Page 46 of Sold to the Bratva
“Evening, Mrs. Kozlova,” a voice drawls, heavy with mockery. Two men step into the studio, both tall, both armed, both strangers except for the tattoos inked just below their ribs. A rook. My stomach lurches.
“What do you want?” My voice is steady even though my pulse screams.
One smirks. “Your husband’s attention.”
Hands like iron clamp around my arms, wrenching me back against a chest that reeks of cigarettes and oil. I thrash, sink my teeth into his wrist, earning a curse, but the muzzle of his gun digs into my ribs.
“Play nice,” the other sneers.
I don’t. I spit in his face.
18
ISAAC
Unlike Mikhail, Maude never steps into my office without knocking. So the instant the door flies open and she barrels inside, her face drained of color, eyes wide with panic, I know something is wrong.
I push back from my desk, tension snapping through my spine like a live wire.
“Maude?” My voice comes out rough. “What’s wrong?”
Her hands tremble as she whispers, “Katya’s gone.”
My mind stalls, refusing to process those two simple words. They shouldn’t be this hard to grasp, and yet they are. “What?”
“Katya is gone,” she whispers, as if saying her name too loudly will shatter the air between us. “I went to let her know dinner was ready, but she wasn’t there. The bed was made, her phone’s gone, and a few of her things are missing from the closet. I checked the security feed, and she slipped out several hours ago. She always tells me when she’s leaving.”
I shoot to my feet, the chair skidding back and slams into the bookshelf behind me. For a second the room blurs. My pulse hammers in my ears. She was quiet yesterday, more distant than usual, but I thought we were okay. After the hospital, after the promises we made, I thought we were moving forward, together.
Now she’s gone, and something isn’t right.
“She didn’t leave a note?” I ask, though I already know in my heart she didn’t.
Maude shakes her head. “No one saw her leave. I’ve already checked with the guards. She slipped out completely unnoticed.”
Fury sparks in my chest, not at her but at myself. I missed the signs. I let her walk out without realizing she was hurting so badly she felt she had to run.
I storm past Maude and down the hall, mind racing. I throw open our closet door. There’s a bare space where her duffel bag used to be. Half her paints are gone. Her favorite sweater, the one she always wears when she’s working, is missing from the hook behind the door.
She has run away, and she did it in a rush. She didn’t take everything, only what she could grab quickly.
I stand there, staring at her side of the bed, and every scenario storms through my mind. Someone took her. Someone coerced her. Someone breached our security, our walls, our reach. But if that were the case, there would’ve been noise. Struggle. Blood.
No.This was her choice. She left on purpose. Because of me. Because of this life. Because she’s pregnant and scared and doesn’t know how to live under the weight of everything I’ve handed her.
Where would she have gone? Not home, I know that for sure. After her last visit to her father, she told me that place didn’t feel like it was hers anymore. She could be with Evie, but I don’t know where Evie lives. Just as I’m pulling out my phone to call Evie, something hits me.
She once told me about a loft above a bookstore in the arts district, a place where she could vanish for days, painting until her fingers cramped and her world made sense again.
I call Mikhail and give him the address.
“On it, boss,” he says and I hang up, returning to my office to think.
I can’t go off on Katya half-cocked or I could lose her forever. No, I’ll give my men a chance to look, to confirm where she is, and then I’ll calmly bring my wife home.
Five minutes later, my phone rings and by the sharp exhale on the other end, my gut already knows.
“They have her,” Mikhail snaps. “Cameras from across the street show two of the rook-marked bastards dragged her out. We’ve got ten minutes, maybe less.”
