Page 48 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

When I pull into the driveway, something feels off. The mansion looms as it always does, its grand facade untouched, but the tension in the air is palpable.

One of my men jogs up to meet me as I step out of the car, his face drawn with urgency.

“Sir,” he says, his voice low. “We’ve got an intruder in the house.”

The words hit like a blow, my body immediately tensing. “Where?”

“The west wing,” he answers. “Second-floor study. We’re containing the area.”

I don’t wait for more. Shoving past him, I make my way inside, my boots pounding against the polished floors as I head toward the commotion. Adrenaline courses through me, sharpening my focus.

When I reach the study, two more guards stand by the door, their weapons drawn. One looks at me, his expression cautious. “Sir, we—”

I don’t let him finish. I push the door open with enough force to send it slamming against the wall, the noise reverberating through the room.

The intruder is there, lurking in the shadows, his figure partially obscured by the dim light. In his hand, the glint of steel—a knife, raised and ready.

The air is thick with tension, every muscle in my body coiled like a spring as I step further into the room. The man’s eyes meet mine, dark and wild, a predator cornered but still dangerous. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t flinch, his knife steady in his grip.

I take another step, my gun raised, my aim trained on his center mass. “You’ve made a mistake,” I say, my voice cold and steady.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lunges.

The movement is quick, but not quick enough. I sidestep, pivoting sharply as his blade slices through the air inches from my side. My elbow drives into his ribs with force, the impact sending him stumbling back.

The knife gleams again as he recovers, his stance shifting as he prepares to attack once more. He’s trained, I realize. Not a desperate thief, but someone sent here with a purpose.

My jaw tightens.

“You came into the wrong house,” I growl, my voice low and venomous.

He snarls, charging again, and this time I meet him head-on. My hand grabs his wrist, twisting sharply until the knife clatters to the floor. His other hand comes up, a fist aiming for my jaw, but I block it with ease, my grip tightening on his arm until I hear the pop of a dislocated shoulder.

He cries out, his voice raw, but I don’t stop. My knee drives into his stomach, doubling him over, and I follow it with a brutal strike to the back of his head.

He goes down, hitting the floor hard, but he’s still moving, his hands scrambling for the knife.

Not a chance.

I kick it across the room, the blade skidding out of reach, and grab him by the collar, hauling him to his knees. Blood drips from a cut on his temple, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but his defiance remains.

“Who sent you?” I demand, my voice sharp and unrelenting.

He spits at my feet, his lips curling into a bloody sneer. “You think you’re untouchable, Sharov?” he snarls.

My fist collides with his jaw before he can say another word, the impact snapping his head back.

“You’ll tell me who sent you,” I say, my tone deathly calm.

“I’d rather die,” he spits, his voice defiant even through the pain.

“So be it.”

I release him, letting him crumple to the floor, and reach for my gun. The weight of it in my hand is familiar, comforting, as I take aim once more.

“Wait!” a voice cries out, and my focus shifts instantly.

Hannah.

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