Chapter 2 - The Storm Over the Sound
The words had barely left Katarina’s lips before Valentin acted.
He didn't scream. He didn't issue frantic orders.
Valentin handed Ilya gently into my arms. “Hold him, Leah. Take him to my
private study on the third floor. Maksim’s men will form a perimeter.”
“Papa, no!” Ilya cried out, reaching for his father’s lapel. “Don't leave me!”
Valentin leaned down, pressing his forehead against his son’s brow. “Your sister
is on that water, Ilya. A Sokolov never leaves his blood behind. I am bringing
Vera home. Do you trust Papa?”
The little boy sniffled, wiping his nose with the frayed woolen blanket, and
nodded once. “Yes, Papa.”
“Good boy.” Valentin turned his gaze to me.
His icy blue eyes were stripped of all warmth, but in their depths was a dark,
unyielding intensity that made my breath hitch.
“Leah,” Valentin said, his deep baritone cutting through the chaos. “You kept my
son calm. You brought me the tin. You are coming with us to the docks.”
“Valentin!” Katarina shrieked from the floor, clutching his trousers. “You can't
board that ship! The crew are my father’s elite mercenaries! If you attack them,
the captain has orders to scuttle the vessel with Vera inside!”
Valentin looked down at his fiancée.
He didn't kick her. He didn't draw his sidearm. He simply reached down, grabbed
her by the diamond collar around her neck, and pulled her to her feet with one
arm, lifting her until her toes barely brushed the marble.
“Maksim,” Valentin commanded.
“Boss?”
“Strip Miss Rostova of all jewelry, her shoes, and her phone. Chain her to the
radiator in the wine cellar. If my daughter has so much as a scratch on her skin
when I return, bring a blowtorch to the cellar.”
“Understood, Mr. Sokolov.”
Two massive enforcers dragged Katarina away through the service doors, her
hysterical screams echoing down the stone corridor until the heavy steel doors
clicked shut.
Valentin turned to the sixty syndicate captains in the room.
“The Rostova family has committed high treason against the Brighton alliance,”
Valentin announced, his voice vibrating through the glass chandeliers. “Any man
here allied with Boris Rostov will lay his weapon on the table right now. If you
reach for your holsters, my snipers on the mezzanine will paint this marble with
your brains.”
In absolute, terrifying silence, eighteen capos allied with the Rostov faction
slowly unbuckled their gun belts, laying their Glocks and Berettas onto the
white tablecloth.
“Lock them in the lower banquet suite,” Valentin ordered his men. “The rest of
you: arm up. We’re taking the gunboats.”
Five minutes later, we were tearing through the torrential gale toward the
estate’s private deep-water marina.
I rode in the passenger seat of an armored Mercedes G-Wagon, holding Ilya
tightly against my chest, while Valentin drove with cold, lethal precision,
steering through the flooded asphalt paths of the estate at seventy miles per
hour.
The wind off Long Island Sound was howling at fifty knots, throwing massive
sheets of black salt spray over the rocky sea wall.
Moored at the concrete dock were three military-grade interceptor
boats—eighty-foot black aluminum catamarans equipped with twin 1,500-horsepower
turbine engines and mounted thermal turrets.
Valentin slammed the G-Wagon into park. He turned to me, reaching into his
tactical vest, and pulled out a small, compact Glock 43.
He held it out handle-first.
“Take this, Leah.”
I stared at the black steel. “Mr. Sokolov... I don't know how to shoot.”
Valentin took my right hand, his large, calloused fingers wrapping mine firmly
around the textured grip. His touch was warm against my frozen skin.
“You point it at anyone wearing a Rostova crest who isn't me, and you pull the
trigger,” Valentin instructed, his eyes locking onto mine with absolute
seriousness. “I am bringing you aboard because Vera knows your voice. If we
breach that hold in the middle of a gunfight, she needs to hear someone she
trusts. Can you do that for my daughter?”
I looked down at Ilya, who was clutching his blue blanket, looking up at me with
tear-streaked brown eyes.
“I can do that, Mr. Sokolov,” I whispered.
Valentin nodded once, a brief flicker of profound respect crossing his scarred
May you like
features.
“Good girl. Let’s go get my daughter.”
