Page 3 of Hostage of the Russian
“No!” Hartford lunged forward despite his restraints, only to be immediately subdued by the enforcers. “Please, not her…”
“You offered her as payment,” Kostya reminded him coldly. “I’m simply accepting.”
He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back at the panicking man. “Oh, and Danny? We’re still going to kill you. Just not today. Today, you get to live with what you’ve done.”
With a nod to his enforcers, Kostya issued final instructions. “Take him back to his apartment. Four men on rotation. He doesn’t leave. He doesn’t contact anyone. Especially not his daughter.”
As he walked away, Hartford’s desperate pleas echoed through the warehouse. Kostya ignored them, already focused on the next phase of his plan. He had no real intention of marrying some random girl. But Hartford’s desperation had given him the perfect tool for revenge, a way to make the man suffer before his inevitable end.
Outside, the cool night air filled his lungs as he loosened his tie. Viktor joined him moments later.
“You’re really going to take the girl?” his brother asked, slight surprise evident in his typically impassive features.
Kostya smiled, the expression carrying none of the charm he was known for in social circles. This was the smile his enemies saw before the end: cold, calculating, merciless.
“Hartford offered his daughter as payment for his debts,” he said simply. “I’m just making sure he understands the cost of crossing a Nikolai.”
Three days later, Kostya sat in his office reviewing the file Viktor and Fedya had compiled on Azriel Hartford. What had begun as a straightforward act of retribution had become increasingly interesting as details about the girl emerged.
Twenty-one years old. Emancipated at sixteen after a documented history of neglect. Full academic scholarship to Northwestern. Worked thirty hours a week at a coffee shop while maintaining a 4.0 GPA. No social media presence. Few friends. No romantic relationships on record.
Most intriguing were the hospital visits during her childhood: a broken arm at age seven, a concussion at nine, three fractured ribs at twelve. Each time, the explanation involved “falling.” Classic signs of abuse that the system had failed to address.
The surveillance photos showed a young woman with striking features despite her obvious attempts to downplay them. Black hair, typically pulled back in a practical ponytail. Minimal makeup that couldn’t hide remarkable smoky gray eyes. Small in stature but with curves she concealed under loose clothing. Her expression in every image carried the same intensity, a mix of determination and wariness, like a survivor constantly scanning for threats.
“Hartford wasn’t lying about one thing,” Kostya murmured to himself. “She is beautiful.”
He spread the surveillance photos across his desk, studying them with an intensity that surprised even him. One showed her entering her apartment building, arms laden with textbooks. Another captured her at work, concentration evident even as she prepared coffee. A third, his favorite, showed a rare moment of unguarded expression as she sat alone in a campus courtyard, lost in a book, the hint of a smile softening her usually serious features.
A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts.
“Enter,” he called, gathering the photos into a neat stack.
Fedya stepped inside, his light blue eyes assessing the room with characteristic vigilance before settling on his cousin. Even among his family, Fedya maintained his watchfulness, a trait that made him an excellent enforcer but sometimes made him exhausting company.
“We’ve completed the surveillance,” Fedya reported without preamble. “The girl follows a predictable schedule. Classes during the day, works at the coffee shop three evenings a week, and most evenings she’s at the library until late. Returns to her apartment by eleven. Security is nonexistent. Standard locks. First floor. Two roommates who work night shifts at the hospital.”
Kostya nodded, absorbing the information. “And Hartford?”
“Still under guard. Growing increasingly agitated. Asked for a phone twice yesterday.”
“Denied, I assume?”
“Of course.”
Kostya leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “What do you think, cousin? About Hartford’s daughter?”
Fedya rarely offered opinions unless directly asked, and even then, his responses were typically minimal. But the cousins shared a bond forged in blood and violence that allowed for unusual candor.
“She’s not like him,” Fedya said after a moment’s consideration. “The father is weak. Selfish. She has...” he searched for the word, “resilience.”
Coming from Fedya, this was high praise indeed.
Kostya nodded slowly. “I’ve been thinking about Hartford’s suggestion.”
Fedya raised an eyebrow fractionally, the closest he ever came to displaying surprise.
“Not marriage,” Kostya clarified with a dismissive wave. “But taking her. Making her disappear from Hartford’s world. Letting him imagine what might be happening to her.”
