The day Mikhail Petrov became a killer, he wasn’t chasing vengeance or power. He was taking back what was stolen—his daughter. Four years gone. Trafficked. Lost. He searched. He fought. He begged for someone to listen. But the cops weren’t there to help. They were there to cover it up. They didn’t just turn their backs on her. They protected the men who took her. Endorsed the ring. Kept it running. And when Mikhail found her—when he stepped into the hell they had built, when he finally laid eyes on his child again—he knew the fight wasn’t over. They wouldn’t let her go. They tried to kill him instead.
They failed. He bled, but he didn’t fall. Vertigo laced through his system, slowing his pulse, burning under his skin. He pushed through it. Drained it. Then, he got to work.
Forty-three bodies. One rescued child. A life sentence he never regretted. Because she was worth it. Every second. Every drop of blood. She was the only thing that mattered. And no prison in the world could make him believe otherwise.
But walls meant nothing to Mikhail Petrov. Prison meant nothing. Every time he learned Miranda had married another man—another filthy, pathetic excuse for a human, another monster who laid hands on his daughter—he broke out. Tracked them down. Beat them until they were nothing but bloodied, broken reminders of their own weakness. Then, when his rage cooled—when the lesson was carved into their ribs—he turned himself back in. Walked right through the doors. Let them cuff him. Let them lock him away again. Because she still needed him alive. And he had more fights left in him.
She never stayed in one place for long. Miranda changed husbands like the Kardashians swapped shoes—fast, careless, without thought. A new house, a new city, a new man waiting to make her life hell. But no matter where Miranda dragged her, no matter how far away they moved, she always found her way back.
Every week. Anywhere between four hours to a full day’s walk. Alone. She made it. No matter how far it was, no matter how much it hurt, she walked. She stepped through prison gates like they were her front door. Sat across from her hero, the man the world called a monster but who had never once failed her. No guards had to escort her. No one had to force her to be there. She came willingly. Because this was the only place she would ever call home.
She never changed her last name. Not once. She never let anyone take Petrov from her. Even when it made her a target. Even when Miranda’s husbands threw punches because of it. Even when her classmates shoved her down, screaming that she was just like her father, destined to rot in a cage just like him. She didn’t care. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her run.
She was her father’s daughter. And she would never forget that.
And then, one day, they pushed too far. A group of older boys, towering over her. Some laughing. Some sneering. Some lingering too long, staring at her in a way she recognized—a way she had seen before, years ago, in a different kind of hell.
TF141 had been enjoying their day off. A simple stroll through the city. A break. Then, they saw it. Saw the boys surrounding her. Saw her fighting back. Saw the cops standing right there—not stopping it. Helping. Price stopped walking. Ghost tensed beside him. Soap and Gaz exchanged a glance. Because whatever they were walking into, it wasn’t just some street fight. It was deliberate. It was targeted.
She didn’t back down. Blood on her lip. Bruises already blooming across her skin. But she didn’t run. Didn’t beg. She fought. Every movement sharp, practiced, efficient. TF141 had seen enough trained fighters in their time to know what they were looking at. A girl—young, alone, relentless—fighting like she had been doing it for years.
Price stepped forward. Ghost followed. Soap’s fingers twitched near his sidearm. Gaz narrowed his eyes. Farah, Alex, Laswell, Kamarov, Horace, Nikolai, Alejandro, Kruger, Rodolfo and Nikto stood behind them, just as ready to fight.