Lucas had expected resistance, but he hadn't anticipated just how ruthless Carlos's maternal family would be.
The moment he arrived at their heavily guarded estate, he was met with suspicion. The guards searched him thoroughly before escorting him into an intimidating chamber lined with dark wooden walls and decorated with gold-accented furniture. The air smelled of tobacco and old leather, and the presence of heavily armed men in the corners sent a clear message—this was a place of power, not hospitality.
At the head of the long mahogany table sat Sergei Nickolai, the elder of the Bratva family. His sharp blue eyes, cold as ice, bore into Lucas the moment he entered. Beside him stood Viktor and Dimitri, two of his most trusted men, both of whom looked like they could snap a man's neck with a flick of their wrists.
"Speak," Sergei commanded, his voice deep and unwavering.
Lucas took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. "I've come with news about your lost daughter—Elena Mikhailov."
The air in the room seemed to shift. Conversations that had been happening in hushed tones immediately ceased. A few of the men exchanged glances, while Viktor, the eldest son, clenched his jaw.
Sergei leaned forward slightly. "Go on."
Lucas licked his dry lips. "Elena is dead but she has a son. His name is Carlos, and he—"
A loud bang interrupted him as Viktor slammed his fist against the table.
"Enough of this nonsense," Viktor snapped. "Do you have any proof of what you're saying? Where is this so-called grandson?"
Lucas hesitated. He had come alone, with only his word and determination. He had no documents, no DNA test, nothing concrete—just Carlos's story.
"I—I don't have physical proof," Lucas admitted. "But I swear it's the truth. Carlos is your blood. He—"
Dimitri scoffed, his voice laced with contempt. "You show up here, uninvited, claiming that our sister—who has been gone for decades—is dead and left behind a child, and you expect us to just believe you?"
"That is not how things work here, boy," Viktor added, shaking his head. "Without proof, you are wasting our time."
Sergei exhaled slowly, then gestured to one of the guards.
"Take him away."
Before Lucas could react, two guards seized him, dragging him out of the chamber.
"Wait! Please, listen to me!" Lucas struggled, but it was useless.
The guards took him down a long, dark hallway and into the cold basement beneath the estate. The damp air reeked of mildew and metal. Lucas barely had time to register what was happening before a fist collided with his gut, sending him crashing to the ground.
"You think we are fools?" one of the guards growled, kicking him in the ribs.
Lucas gritted his teeth, curling up as another blow landed on his back. They were going to beat him until he either confessed to lying… or until he was too broken to move.
For days, he was kept in the basement—starved, beaten, and ignored. The only food they gave him was a thin, watery soup, just enough to keep him alive.
But Lucas refused to give up.
Even when his vision blurred from hunger, even when his throat burned from thirst, he repeated the same thing to the guards:
"Carlos is their grandson. And one day, they'll regret not listening to me."
Lucas sat in the dimly lit basement, weak from hunger but determined. The Bratva hadn't tortured him, but they hadn't treated him well either. They gave him just enough food—thin soup, stale bread—to keep him alive, but no one spoke to him. No one told him what was happening.
Days passed, and the silence became suffocating. He could only hope they were taking his claims seriously.
Then, one evening, the door creaked open. Instead of the usual guard bringing him his meal, it was Viktor. His expression was unreadable, but there was no hostility in his stance.
"Come with me," Viktor ordered.
Lucas's legs were weak as he stood, but he followed without hesitation. He was led out of the basement and into the grand chamber where he had first pleaded his case.
Seated at the head of the table, Sergei Nikolai regarded him carefully. Dimitri stood beside him, arms crossed.
"We have verified your claims," Sergei finally said. "Elena Mikhailov had a son. Your friend Carlos is indeed her child."
Relief flooded Lucas's body, but he stayed composed.
"We owe you an apology," Dimitri added. "We do not trust easily, and we had to be sure."
Lucas nodded. "I understand. What matters now is getting Carlos out of that prison."
At that, the air in the room grew tense. Sergei and Viktor exchanged glances before Dimitri sighed and stepped forward.
"There's a problem," Dimitri said. "The Bratva and the elite families in London have had a… strained history. We are forbidden from stepping foot on English soil. If we go there, it won't just be a prison break—it'll be war."
Lucas clenched his fists. "So what do we do? We can't just leave him there!"
Sergei leaned forward, his expression sharp. "We will get him out. But we must do it carefully. You will return to London and wait for our signal. When we move, we will move swiftly, and Carlos will be smuggled out by ship to Russia."
Lucas exhaled, nodding. It wasn't the instant rescue he had hoped for, but it was something.
"I'll let him know," he said.
Dimitri smirked slightly. "Good. But there's one more thing—Carlos needs to be ready. This isn't just about breaking him out. He will need to decide whether he's ready to embrace his true heritage."
Lucas frowned. "What do you mean?"
Sergei's gaze darkened. "Carlos isn't just any prisoner. He is the heir to a family with power beyond what he knows. If he chooses to return to us, there will be no turning back."
Lucas swallowed hard. "I'll tell him. But first, let's get him out."
Sergei nodded. "Then go. Await our instructions."
Lucas left that night, his heart heavy but hopeful. The countdown to Carlos's freedom had begun.