Page 88 of Bratva Bride
Then Anya's voice, smaller than I'd ever heard it: "It's not degeneracy. It's—"
The sound of a slap. Sharp. Clear. Unmistakable.
The table cracked under my grip.
"There's more," Held said quietly. "About two hours of recordings so far. Your wife is . . . she's trying to resist, but he's systematically breaking her down. Destroying her possessions, limiting food, isolation tactics."
"We're going to war," Dmitry announced, already moving toward the weapons. "Right now. Tonight. I'll kill every last—"
"No." Alexei's command cut through Dmitry's rage. "We do this smart. We present the conspiracy evidence to the Council, get the ruling reversed legally. Then we retrieve Anya."
"Legally?" I laughed, the sound devoid of humor. "You just heard him hitting her. You heard—"
"I heard evidence that will make our case stronger," Alexei interrupted. "Viktor abusing Anya while claiming to protect her? The Council will have to act."
But I was already calculating different scenarios. Legal channels would take time. Days at minimum, possibly weeks. And every hour Anya spent in that house was another hour of psychological torture, another piece of her destroyed.
I stood so abruptly my chair crashed backward.
"We're getting her out," I said. My voice didn't sound like mine—too calm, too cold, like something had frozen inside me. "Tonight. Now."
"Ivan—" Alexei started.
"NOW!" The word ripped from my throat. "He's torturing her. I don't care about Council approval," I continued, my voice deadly quiet now. "I don't care about evidence or investigations or legal channels. My wife is being tortured by her father, and we're getting her out."
Alexei and Dmitry exchanged a look—one of those wordless brother conversations that happened in moments of crisis.
"Finally," Dmitry said, and there was savage satisfaction in his voice. "I thought you'd never snap. I've had an extraction plan ready since day one."
I turned to stare at him. "What?"
He was already moving to the wall of maps, pulling down blueprints I recognized—Viktor's estate, but annotated with Dmitry's distinctive handwriting. Entry points. Guard positions. Camera blindspots. All of it mapped with the obsessive detail of someone who'd been planning this for days.
"You think I was going to let that bastard keep her?" Dmitry spread the blueprints across the table. "I've been running surveillance since the moment you drove away from his gates. Guard rotations, security protocols, weak points—I have it all."
"You've been planning an unauthorized extraction?" Alexei's voice carried warning.
"I've been planning a rescue," Dmitry corrected. "And now that Ivan's finally ready to stop playing by the rules, we can execute it."
Held cleared his throat again. "If you're serious about this, my source inside can help. Disable certain security systems, ensure specific doors are unlocked."
"Your source," I said, focusing on him. "Who are they?"
"Better you don't know. But they're motivated—apparently Mrs. Volkov was kind to them over the years. The only family member who treated them as human. They want her out as much as you do."
Someone Anya had been kind to, now willing to risk everything to help her. That was my wife—leaving gardens of loyalty in the wasteland of her father's cruelty.
"When?" I asked Dmitry.
"Tomorrow. Viktor has a meeting with the Besharovs at 2 PM. Mandatory attendance—he can't skip it without losing face. Four-hour window while he's gone."
"His guards—"
"Skeleton crew during his absence. Six men max, positioned predictably." Dmitry traced routes on the blueprint. "We go in quiet. Three-man team. In and out in under twenty minutes."
"Three men against six guards plus electronic security?" Alexei asked.
"Three men with inside help," Dmitry corrected. "You private dick’s source will disable cameras in the residence wing. We avoid confrontation, extract Anya, get her to a safehouse."
