Page 94 of Obsessive Vows

My father's laugh holds no humor. "We shall see. Though I suspect I understand men like him better than you imagine." He finally turns, eyes meeting mine with predatory satisfaction. "After all, I killed his entire family while he watched helplessly from hiding. I know exactly what drives him."

The casual confirmation of crimes Viktor described reveals the monster beneath the civilized façade I've always recognized yet somehow underestimated. Though I suspect he only recently came into possession of this knowledge—that one of the Baranovs survived that night. The man is capable of executing an entire family, including an eighteen-year-old girl, without remorse.

"When he comes," my father continues, turning back as Moscow's outskirts blur past bulletproof windows, "I'll ensure he understands exactly what failure costs. How vengeance creates vulnerabilities that destroy everything he values."

The implication hangs between us, requiring no elaboration. Viktor. Sofia. Myself. The targets of vengeance from a man who destroys anyone threatening his empire, regardless of blood connection.

"You'll watch him die, Anastasia," my father says, voice softening into something more terrifying than rage. "Slowly. Completely. Understanding that his death serves as prelude to proper realignment of your priorities. To recognition that Markov blood transcends temporary emotional attachment."

The SUV turns onto an unmarked road leading toward an isolated facility I recognize from childhood—the place where my father conducts business requiring privacy beyond even Markov compound security. Where men enter but rarely leave.

Where Viktor will come for me, despite the danger. Despite tactical vulnerability. Despite operational collapse.

Because somehow, against all logic or discipline, we've become family. Something worth fighting for beyond vengeance or justice or advantage.

Something worth dying for.

26

VICKTOR

The security room erupts into chaos as emergency protocols flash across multiple screens. Anton yanks his headset off, the look on his face telling me everything before a single word leaves his mouth.

"She's been compromised."

Two seconds to process. One heartbeat to pivot. The world narrows to a single point of focus as ice spreads through my veins. Anastasia. Captured. By her father.

"Show me."

Anton pulls up the encrypted message—two words that shatter our entire operation: Protocol Seven.

Protocol Seven. Our emergency code for worst-case scenarios. Not just Anastasia in danger, but confirmation that Mikhail Markov knows about Sofia. My daughter.

"When?" My voice emerges steady despite the rage building beneath my ribs, threatening to consume everything.

"Less than two minutes ago. East wing security feeds show Markov and four operatives escorting her toward the secondary exit. Surveillance confirms Dmitri with them."

Dmitri. The man who's been in Markov’s security detail for years. The reality that she’s been taken burns like acid, but there's no time for that now.

"Sofia's status?" The question comes out as a command rather than inquiry.

"Secure at emergency location. Anna reports successful transfer through primary extraction corridor. Three-level security activated per Protocol Seven."

The knowledge that our daughter remains safe provides a momentary anchor in the maelstrom. The soldier in me takes over—the cold, precise calculations of a man who has spent his life preparing for exactly this type of high stakes scenario.

"Initiate full tactical response." I move toward the weapons cache concealed behind the security room's false panel. "Priority Alpha strike team mobilizes immediately. All assets activated, all channels monitored, all debts called in."

Anton's hands fly across keyboards, triggering the complex network we've built throughout years of planning this revenge. "Identifying Markov transport vehicles now. Satellite tracking shows primary vehicle headed toward northern facility."

The northern facility. My blood runs cold as I load weapons and check tactical gear. Mikhail Markov's private interrogation center. Where people disappear without a trace. Where he conducts his most brutal "business" beyond even Bratva scrutiny.

I pause mid-check, memories flashing unbidden—Anastasia's smile when she first held Sofia out to me, the way her eyes softened when we lay tangled together after making love, her fierce protection of our daughter. There’s no mask of indifference now; just real, visceral fear for the woman who's become everything to me.

"Time until we strike?" I force myself back to the present, checking primary and secondary weapons with movements that betray nothing of the storm raging inside me.

"Strike teams assembling at three rally points. Estimated readiness in eighteen minutes. Perimeter analysis of northern facility completing now."

Eighteen minutes. Too long. Too fucking long.

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