m truly seeing her - not just as Sharon, but as my own flesh and blood. She’s looking at me like I’m some kind of hero, not the blood-soaked fuckup I know myself to be. The weight of her trust nearly brings me to my knees.

I cross the room in two strides and cut her ties, scooping her into my arms. Her small body trembles against my chest like a wounded bird. She weighs almost nothing, this precious thing that’s somehow half of me. The urge to destroy everyone who put her here wars with the need to be gentle, to be worthy of her trust.

"Are you okay? Did they hurt you?" My words come out rough, ragged with emotions I’ve been trying to suppress.

"I’m okay," she says, her voice surprisingly steady. "I was just scared."

Something breaks loose inside me and I swear my goddamn heart almost melts. I’m holding my daughter in my arms and I can no longer contain the overwhelming love and fear coursing through me.

"It’s okay, Sharon. You’re safe now." I hear the promise in my voice. "No one ever lays a hand on you again."

Her arms wind around my neck, trusting, instinctive. In this moment, I understand with crystal clarity that I’d reduce this world to ashes to keep her safe. We stay there, in this decrepit shack with its leaking roof and rotting walls, holding onto each other while the storm rages outside.

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