The room was silent, save for the slow, deliberate ticking of the antique clock hanging on the wall. Each tick felt like a hammer to Nikolai's skull, a cruel reminder that time was passing—each second a chance that Rose was slipping further away from him.
He was seated on the edge of a leather couch in Sergei's penthouse, his forearms braced against his knees, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned a ghostly white. His jaw was locked, tension rippling through his neck and shoulders. His normally calm, calculated demeanor had long since dissolved into a storm of anxiety and fury. The only thing keeping him from pacing holes into the marble floor was the hope—no, the sheer desperation—that someone, anyone, would walk through that door and tell him what he needed to hear.
Sergei stood by the window, back turned, his phone pressed to his ear. He was calm, composed as always, the picture of control that Nikolai so desperately lacked in this moment. His posture was straight, hand in his pocket, eyes fixed on the skyline that stretched endlessly over the city.
Nikolai's leg bounced restlessly. He hadn't eaten. He could barely breathe without tasting bile in the back of his throat. Rage, guilt, and helplessness swirled in his gut like a vortex. The image of Rose on that stage—numbered, objectified, sold like property—had taken root in his mind. And it was rotting him from the inside out.
Then—finally—the door creaked open.
Nikolai shot up to his feet instantly, eyes narrowing on the man who stepped in. Aleksandr. Tall, built like a soldier, his short brown hair neatly combed, dressed in black with a bulletproof vest just barely visible beneath his jacket. The man nodded respectfully toward Sergei first, then looked at Nikolai.
"We found her, sir."
The air in the room shifted. The words cut through the silence like a blade.
Sergei ended his call immediately and turned around, his eyes sharp with interest. "Where?"
Aleksandr stepped further inside and unfolded a tablet from under his arm, clicking it on as he spoke.
"She was auctioned off outside New York—private estate, unregistered, encrypted location, no digital footprint. The kind of place you don't get into unless you know someone or pay in blood."
Nikolai stepped closer, his breathing shallow. "Who bought her?"
Aleksandr hesitated for a split second, then met Nikolai's eyes. "Leon Carter."
Sergei's face tightened.
Nikolai froze, the name alone knocking the air from his lungs.
Leon Carter.
He'd heard it before. A ghost in the underworld. Not flashy like the others. Not loud. But known. Known for the damage he left in his wake. A collector of women. A sadist wrapped in a businessman's suit. Known to break the things he touched—physically, psychologically, spiritually.
Nikolai's lips parted. "Leon Carter... Are you sure?"
"Positive. Facial recognition confirmed. He was there. Placed the winning bid—three million. Took her in a black limo. No plates, but we got partial surveillance on the exit. He left about an hour ago. We're not sure where he's taking her—could be his estate in Connecticut, or one of the other places he owns. We've got people trailing."
Nikolai's blood ran cold. His fists clenched at his sides until his nails dug into his palms.
"She's with him right now," he murmured, voice low, barely restrained. "She's with him."
He turned toward the table, his hand lashing out. A glass decanter flew across the room, shattering against the wall. The sound exploded like a gunshot, fragments raining to the floor. His breathing grew heavier, every ounce of control threatening to snap.
"I should've found her sooner," he growled. "I should've stopped this."
Sergei didn't flinch. He didn't move. He simply stepped forward and folded his arms.
"We're going to get her back," he said calmly.
"When?" Nikolai snapped, eyes blazing. "Tomorrow? A week from now? After he's done with her? After he's broken her?!"
"You think you're the only one angry?" Sergei said sharply. "You think I haven't seen what men like Leon Carter do? We will get her back. But we are not doing it without a plan."
Nikolai turned to him, his chest heaving. "We don't have time for a plan! Every second we sit here, he gets further away! God knows what he's already doing to her!"
"And what do you propose?" Sergei asked coldly. "You storm his mansion? Alone? With no surveillance on the interior? No confirmation of her presence? No exit plan? You want to die, Nikolai? You want to fail?"
Nikolai's mouth opened but no words came out.
Sergei stepped closer, his voice firm. "My men are watching. We're tracking every move he makes. We've infiltrated his staff. If she's still in that car, we'll follow it. If he's at the mansion, we'll know within the hour."
Nikolai turned away, his hands running through his hair. He wanted to scream. He wanted to kill. But most of all, he wanted to hold her. Make sure she was still alive. Still whole.
"She's all alone," he said softly. "She doesn't know where she is. She doesn't know if anyone's coming. What do you think that's doing to her?"
Sergei sighed, his voice softening. "I know. But if you go now, in this state, you risk everything. You think with your heart, not your head. And that's how people die."
"I don't care," Nikolai snapped.
"Well, I do," Sergei said sharply. "I care about the men I send into danger. I care about the fallout. Which is why I'm telling you—if you act out again, if you let your emotions take over—I'll pull my men back. And you can look for her on your own."
Nikolai turned, stunned.
"You wouldn't."
"I would," Sergei replied without hesitation. "Because I'd rather pull back than see you get yourself killed and make this entire operation go to hell."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and raw.
Nikolai looked down, his breath shaking. His knuckles trembled. He felt like a coil stretched so tight it could snap at any moment.
Then, finally, he collapsed back onto the couch. His elbows rested on his knees, his face in his hands.
A long silence passed.
Aleksandr cleared his throat. "There's more."
Nikolai looked up slowly.
"Leon Carter has a history," he said. "But not just in trafficking. He's been under investigation in three countries. None of the cases ever stuck. But the rumors—burned women, isolation chambers, psychological torture... One woman clawed her own eyes out after he released her."
Nikolai's eyes went dark.
"He never keeps them more than three months," Aleksandr continued. "Sometimes a week. Sometimes a day. Depends on how fast he breaks them."
Sergei's jaw locked. "So we have days at most."
Aleksandr nodded grimly. "At best."
Nikolai stood again, slowly this time. The fury in his chest hadn't dimmed, but it had solidified into something sharper. Focused. He turned to Sergei.
"When do we move?"
Sergei studied him carefully. The rage was still there, but Nikolai's eyes had changed. No longer wild. Now, they burned with purpose.
"As soon as we know exactly where she is," Sergei said. "And not a moment before."
Nikolai nodded slowly. "Then get your people moving."