Page 89 of Bratva Bride
"Which safehouse?" I asked. "Viktor will check all our properties."
"Not ours," Alexei said quietly. We all turned to look at him. "The Besharovs have a property in Connecticut. Officially neutral ground. Mikhail Besharov has . . . indicated . . . that if Anya needed sanctuary, it might be available."
The Besharovs. The family that had married us, that had tried to oppose Viktor's reclamation. They were offering shelter, taking sides in their own quiet way.
"That's where we take her," I decided. "Safe, neutral, and protected by Besharov authority."
"And then?" Alexei asked.
"Then we present the conspiracy evidence to the Council with Anya safe and Viktor exposed. He can't reclaim her if she's under Besharov protection, and he can't claim we kidnapped her if she testifies about his abuse."
It was a desperate plan. Dangerous. Probably illegal. Definitely against every protocol the bratva had about family sovereignty.
I didn't care.
"Timeline?" I asked Dmitry.
"Tomorrow, 2:15 PM. Fifteen minutes after Viktor leaves for his meeting."
Less than twenty-four hours. Less than twenty-four hours until I got her back or died trying.
"I'm coming with you," I said.
"Obviously." Dmitry grinned, all predator now. "Wouldn't dream of doing this without you, brother."
Chapter 18
Anya
Thechildhoodbedstillsagged in the middle where I'd spent twenty-six years curling into myself, trying to become small enough to disappear. Same scratchy sheets that smelled like the lavender detergent Elena used—prison-issue comfort that fooled no one. I sat in that familiar hollow, knees drawn up, and cataloged the systematic destruction of everything I'd become in three weeks of freedom.
Day one started with Marina.
Viktor had waited exactly three hours after Ivan drove away before beginning his performance. Long enough for the adrenaline to fade, for the reality to sink in—I was back, the Volkovs couldn't reach me, and my father held all the cards. He'd entered my room with theatrical precision, every movement calculated for maximum impact.
"Let's see what my daughter brought home from her . . . adventure."
The bag sat on my dresser where the guards had placed it. Viktor went through it methodically. Clothes first—the soft things Ivan had helped me choose, tossed aside with casual disgust. Toiletries, examined and discarded. My laptop, confiscated immediately "for the investigation."
Then he found them.
Marina emerged first, purple and perfect, the whale who'd kept me safe through panic attacks and regression and the terrifying freedom of being allowed to be small. Viktor held her up between two fingers like she was contaminated.
"My brilliant daughter needs stuffed animals?" His voice carried that particular blend of disappointment and disgust he'd perfected over decades. "Twenty-six years old, two PhDs, and this is what the Volkovs reduced you to?"
"Papa, please—" The words escaped before I could stop them, the wrong words, weak words that confirmed everything he already believed about my corruption.
"Please?" He examined Marina with clinical interest, fingers finding her seams. "You're begging for a toy? This is what three weeks with those degenerates accomplished? They turned my accomplished daughter into a child?"
"It's not—Marina isn't just—" But how could I explain? That the whale represented safety I'd never known? That holding her meant I could access parts of myself that had been locked away since before memory? That she was proof someone—Ivan—thought I deserved comfort?
Viktor's fingers had already found the weakest seam, the one along Marina's belly that I'd worried sometimes when anxious. He pulled, and the thread began to give.
"No!" I lunged forward, couldn't help it, hands reaching for Marina like she was a living thing that could feel pain.
Viktor backhanded me casually, not hard enough to leave a mark that would show, but sufficient to send me stumbling backonto the bed. While I pressed my hand to my stinging cheek, he continued his destruction with methodical precision. The seam split. White stuffing spilled onto the Persian rug that had been in this room since before I was born, landing like snow on the deep red pattern.
Marina's button eye popped off, rolling under the dresser with a soft clicking sound. More stuffing, pulled out in handfuls while Viktor delivered his analysis.
