Page 52 of His Stolen Bride

I don’t give them any. Instead, I attend meetings and approve routes, shutting down three operations tied loosely to Vladimir’s old networks. I move money quietly and reroute men I no longer trust. Every adjustment I make sends ripples, and I watch who reacts too fast.

That’s how I find the leak.

Someone inside my logistics chain flagged the catering town as low-risk. Someone ensured my presence was known just enough to draw attention. Someone expected me to survive the hit and expected Alina not to.

That narrows it down to people who understand pressure and outcome.

I double security around Alina without crowding her. I make it obvious enough that she notices but not enough that she feels caged. She clocks it immediately.

“You don’t trust your own house,” she says when I walk her to the dining room two days later.

“I trust parts of it,” I answer.

“That wasn’t to be your answer.”

“No,” I say. “It wasn’t.”

She studies my face for a long moment, then nods like that confirms something she already suspected.

I assign a private detail to the boy, men who know how to be invisible. He hates it for the first hour, then adapts. I order background sweeps on every staff member who worked here six years ago and every replacement since. Alina notices people disappearing.

“Are they dead?” she asks one night, bluntly and calmly.

“Some,” I say. “Most aren’t.”

She accepts that without comment. The truth settles in slowly and then all at once. She didn’t steal my son. I left him unprotected by assuming my house was enough. She didn’t break my authority. My authority had cracks, and she slipped through them with the only thing she had left.

Instinct.

I stop pretending this can be handled quietly and call the war council on the fourth night back. Vladimir has been consolidating power, and it’s imminent that he wants Vienna reassigned. But I am the Pakhan of this city, and he’s playing games on the wrong territory.

They arrive in pairs or alone, coats still on, eyes already counting exits. Gregor Volkov, who oversees western transit routes and controls three warehouses outside the city, takes the chair closest to mine. Yuri Belin, head of internal enforcement and discipline, stays near the wall where he can see everyone at once. Alexei Markin, who manages financial laundering through shell companies and shipping invoices, keeps his phone in his hand until Enzo’s stare makes him put it away. Two regional enforcers sit at the far end, men who handle collections and disappearances when paperwork fails, and neither of them speaks unless spoken to.

Chairs scrape as they settle in, and Enzo shuts the doors and locks them.

“Let’s not waste time,” I say, and that’s enough to quiet the room.

Gregor leans back first. “You called this fast,” he says. “People are asking why.”

“They’re asking the wrong people,” I reply.

A few heads turn. One man checks his phone, then puts it face down when he sees me watching. I slide a folder onto the table and push it forward. It stops in the center.

“Open it,” I tell them.

No one moves for a second. Then Alexei reaches out, flips it open, and exhales through his nose. “These are closed routes.”

“They were,” I say.

“You’re saying they aren’t anymore,” another man mutters.

“I’m saying someone reopened them without permission,” I answer curtly. “And I want to know who thought that was a smart idea.”

Gregor straightens. “You accusing someone in this room.”

“I don’t accuse,” I say. “I verify.”

Silence stretches. A chair shifts. Someone clears his throat.