The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 255

Vivian

We held a brief, solemn ceremony for Mitchell in the estate's neglected rose garden, the moonlight casting long shadows across the ancient sundial that marked the property's center. Dmitri's men had dug a grave beneath a gnarled oak tree whose twisted branches seemed to reach toward the star-filled sky like arthritic fingers.

It felt painfully inadequate—this good man deserved a proper funeral with dozens of mourners, elaborate flower arrangements, and eulogies that would properly honor his decades of faithful service. Instead, we gave him a hastily excavated resting place and a few stumbling words about loyalty and sacrifice spoken over the mound of dark earth.

But it was all we could manage before the approaching dawn forced us to flee.

As our five-vehicle convoy wound through the serpentine country roads toward the city, exhaustion finally overtook our rescued family members. The adrenaline that had sustained them through the night's terror was fading, replaced by the bone-deep weariness that follows survival.

Grandmother had curled up on the leather seat beside me like a fragile bird, her silver hair soft as silk against my lap as she slept with the deep unconsciousness of someone who'd witnessed too much horror. Every few minutes, she would murmur something unintelligible and shift slightly, her weathered hands clutching at the cashmere throw I'd wrapped around her shoulders.

Ryan had similarly surrendered to exhaustion, his small body trustingly sprawled across Dmitri's legs with the casual intimacy that only children possess. One arm dangled toward the floor while the other was flung across his face, and his breathing had settled into the steady rhythm of profound sleep.

I expected Dmitri to show impatience with the child's unconscious intrusion into his personal space—he wasn't exactly known for his nurturing instincts. But instead, I kept catching glimpses of unexpected gentleness in his behavior. The careful way he adjusted his position so Ryan wouldn't slip off the seat.

The sight stirred something unexpectedly warm in my chest, even as the rage over Mitchell's death continued burning like acid in my veins.

"You understand now what we're truly fighting," Dmitri said quietly, his voice pitched barely above a whisper to avoid waking our passengers. His eyes were fixed on the dark landscape rolling past our windows. "This isn't about criminal ambition or business disputes anymore. This is about something fundamentally evil—the willingness to torture an innocent man just to extract information."

The memory of Mitchell's mutilated face flashed through my mind, and I had to clench my fists to keep from shaking with fury. "That fucking monster Pakhan," I whispered back, each word dripping with venom. "He's going to learn what real brutality looks like when I get my hands on him."

Dmitri's smile was sharp as a surgical scalpel. "When we finally bring him down from his throne, you'll have the honor of delivering the killing blow. I promise you that satisfaction."

His expression hardened further. "But the Pakhan didn't orchestrate tonight's attack alone. Devan and Charles have been working behind the scenes—providing intelligence, funding, logistical support. We can't keep playing defense while they coordinate these systematic strikes."

I understood his meaning immediately. "You want to go on the offensive."

"Exactly. Cut off the Pakhan's local support network, and he becomes just another aging criminal in a foreign city. His reputation means nothing if he has no resources to back it up."

"Both attacks tonight—you think Devan and Charles were directly involved?"

"Without question. The timing, the intelligence, the coordination—none of this would be possible without local assets providing real-time information." His jaw tightened. "They probably led the assault on Willowbrook personally, fleeing only when they detected our approach."

The thought of those bastards terrorizing Grandmother and Ryan, of them standing by while Mitchell was tortured, sent fresh waves of rage through me.

"Then we target them first," I said with conviction. "Remove the Pakhan's support structure before we face him directly."

"Precisely. But there's something else we need to investigate." His expression grew even more serious. "Someone betrayed the location of that safe house. We need to determine if Viktor's family has been compromised."

The implication hit me like ice water. "You think they sold us out?"

"I think we can't afford assumptions. If the Kozlovs are feeding intelligence to our enemies, we need to know before we plan our next move."

I found myself nodding, my mind already shifting into tactical mode. Anyone who had helped target Ryan and Grandmother—regardless of their previous allegiances—would face consequences.

Dawn was breaking over the Hudson Valley as we finally approached the outskirts of the city, painting the eastern sky in soft pastels of rose and gold that seemed obscenely peaceful after the night's horrors. The contrast between nature's beauty and human cruelty felt almost mocking.

"You're certain they'll be safe at Aveline's estate?" I asked as we prepared to transfer our sleeping charges to more permanent accommodations.

"Concentrated defense is always preferable to scattered resources," Dmitri replied with professional pragmatism. "And now that they understand the full scope of the threat we're facing, we don't need to maintain the pretense about 'temporary vacations' anymore."

Aveline met us at her front door before we'd even finished parking, her face gaunt with exhaustion and worry. I could tell she'd been awake all night—probably pacing from window to window, checking her phone obsessively, imagining every possible catastrophic outcome. When she saw Ryan and Grandmother emerging from our vehicles—alive, breathing, physically unharmed—her carefully maintained composure cracked like an eggshell.

"Thank God," she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks as she helped us carry the still-sleeping forms into the house. "I thought... I kept imagining the worst..."

Her hands shook as she pulled back covers and adjusted pillows, performing the small acts of care that helped her process the relief of their survival.

Once they were tucked safely into the mansion's guest bedrooms, still sleeping peacefully despite the commotion of relocation, Aveline turned to us with desperate hope flickering in her red-rimmed eyes.

"What about Mitchell? And Orion—he went to help with the rescue, didn't he? Where is he?"

The silence that followed was answer enough. I watched her face transform as understanding slowly dawned, hope dying and being replaced by something approaching panic.

Dmitri's voice was gentle but unflinchingly honest. "Mitchell didn't make it out. He died protecting Ryan and your grandmother—tortured by the attackers for information he refused to give them. He died like a hero, Aveline."

Her knees buckled as if someone had cut the tendons, and she sank onto her living room sofa with a sound that was half sob, half wounded animal cry. "Not Mitchell. Not that sweet, innocent man. He never hurt anyone in his entire life. He just... he just wanted to take care of people."

I moved to comfort her, my own grief for the kind butler mixing with hers, but her next words froze me in place.

"But where's Orion? He should have been with you—he left here hours ago to help with the rescue operation."

Dmitri and I exchanged increasingly troubled glances. We hadn't seen any sign of Orion at Willowbrook Estate—no abandoned vehicle, no evidence he'd ever reached the property, no indication he'd been involved in the firefight.

"He never made it to the estate," Dmitri said carefully, his tactical mind already calculating unpleasant possibilities. "If he took the mountain route to save time..."

"The perfect ambush point," I finished, ice-cold dread settling in my stomach like a lead weight.

Aveline's phone chose that moment to buzz with an incoming message. She glanced at it automatically, probably expecting some mundane notification, then went completely rigid as if she'd been struck by lightning.

The photograph was grainy and poorly lit, but unmistakable in its implications—Orion, bloodied and unconscious, suspended by heavy chains in what appeared to be a concrete basement or abandoned warehouse. His face was swollen beyond easy recognition, and dark stains covered his torn clothing.

Below the horrifying image, a message in coldly clinical text:

*Aveline Blackwell. Your husband remains alive, though his condition is deteriorating. Come to 1247 Industrial Boulevard, Warehouse District, Queens. Come alone. Exchange your life for his. You have exactly two hours from the timestamp of this message. Bring any backup, involve any authorities, or attempt any deception, and we will return him to you one piece at a time.*

The phone slipped from her nerveless fingers as consciousness fled her body, and she collapsed backward into the sofa cushions before either Dmitri or I could catch her.