Chapter 36 Nadya
NADYA
I hum to myself as I walk back toward the house, slipping past clusters of guests with a small smile on my face. For once, everything feels…easy. Peaceful.
The caterers are probably scrambling in the kitchen. I can already hear the low hum of their chatter through the hallway walls, and I’m just about to push through the swinging door when a hand clamps around my arm and yanks me hard.
I gasp, stumbling backward, disoriented. My heels scrape against the tile as I’m dragged into the narrow, shadowed corridor beside the pantry.
“What the—” I twist violently, already half-ready to strike, when I see the face.
Pyotr.
My father.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I go cold. “What the hell are you doing here?”
His eyes are darting around the hallway like a cornered rat. “You have to listen to me.”
“I’m not listening to a goddamn thing. You aren’t invited. You shouldn’t be within a hundred miles of this house.”
“Nadya,” he says, voice low and desperate. “You have to get out of here. You and the children. All of you. Leave. Now.”
I stare at him, my brain refusing to make sense of the words. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re in grave danger,” he says, leaning closer. His breath smells faintly of vodka and panic. “They’re coming for you. All of you.”
“You have some nerve,” I whisper, seething. “Showing up here after you sold us out to Dmitry—”
“Not to Dmitry,” he cuts in.
That stuns me into silence. I blink. “What?”
A dull noise cuts through the air outside—like metal cracking or something far away exploding—and I glance toward the door behind me, half-distracted.
“It wasn’t Dmitry I spoke to,” Pyotr continues, his voice trembling. “It was his son that found me.”
“Roman?” I ask, confused. “He’s dead.”
Pyotr shakes his head. “No. The younger one. Alexei. He’s the one who tracked me down. Paid me. Told me to say what I said.”
Blood roars in my ears. “Why? Why would he—?”
“I didn’t know, Nadya. I didn’t know what he wanted, I thought it was just to rattle Konstantin—he said he wanted information, just to protect the family. But now…” He’s shaking, eyes wild. “Now I’ve come to know his true plans.”
“What plans?” I whisper, my voice a thread.
He looks directly into my eyes. “He intends to kill your entire family.”
The world tilts. For a moment, I can’t hear the music anymore.
I stare at him. “What did you just say?”
“Listen to me,” Pyotr says, clutching my face with shaking hands. “You have to follow my instructions carefully if you want to survive this. Get the kids. And get out of here.”
My father is saying something—his voice low and urgent—but the words dissolve in the rising tide of noise. Gunfire cracks in the distance. Shouts. Screams. The thunder of boots on hardwood.
“Take the service road, loop around the orchard. There’s a tunnel that leads past the ridge. Nadya, listen to me—”
But I’m not listening. I can’t.
All I can hear is the pounding of blood in my ears. All I can think is, Where is Konstantin? Where is Nikolai? Where is Mila?
I bolt.
My bare feet slap against cold tile as I tear down the hallway, the pistol gripped tight in one hand. Behind me, Pyotr shouts my name, pleading, but I don’t stop. I don’t even look back.
The hallway seems to stretch endlessly—doors blurring past, shadows twitching. A framed painting crashes to the floor as I round the corner too fast. I think I hear someone on the stairs, but I keep going.
I need to get to the kids. I need to find Konstantin. I need to know he’s still…
A deafening boom rattles the windows. Something explodes out in the garden—maybe the fountain, maybe a car.
The noise outside is deafening now—gunshots, glass shattering, the muffled thump of bodies hitting the ground. I burst through the back door and onto the veranda, the cold air like ice in my lungs.
The garden is chaos.
Smoke rises in oily tendrils from the hedges. Someone screams. People scatter in every direction—black silhouettes against the glow of the string lights now flickering wildly. I spot Dmitry’s men near the driveway, exchanging fire with someone behind the trees.
Where are the children?
I whirl around, eyes wild, panic twisting inside me like a knife. And that’s when I feel it—a crack of pain so blinding it knocks the breath from my lungs.
My leg buckles beneath me.
I fall hard, the stone scraping my palms. My dress tears. When I touch my thigh, my hand comes away red.
Blood.
Fuck. I’ve been shot.
I grit my teeth, fighting the rising bile in my throat. I can’t stop. I can’t think. I start to crawl, dragging myself forward, leaving a trail of red behind me.
Then I see her.
Irina.
She’s alone, near the far corner of the courtyard, her face drawn with determination as she peers into the distance—no doubt looking for me, for the kids, for anyone to help. I try to scream her name, but my voice is a whisper, swallowed by the chaos.
And then I see him.
Kirov.
That bastard from the auction.
His eyes gleam in the darkness, locked on Irina like a predator who’s waited far too long to strike.
“No,” I croak, trying to force myself up. My vision spins. I claw at the stone, scraping my skin raw. “No—”
But she doesn’t see him. Not until it’s too late. Just a flick of his wrist and Irina’s throat opens like torn silk. She gasps.
“No!” I scream, lungs tearing.
He vanishes into the smoke before I can even register if he saw me.
Irina drops to her knees, then crumples face-forward. I’m running before I know it, the burning in my thigh forgotten. I fall beside her, turning her gently over.
Her eyes flicker. Her lips move. She tries to say something—but the blood is already choking her words.
“I’m here,” I whisper, my hands trembling as I press them to the wound, useless. “You’re okay. I’ve got you, Irina.”
But she isn’t okay. She’s dying in my arms.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I cradle her head, smoothing back her hair.
“You saved them,” I whisper, barely able to speak past the lump in my throat. “You got them away. You did it.”
Her fingers twitch once, on my sleeve. Then nothing.
She’s gone, just like that. And I feel it. Like the world shifts. Like some part of our little universe has just torn at the seam. I cry silently into her hair, rocking her like a child.
A moment later, I hear Lev’s voice shouting for me through the haze. But I don’t move.
“Nadya.”
The voice is rough, urgent.
“Nadya, we have to go.”
I blink up at him. His face is blood-smeared and pale. His eyes drop to Irina, and something flashes across his features—grief, rage, maybe both.
“She’s gone,” I whisper. My voice cracks. “She’s—”
“I know,” he says quietly, crouching and gently pulling me to my feet. “But we can’t stay. It’s not safe.”
“Where are the kids?” I choke out, blinking hard against the tears still running down my cheeks. “Mila—Nikolai—”
“Mila’s with me,” he says, his voice strained. “She’s safe, in the secured hallway with three of our men.”
Relief slams into me so hard I almost fall again.
“But Nikolai…” Lev adds, eyes flicking toward the main house. “I can’t find him.”
My stomach drops.
“What?” I say. “What do you mean you can’t find him?!”
“I’m sorry, Nadya,” Lev says, looking stricken.
A scream gets caught in my throat. I look around. Where is my baby?
“Nikolai…” I whisper. “And Konstantin? Where’s Konstantin?”
Lev looks away for a beat too long.
“I don’t know,” he says, finally.