The stench of blood and burning ozone still clung to the air of the dining hall, mixing with the sharp, cold scent of the Russian night. Grigori’s body lay where I dropped it—a necessary piece of trash I couldn't afford to clean yet.
I was mid-sentence, dictating the first wave of global asset seizures to Ivan, when Alexander’s secure line exploded with frantic static.
“Report,” I snapped, my focus a diamond-hard point of command, dedicated to finding Isabella and my sons. Anything else was a distraction, an irrelevance.
Alexander listened for three seconds, his eyes widening in alarm before they locked onto mine, the initial terror instantly replaced by professional dread.
“Vova… it’s the secondary site. The safe house near Nizhny Novgorod. The one used for political refugees. They hi
