Page 33 of The Pakhan's Secret Baby

“Left at the end of the block—they just turned!” Rain hammers the windshield so hard the wipers struggle. I lean between the seats, eyes locked on the distant red taillights vanishing into the storm. “Faster. Run every light. I don’t care who sees us.”

The chase ignites and we barrel down the narrow street, hydroplaning over deep puddles.

The Gusev SUV is already two blocks ahead, weaving aggressively when my driver pushes the sedan harder, engine roaring.

Horns blare as we cut through intersections.

Rain whips sideways, making it so difficult to see I can feel him hesitating and wanting to slow down.

“They’re heading toward the river district!” my driver yells. “They know these streets.”

“Then stay on them!” I snarl, gripping the headrest until my hands hurt. My mind races. Why would Gusev men kidnap Oleg’s own daughter and grandson? Internal power play? Someone inside the family turning on him?

Emory’s face flashes in my memory—flushed and moaning just minutes ago, her pussy clenching around my dick as she came undone.

She's mine.

That boy will be mine.

No one takes what belongs to Rashid Krasnov.

We gain ground on a long straightaway.

The SUV cuts sharply right into an alley.

We follow, our car scraping brick on both sides, sparks flying. Trash cans explode against buildings before the alley spits us out onto a wider road near the docks.

My driver floors it and we close the distance to thirty yards, twenty, fifteen.

I reach under my jacket for my pistol, ready to shoot out their tires the second I have a clean angle, but the Gusev driver pulls a brutal maneuver—hard brake, then a sudden left across three lanes.

A delivery truck swerves to avoid them and glides through the space between us, nearly crushing our front end.

My driver yanks the wheel, tires screeching in protest, and we skid sideways, fishtailing wildly on the flooded road before regaining control.

By the time we straighten out, the SUV has disappeared.

“Find them!” I roar, punching the dashboard, cracking the vinyl. “Circle the block—every alley, every underpass. They can’t have gone far!”

I'm livid, every nerve ending frayed at the idea that Gusev has taken Emory and the child.

This was my play. I had no clue they were watching her too, and now she's just gone?

We hunt like wolves for the next twenty-five minutes.

My driver weaves through flooded lots, dead-end service roads, and narrow passages between warehouses.

The relentless rain never lets up and every shadow looks like their SUV.

Every distant taillight raises my pulse, only to disappoint.

I slam my fist into the seat repeatedly. “How the fuck are they this good?"

“They’re using the storm and the river district’s layout, boss.” My driver's voice is shaky. “Multiple escape routes, covered garages, probably switched vehicles. They were ready for pursuit.”

I sit back, breathing hard, soaked clothes clinging to my skin.

The afterglow of fucking Emory is long gone, replaced by pure, murderous fury.