Chapter 21 - Bianca
The monitors show me war.
I sit in the chair Misha placed me in, my hands gripping the armrests, watching his world burn.
On one screen, muzzle flashes strobe in the darkness near the south wall.
On another, men run through the gardens, shadows chasing shadows.
The audio feeds are a cacophony of gunfire, shouting, explosions that make the speakers crackle with distortion.
And somewhere in that chaos, Misha is fighting. Killing. Maybe dying.
Anna sits beside me, her hand finding mine in the darkness. She hasn't said much since Misha sealed us in here—just watched the monitors with the same grim focus I feel, her jaw tight, her breathing carefully controlled.
"He's good at this," she says quietly. "Better than anyone."
I don't know if she's trying to reassure me or herself.
My free hand drifts to my stomach. Flat still, unchanged. No evidence of the life growing inside me except the nausea that keeps rising in waves, the exhaustion that presses against my bones. Morning sickness doesn't care about war. Biology doesn't pause for violence.
I haven't told Anna about the baby. Haven't told anyone except Mrs. Novak, who got me the test. The secret sits heavy in my chest, another weight alongside the fear.
"Your father is out there," I whisper silently to the life I can't yet feel. "He's fighting to keep us safe."
"What?" Anna glances at me.
"Nothing. Just thinking out loud."
She squeezes my hand but doesn't push.
On one of the monitors, I catch a glimpse of him. Misha, moving along the south wall, his weapon raised. Even on the grainy feed, I can see the lethal grace of his movements, the cold efficiency with which he dispatches an enemy who steps into his path.
The man I slept with. The man whose child I carry. A killer in his natural element.
I should be horrified. Part of me is. But a larger part—a part I'm only now discovering—is fiercely, desperately glad. Glad he's that deadly. Glad he can protect himself. Glad that the violence I once found repulsive is now the only thing standing between me and Sergei.
What does that make me?
I don't have time to answer. On the south feed, an explosion blooms orange and white, and the camera goes dark.
"Oh God," I breathe.
"He's fine," Anna says, though her voice wavers. "He wasn't near that blast. Look—there, on the east feed. He's moving toward the gate."
She's right. I can see him on another monitor, sprinting toward the explosion site, weapon ready. Alive. Still alive.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
***
The hours blur together.
We watch the battle unfold on the screens—the east gate breach, the fighting in the gardens, the desperate defense of every wall. Anna provides quiet commentary, identifying positions, explaining tactics, her voice steady even when the fear shows in her eyes.
"That's the drainage tunnel," she says when the north wall feed shows men pouring through a gap in the defenses. "Misha was worried about that. Said it was impossible to fully secure."
"Will they hold?"
"They'll hold. Misha won't let them through."
She sounds certain. I want to believe her.
On the monitors, I watch Misha's men engage the attackers in the gardens. Bodies fall on both sides. Muzzle flashes illuminate the darkness in strobing bursts. It looks like something from a nightmare—shadows killing shadows, blood black in the harsh light of the security cameras.
The nausea comes and goes. I blame it on nerves when Anna notices me pressing my hand to my stomach, and she accepts the explanation without question. Why wouldn't she? We're locked in a basement watching people die. Anyone would feel sick.
But it's not just nerves. It's the tiny cluster of cells dividing inside me, making demands my body is scrambling to meet. It's the future I didn't plan for, growing regardless of whether I'm ready.
I think about my mother. The woman I never knew, who died bringing me into the world. Is that my fate too? To create life at the cost of my own?
I push the thought away. One crisis at a time.
"He's in the garden now," Anna says, pointing at a monitor. "See? That's him."
I lean forward, squinting at the grainy feed. She's right—I can make out Misha's silhouette, moving through the shadows with predatory grace. As I watch, he closes on a group of attackers from behind. The violence is swift, brutal, efficient. Three men dead in as many seconds.
"Jesus," I whisper.
"I told you," Anna says. "He's good at this."
Good seems like an inadequate word. Terrifying might be more accurate. But also... reassuring. Because every man he kills is one less threat to us. One less obstacle between survival and destruction.
I'm starting to think like them. Like the Kashkins. Like the world I've fallen into.
I don't know if that should scare me or not.
"Look," Anna says, pointing at another monitor. "They're pulling back."
She's right. On the feeds, Sergei's men are retreating—falling back from the walls, disappearing into the darkness beyond the perimeter. The gunfire is tapering off, replaced by the shouts of Misha's men coordinating the cleanup.
"Is it over?" I ask.
"Looks like it." Anna slumps back in her chair, some of the tension draining from her shoulders. "Thank God. I thought—"
She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to.
I stare at the monitors, watching the aftermath of violence. Bodies on the ground. Men limping, helping wounded comrades. Fires burning in the distance where explosions tore through the defenses. This is Misha's world. This is the world I've stumbled into, carrying his child.
What kind of life am I bringing this baby into?
The thought is interrupted by a sound from outside the safe room door.
Gunfire.
Not the distant crackle from the monitors, but close. Right outside the door. Three shots in rapid succession, then two more, then a heavy thump that sounds like a body hitting the floor.
Anna is on her feet instantly, her body tense, her eyes fixed on the door. I scramble up beside her, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
More gunfire. A shout—Petrov's voice, I think—cut off mid-breath. Then another thump. Then silence.
We stand frozen, staring at the door. Anna's hand finds mine again, her fingers ice-cold.
"That was Petrov," she whispers.
I nod, unable to speak. Unable to do anything except stare at the reinforced steel that suddenly seems much less impenetrable than it did an hour ago.
The silence stretches. Five seconds. Ten. Long enough for hope to flicker—maybe they've gone, maybe it was a stray team that Petrov fought off, maybe—
The explosion shatters everything.
The door bows inward with a sound like the world ending.
The shockwave knocks us both off our feet—I hit the floor hard, the breath driven from my lungs, my ears ringing.
Dust and debris rain down from the ceiling.
The monitors flicker and die, plunging us into darkness broken only by the red glow of emergency lighting.
I can't breathe. Can't hear. Can barely see through the dust and the tears streaming from my eyes.
Then the door gives way entirely, and men pour through.
There are four of them. Maybe five—it's hard to tell in the chaos and the darkness.
They move with military precision, weapons raised, flashlight beams cutting through the dust like searchlights. Black tactical gear, faces obscured by balaclavas, voices sharp and professional.
"Two targets," one of them barks. "Secure them both."
Anna screams something—a curse, a warning—and throws herself at the nearest attacker. She's fierce, my almost-sister-in-law, all sharp elbows and desperate fury. She catches him off guard, drives him back a step, rakes her nails across the exposed skin below his mask.
He swears and backhands her across the face. She staggers but doesn't fall, comes back at him with renewed fury.
But there are too many of them.
Someone grabs me from behind, arms like iron bands pinning my own to my sides. I struggle, kick, try to twist free. My elbow connects with something soft and I hear a grunt of pain, but the grip doesn't loosen.
"This is the one," a voice says. "Dark hair, right age. This is Benedetti."
Another figure appears in front of me—tall, broad, his face obscured by the dust and darkness. He grabs my chin, forcing my head up, studying my face like I'm merchandise to be appraised.
"Bianca Benedetti," he confirms. "Sergei will be pleased."
I spit in his face.
He laughs—actually laughs—and wipes his cheek with the back of his hand. "Spirited. He said you would be."
"Go to hell."
"Eventually. But first, we have a delivery to make."
He nods to the men holding me, and they start dragging me toward the ruined door. I fight every step—digging my heels in, twisting, screaming. But they're too strong, too well-trained, too prepared for exactly this kind of resistance.
Behind me, I hear Anna still fighting. Hear the sounds of a struggle, a sharp cry of pain, then a dull thud that makes my stomach lurch.
"Anna!" I try to turn, try to see what happened, but they won't let me. "Anna!"
No response.
"What did you do to her?" I demand, still struggling against my captors. "If you killed her—"
"Relax," the tall man says. "She's breathing. We're not here for her."
They don't know who she is, I realize. They think she's just some random woman, a friend or a servant, not Misha's sister. Not a Kashkin.
Small mercies.
They're dragging me through the ruined doorway now, over the debris and the shattered steel. I catch a glimpse of the corridor beyond—Petrov's body slumped against the wall, two of Sergei's men lying dead nearby. He fought. He took some of them with him.
But it wasn't enough.
"Misha will kill you," I say, still fighting even though I know it's useless. "He'll find me, and he'll kill every single one of you."
"Misha is busy," the tall man says. "That's rather the point."