Page 63 of Hunter

Then, about a month and a half later, a note readingI’m coming for youwas taped to my office door. And exactly a month after that, one of my cars—loaded with ten bags of cocaine meant to be flown to Russia—was instead impounded by the police. The last thing I cared about was some goddamn note. I had too much on the line to worry about anything else, and I fixed that mistake quickly. After a few heads rolled and the Chief of Police made some calls, the shipment went to Russia.

After that, the letters went silent for a while. But a month before Andrei was shot, the next note arrived. It said thatsoon, the Volkov reign will end. I assumed it was just a death threat from one of the rival families. I never made the connection to the earlier notes. I had too many other problems to worry about.

Then, everything started falling apart. Catastrophes hit one after another, like cracks forming in a dam until the whole structure was on the verge of collapse. It began with the warehouse fire. Not just any warehouse, but the backbone of my next major shipment—a shipment containing nearly 500 kilos of uncut cocaine. The fire turned millions of dollars’ worth of product into ash and smoke, leaving nothing but charred ruins.

Then, the old Chief of Police died. He’d been a linchpin in keeping things running smoothly, an asset I’d spent years cultivating. With his death, all my leverage and influence in the department died with him. His replacement is everything I feared—righteous, untouchable, and driven by a crusader’s zeal. Every move I make feels like it’s under a microscope. He thinks I was the one who killed him or had something to do with his death.

To add to my misery, the DEA has latched onto the warehouse fire, somehow catching wind that drugs wereinvolved. Now, they’re circling like vultures, pulling every thread they can find, determined to bring me down.

And worst of all, Sophia’s kidnapping. The letters had stopped—until a week ago. That’s when everything unraveled.

I’d stopped by Sophia’s place with the toy I promised to use, eager to lighten her mood. Instead, I found something far darker waiting for me in her kitchen. A letter, stabbed through the center with a bloody knife, sat ominously on the dining table.

It’s always the ones you love who hurt you the most.

The words chilled me, but what terrified me more was the blood. I thanked whatever force was looking out for me that I had arrived before Sophia. She’d called me on her way home from the clinic, her voice shaking as she explained she couldn’t do it anymore. She’d tried—she’d seen a few patients—but the sound of a car backfiring outside had sent her spiraling into a panic attack. She hid in the back of the office until she felt safe enough to drive home, but it had taken a toll, undoing some of the progress she’d made.

I didn’t need to see test results to know whose blood it was. Something in my gut told me it was Sophia’s.

I had to act quickly. First, I kept her out of the kitchen, finding excuses to stall her while texting my men. One of them came to collect the evidence, sending the knife and letter for testing. I slipped the note into my pocket, erased all traces of the mess, and made arrangements for heightened security. When I finally had a moment to breathe, I checked the security cameras. To my growing horror, they showed nothing—no sign of a break-in at all.

It was maddening, but I didn’t have time to lose my composure. Sophia couldn’t find out. If she had walked into the kitchen and seen that scene—the letter, the blood—it would have shattered her. She was already stretched thin, fighting battles no one else could see. She didn’t need this on her plate too.

Instead, I focused on keeping her safe. I packed a bag for both of us and booked a room by the beach, spinning it as a spontaneous getaway to lift her spirits. A distraction, yes, but also a way to buy time—time to secure the house, investigate the message, and make sure no more harm could reach her.

Sophia didn’t need to know the details, not yet. I’d carry this weight for both of us.

As much as I wanted her to be safe at my place, she refused to set foot in my house. It reminds her too much of the day she was kidnapped. I couldn’t bring her back there, not while I was still securing it. She can never know the full extent of this. No one can. She thinks I’ve only gotten a couple of letters, but if she knew the truth, she’d probably run for the hills, and I wouldn’t blame her.

Even though I know deep down it might not change anything, I’ve had to do more. The best security money can buy is already in place, three of my men stationed around her house 24/7. And still, whoever is doing this keeps breaking in. Every time I think I’m doing enough, I feel like I’m falling short. I haven’t slept properly in weeks, and my mind is consumed with the letters. I’ve been obsessing over them, rereading every single one, hoping maybe this time, I’ll see something I missed. But just like all the other times, nothing new shows itself.

I thought we’d stay at the hotel longer, but after two days, Sophia said she felt ready to face the world. I couldn’t convince her otherwise. She insisted we go back. Her mood swings are driving me insane. On the trip, she was eager to talk to a therapist, even found a new one, and spoke to her a few times. I thought maybe, just maybe, she was finally going to do something real for herself. But now, back at home, she’s pretending everything is fine. It is as if a few deep breaths can fix everything.

I want to scream at her to stop burying it all. She can’t keep hiding behind these walls she built, pretending like those panic attacks never happened. I’ve tried—God knows I’ve tried—to make her see that she needs to confront it, to talk about it. But I can’t push her, not like this. I won’t suffocate her. She has been through enough. But it doesn’t make it easier to watch.

You’re one to judge, Maxim.The thought stabs through me like a cold knife, reminding me I’m not exactly in a better place.

She’s at the clinic now. I’m alone, pacing the room, lost in my own head. I should call Andrei. He begged me to let him go through his emails and promised me he could find something. But after what happened when I confronted him, after that damn fight where he punched me so hard I couldn’t breathe…I don’t know anymore. His words—his anger—cut deep, like he was defending something bigger than just himself. Like he was defending us.

I want to believe him, I do, but a part of me doesn’t trust anyone anymore. This feeling eats me alive. The fear someone—someone—is pulling all the strings, using me, using her... I can’t focus, can’t breathe. It’s like the walls are closing, like I’m drowning in a sea of uncertainty.

I slam my hand on the desk, desperate to make sense of it. Andrei’s face flashes in my mind, but it’s gone in an instant. All I have are more unanswered questions. I’ve fired half the staff, keeping only those who’ve been with the family for years, but nothing changes. Every time I think I’m close to finding something, everything slips through my fingers. Loose ends. Nothing but loose fucking ends.

The loud chime of the clock startles me, but it does nothing to shake the weight pressing down on my chest. I grab my phone, my fingers trembling as I check on Sophia. The last message she sent is thirty minutes old—everything is fine at the clinic; not too busy today. I swipe to open the camera app, my thumbhovering over the screen when my phone vibrates. Unknown number. A chill runs through me.

I almost don’t answer. Almost.

“Volkov,” I snap into the phone, my voice a sharp edge, tight with frustration.

“Is this Maxim Volkov?” The voice on the other end is urgent, frantic, even. It catches my attention and drags me from my haze.

“Yes. This is him. How can I help you?” My voice sounds hollow. I can’t mask the tension.

“My name is Officer Todd. I’m calling to notify you Sophia Perez has been in a car accident. She sustained a head injury from the steering wheel. She’s alert and oriented, but we’re taking her to Regional Hospital for observation. The impact was significant, and they want to make sure there’s no concussion or other trauma.”

A vice grips my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The world tilts and spins, and I’m drowning in guilt. This is my fault. Every bad thing that has happened to her—every single damn thing—is my fault. The kidnapping. The constant danger she’s in. Now, this.

I gasp for air, my vision blurring. My hands shake as I clutch the phone, trying to ground myself in the reality of the words, but all I hear is the ringing in my ears, my pulse pounding in my skull.

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