Chapter 24 - Misha #2
He's flanked by four men, all armed, all moving with the desperate urgency of rats fleeing a sinking ship. He sees me at the same moment I see him—and for one frozen instant, our eyes meet across the warehouse floor.
Then he runs.
"Get her out," I tell the men who've caught up with us. "Get her to the extraction point. I'll handle Sergei."
"Misha—" Bianca grabs my arm. "Don't. Just come with me. We can—"
"He'll never stop." I cup her face in my hands, force her to meet my eyes. "As long as he's alive, he'll keep coming. For you, for me, for everything we have. I have to end this."
"Then I'm coming with you."
"No."
"Misha—"
I kiss her. Hard, desperate, pouring everything I can't say into the contact. When I pull back, her eyes are bright with tears.
"Go," I tell her. "I'll find you. I promise."
I don't wait for her response. I'm already running, chasing Sergei through the warehouse, past burning crates and fallen bodies, into the smoke and chaos of the night.
I find him in the courtyard.
He's alone now—his men either dead or fled. He's standing in the middle of the open space, weapon drawn, waiting for me. The compound is burning around us, flames licking at the sky, smoke billowing in thick black clouds.
"Kashkin." He says my name like a curse. "I knew you'd come."
"Then you knew how this would end."
"Did I?" He laughs—a hollow, bitter sound. "I had such plans for you. For her. I was going to make you watch while I took everything from you, piece by piece. Your empire. Your woman. Your life."
"You failed."
"Did I?" His smile is thin, cruel. "You might have gotten her back, but at what cost? How many men did you lose tonight? How many families destroyed because you couldn't protect one woman?"
I don't answer. I don't need to.
"She was supposed to be mine, you know." Sergei's eyes gleam in the firelight. "I had an arrangement with her father. Bianca was promised to me—payment for services rendered. And then you waltzed into that auction and outbid me like I was nothing."
"You should have bid higher."
"I shouldn't have had to bid at all!" The composure cracks, rage bleeding through. "She was mine. Bought and paid for. And you stole her from me."
"I didn't steal anything. I won."
"You cheated me." He raises his weapon, matching mine. "You humiliated me in front of everyone who matters. Made me look weak. Made me look like a fool."
"You did that yourself."
His jaw tightens. "I've spent weeks planning this. Turning your man, mapping your defenses, waiting for the perfect moment. All to show you what it feels like to have something taken from you."
"And now?"
"Now?" He laughs again, but there's no humor in it. "Now I'm going to kill you. And then I'm going to find her again. And this time, there won't be anyone left to save her."
We stand there, weapons aimed at each other, the fire roaring around us.
"You should have stayed in Los Angeles," I say. "You should have let it go."
"I couldn't. You took what was mine."
"She was never yours. She was never anyone's property." I tighten my grip on my weapon. "That's the part you never understood."
"Spare me the sentiment." His finger tightens on the trigger. "You bought her at an auction. Don't pretend you're any better than me."
"Maybe I'm not. But I'm the one who's going to walk away from this."
He fires.
I'm already moving.
The bullet grazes my shoulder—a line of fire across my skin—but I don't stop. I close the distance between us in three strides, knock his weapon aside, drive my knife into his gut.
He gasps, his eyes going wide, his hands clutching at my arms.
"That's for Bianca," I say.
I twist the knife, and he screams.
"That's for my men."
I pull the blade free and drive it in again, higher this time, between his ribs.
"And this—" I lean close, my lips against his ear. "This is for thinking you could take what's mine."
I drag the knife across his throat.
Blood sprays across my face, hot and copper-scented. Sergei makes a gurgling sound, his hands clutching uselessly at his ruined neck. He falls to his knees, then forward, face-first into the dirt.
I stand over his body, breathing hard, the knife dripping in my hand.
It's done.
***
I find Bianca at the extraction point.
She's sitting in the back of one of our vehicles, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a medic checking her injuries. When she sees me, she pushes past him and runs.
I catch her, hold her, bury my face in her hair.
"Is he—"
"He's dead."
She pulls back to look at my face—at the blood splattered across my skin, the wound on my shoulder, the exhaustion in my eyes.
"You're hurt."
"It's nothing."
"Misha—"
"Later." I cup her face in my hands. "Right now, I just need to hold you."
She nods, tears streaming down her face, and presses herself against me.
Around us, my men are securing the perimeter, loading wounded into vehicles, preparing for the long drive back. The compound burns behind us, lighting up the night sky.
I hold her tighter, feeling her heartbeat against my chest, and for the first time in hours—in days—I let myself breathe.
Then she pulls back, looking up at me with something new in her eyes. Fear, yes, but also something else. Something I can't quite read.
"Misha, there's something I need to tell you."
"What is it?"
She hesitates, her hands pressed flat against my chest. I can feel her trembling.
"I'm pregnant."
The words hit me like a physical blow. For a moment, I can't move, can't think, can't do anything but stare at her.
"What?"
"I found out right before the attack. I was going to tell you, but then everything happened so fast, and—" Her voice breaks. "I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner. I should have—"
"Bianca." I take her face in my hands, force her to meet my eyes. "How long have you known?"
"Since the morning of the assault. I took a test. Mrs. Novak helped me get it." Tears are streaming down her face now. "I wanted to tell you before the battle, but I didn't want to distract you, and then they took me, and I was so scared that something would happen, that the baby wouldn't—"
"The baby." The word feels foreign on my tongue. Strange and terrifying and somehow right. "You're carrying my child."
She nods, her lower lip trembling.
I pull her against me, holding her so tightly that I can feel every breath she takes, every beat of her heart.
My child. Our child. Growing inside her while she was chained to a wall in Sergei's dungeon. While I was tearing through his compound, killing everyone between me and her.
"Are you—" I pull back, searching her face. "The baby. Is it—"
"I don't know." Her voice is small, fragile. "I haven't been able to see a doctor. But I haven't had any bleeding, any cramping. I think—I hope—"
"We'll get you to a doctor. As soon as we're back. We'll make sure everything is okay."
She nods, but I can see the exhaustion crashing over her now—the adrenaline fading, the fear and pain and relief all catching up at once. Her eyes are glazing, her body swaying.
"Misha, I don't feel—"
Her knees buckle.
I catch her before she hits the ground, sweeping her up into my arms. She's limp, unconscious, her head lolling against my shoulder. The medic is there in seconds, checking her pulse, her breathing.
"She's exhausted," he says. "Dehydrated, malnourished. She needs rest and fluids, but she'll be okay."
"She's pregnant," I tell him. "Get her to a hospital. Now."
The medic's eyes widen, but he doesn't hesitate. "Yes, sir."
I carry her to the vehicle myself, settling her gently across the back seat, her head in my lap. The engine roars to life, and we're moving, tearing down the dark road away from the burning compound.
I brush the hair from her face, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. She looks so fragile like this. So small. But I know better. I've seen her fight, seen her survive, seen her refuse to break no matter what the world threw at her.
She's the strongest person I've ever known.
And she's carrying my child.
I press my hand against her stomach—flat still, no visible sign of the life growing inside her. But it's there. Our future. Our family.
I lean down and press my lips to her forehead.
"I've got you," I whisper. "Both of you. I'm never letting you go."
The night rushes past outside the windows. The compound burns on the horizon behind us. And somewhere ahead, a new life is waiting.
I'm not ready for this. I don't know how to be a father. I don't know how to be anything other than what I am—a killer, a crime lord, a man built for violence and destruction.
But for her—for them—I'll learn.
Whatever it takes.