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25 | Vincent Kovak

"𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐞, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠..."

𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧

One year later

The sleek black car sliced through the city streets with a precision that mirrored the tense silence within. The rhythmic hum of the engine seemed to underscore the gravity of our mission. Niko, sitting across from me, shifted through a pack of folders, each one holding the weight of a year's worth of futile pursuit.

"We are going to be on time, sir," Niko spoke, his voice steady but bearing the subtle traces of frustration. The folders, a mosaic of dead ends and unanswered questions, sprawled before him.

I leaned back in my seat, my gaze fixated on the passing cityscape. The buildings stood as indifferent witnesses to my internal turmoil, the urban landscape blurred by the relentless pursuit of a truth that remained elusive. "Any leads?" I asked, my voice a hushed whisper.

Niko sighed, the weight of our shared frustration palpable. "Vincent, I thought we stopped looking for her... she is gone." His words hung in the air, a grim reminder of the reality we faced.

I shook my head, eyes closed, attempting to quell the rising storm within me. "I said, any fucking leads?"

"No, sir. No leads—none, just like the past year," Niko admitted, his gaze dropping to the folders in his hands. The sense of helplessness radiated from him, a reflection of my own feelings that I had struggled to articulate.

A bitter taste lingered on my tongue as I thought about the passing year—a relentless quest with no reward, a maze with no exit. It had been an entire year since I discovered Roman, not my wife, in that wretched cage. The man who held the key to her whereabouts had chosen death over disclosure, leaving me stranded in an agonising limbo.

"My wife, my pregnant wife, has been missing for an entire year," I murmured, the words heavy with both sorrow and frustration. The city outside continued its ceaseless rhythm, indifferent to the personal storm raging within me. "And the man who knows where she is killed himself."

The air inside the car crackled with tension as I squared off with Roman, his words a stark reminder of the skepticism that surrounded my relentless pursuit.

"And now you're asking for help, from different mafias. This is a big favor, this equals—"

"I don't care what I have to give to find my wife," I interjected, the desperation in my voice cutting through the air. The magnitude of the request loomed, but in that moment, the only currency that mattered was the information that could lead me to her.

"Vincent, you have to get over this now. She is dead. She is gone. She is missing. And I know—" Roman's words were swallowed by the sudden surge of anger that seized me. I grabbed onto his collar, yanking him close, my nostrils flaring with frustration.

"My wife is not dead. She is not fucking dead!" The words, a vehement declaration, hung in the air like a challenge. I threw him back against his seat, the force of my frustration reverberating through the confined space.

Roman, adjusting his disheveled suit, shot a pointed glance at both of us. "Vincent, you need to calm down," he muttered, the concern etched on his face a reflection of the underlying tension.

My gaze shifted to the bracelet in my hand, I found it within the office floors—the promise made on the night of the swap. A promise that fueled the relentless pursuit despite the odds stacked against me. The car rumbled to a stop as we reached the restaurant, the anticipation mounting.