Page 86 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

“A dozen. More. All of them.”

He nods, mouth tightening.

My mind is already running. Maps. Angles. Entry points. This isn’t going to be some surgical rescue. I’m not here to send a message.

I’m here to erase them. Brick by fucking brick.

“She trusted you,” Boris mutters.

“I never asked her to.”

“No,” he says, voice flat. “You still let her think she was safe.”

That lands somewhere deep. I feel it thud inside me, a hit from the inside out. He’s right.

I let her walk around that mansion thinking she had some control, some illusion of power. I gave her space. I gave her leash.

Someone else yanked it.

Now they think they’ve won. Now they think they have the upper hand.

They don’t know what they’ve done.

They took something that wasmine. Not a business asset. Not a soldier.

Something that belongs tome.

My obsession. My fire. My fucking fiancée. Now, I am going to make them beg for death.

I start toward the door.

“Gear up,” I say, voice like frost. “We leave in thirty.”

“Thirty?” Boris raises a brow.

“I want them to feel safe,” I murmur. “Just long enough to scream.”

He grins, sharp and eager, then turns to the others.

As I walk down the corridor, past men who fall into step behind me, past walls she used to lean against, I feel it settle in my bones.

***

The drive across the city is long, but not long enough to calm the inferno inside me. Boris sits beside me in the front seat, armed to the teeth and silent. Behind us, three more vehicles follow, all loaded with men who know exactly what kind of job this is. We’re not there to negotiate. We’re not there to retrieve.

We’re going tocleanse.

The city flickers past in streaks of orange and black. Streetlamps and shadows. Neon signs and alleyways that stink of piss and lost chances. Every building feels like it’s watching me, every turn a countdown to war. I’ve driven these streets for years. I’ve built an empire on them. Painted them with the blood of rivals.

Tonight, it feels different.

“She fought them, you know,” Boris says, voice low as he checks the magazine of his sidearm. “I’d bet everything I have on that.”

“She always fights.”

“Maybe that’s what scares you about her.”

I glance at him. His grin is thin, humorless. “You think I’m scared of her?”

---