Chapter 19 - Gaby
The house felt wrong without him.
I tried to work after he left—tried to focus on the Athens acquisition reports spread across the library table. But the numbers blurred before my eyes, and my thoughts kept drifting to the helicopter I'd watched disappear over the horizon, carrying him away from me.
Come back to me, I'd said. Promise me.
He'd promised. But promises felt fragile when the person making them was flying toward danger, and I was stuck on this island with nothing to do but wait.
I gave up on work around midday and wandered the house, restless and unsettled.
The guards seemed tenser than usual—or was I imagining it?
Every time I passed a window, I saw them scanning the perimeter, hands resting on their weapons.
When I asked Yelena about it, she smiled and said Mr. Chernov had simply increased security before his departure.
Nothing to worry about.
But I worried anyway.
The afternoon crawled by. I tried to read, tried to nap, tried to eat the bland crackers Yelena brought me for the nausea that came and went without warning. Nothing helped. The wrongness in the air had settled into my bones, a low-frequency hum of dread I couldn't shake.
At four o'clock, I gave up pretending and went to stand at the library windows, watching the Mediterranean glitter in the late afternoon light. Vasily would be hours into his flight by now. Somewhere over the Atlantic, moving farther away with every passing minute.
My hand found my stomach, pressing against the barely perceptible swell.
We're okay, I told the baby silently. Your father will be back soon. Everything's going to be fine.
I almost believed it.
The first explosion shattered that illusion.
It came from somewhere to the north—a deep, percussive boom that rattled the windows and sent birds screaming from the trees. I stumbled back from the glass, my heart lurching into my throat.
For a moment, everything was silent. Then the gunfire started.
Short, staccato bursts. Answering fire. Men shouting in the distance—words I couldn't make out, in a language I didn't recognize.
I stood frozen, my mind refusing to process what was happening. This was supposed to be safe. Vasily had promised I'd be safe here. The island was fortified, guarded, impenetrable—
The library door burst open, and Yelena rushed in.
I'd never seen her anything but composed. Now her face was white, her eyes wide with fear. She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the door.
"We have to move. Now."
"What's happening? Who's—"
"No time. Come."
She dragged me into the hallway, moving faster than I'd thought possible for a woman her age. The sounds of fighting were closer now—gunfire somewhere in the house, glass breaking, a man's scream cut abruptly short.
"The safe room," Yelena said, half to herself. "Mr. Chernov showed you, yes? Reinforced walls, steel door. You'll be protected there until—"
Another explosion, closer this time. The floor shook beneath our feet. Yelena stumbled, and I caught her arm, keeping us both upright.
We rounded a corner and nearly collided with Kirill.
He was bleeding from a gash on his forehead, his suit jacket torn, a gun in each hand. When he saw us, something like relief flickered across his face.
"Mrs. Chernov. Thank God." He fell into step beside us, checking behind us as we moved. "The north perimeter's been breached. At least twenty men, maybe more. They came by boat—we didn't see them until they were on the shore."
"How?" The word came out strangled. "How did they find us?"
"The leak. Lucas." Kirill's jaw tightened. "He gave them everything. They knew our patrol schedules, our blind spots. They knew exactly where to hit."
We reached the stairs that led down to the safe room. Kirill went first, gun raised, checking the shadows. Yelena kept her hand on my back, urging me forward.
We were halfway down when the gunfire erupted below us.
Kirill shoved me back, firing into the darkness. Muzzle flashes lit the stairwell—one, two, three. A man cried out. Another answered with a spray of bullets that sent chips of stone flying from the walls.
"Back!" Kirill shouted. "Go back—I'll hold them!"
Yelena pulled me up the stairs, her grip surprisingly strong. I caught one last glimpse of Kirill before we turned the corner—standing his ground, firing methodically, a wall between us and the men, trying to kill us.
Then we were running again, and I couldn't see anything but the hallway ahead and the doors flashing past.
"The east wing," Yelena gasped. "There's a closet—hidden panel—Mr. Chernov had it built for emergencies—"
We turned another corner, and she shoved me through a doorway into what looked like a storage room. Shelves of linens, cleaning supplies, the smell of lavender and bleach. She pushed past me to a section of wall that looked like all the others and pressed something I couldn't see.
A panel swung open, revealing a space barely large enough for one person.
"Inside," she said. "Stay hidden. Don't make a sound, no matter what you hear."
"What about you?"
"I'll lead them away. Make them think you went the other direction." She pushed me toward the opening. "Please, Mrs. Chernov. For the baby."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to refuse to hide while she put herself in danger for me. But her eyes were fierce, determined, and I knew she wouldn't listen.
I squeezed into the hidden space, my back against cold stone, my knees drawn up to make myself as small as possible. Yelena pressed her hand briefly to my cheek.
"He'll come," she said. "Mr. Chernov will come. Just stay alive until he does."
Then she closed the panel, and I was alone in the dark.
Time stopped meaning anything.
I crouched in that tiny space, my hand pressed to my stomach, and listened to the sounds of violence tear through the house I'd started to think of as home.
Gunfire. Shouting. The crash of furniture being overturned, doors being kicked in. Men calling to each other in Armenian—I recognized the cadence now, even if I couldn't understand the words. They were searching. Room by room, methodically, professionally.
Looking for me.
I heard Yelena's voice at some point—raised, defiant, speaking rapid Greek. Then a man's voice, harsh and demanding. A sound that might have been a slap. A cry of pain.
I pressed my fist against my mouth to keep from screaming.
Stay hidden, she'd said. No matter what you hear.
The footsteps came closer. I could hear them in the room beyond my hiding place—boots on hardwood, shelves being shoved aside, supplies crashing to the floor. Someone said something in Armenian, and another man laughed.
They were right there. Inches away from where I crouched, barely breathing, my heart hammering so loud I was sure they must hear it.
The footsteps paused. I heard breathing—heavy, close. The scrape of a hand along the wall.
Then a shout from somewhere else in the house. The footsteps moved away. A door slammed.
I stayed frozen, not daring to move, not daring to believe they'd gone.
Minutes passed. Or hours. I couldn't tell. The sounds of fighting faded to occasional bursts, then to silence. My legs cramped. My back ached. The baby—was the baby okay? I pressed my hand harder against my stomach, as if I could protect it with the pressure of my palm.
Hold on, I thought. Just hold on.
I couldn't stay there forever.
The thought crystallized slowly, pushing through the fog of fear. They were searching the house systematically. They'd already been in this room once. Eventually, they'd come back. Eventually, they'd find the hidden panel.
And even if they didn't—how long could I hide here? Hours? Days? Vasily was thousands of miles away. Help might not come for—
I cut off the thought. It didn't matter. I couldn't just cower in the dark and wait to be found like a rabbit in a trap.
The safe room. If I could get to the safe room, I could lock myself in. Reinforced walls, steel door—Yelena had said it. Supplies for days. Communications equipment. A way to call for help.
I just had to get there.
Slowly, carefully, I pushed against the hidden panel. It swung open without a sound, revealing the wrecked storage room beyond. Shelves overturned, linens scattered across the floor, the door hanging open.
I listened. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices. Just the distant crackle of fire and the pounding of my own pulse.
I slipped out of the hiding space and crept toward the door.
The hallway was worse than I'd expected.
Bullet holes pocked the walls. A painting had fallen, its frame shattered. And there—sprawled at the end of the corridor—
A body. One of the guards. I recognized him—Dmitri, the young one who'd always nodded politely when I passed. He lay face down in a spreading pool of red, his eyes open and staring at nothing.
I pressed my hand over my mouth and forced myself to keep moving.
The route to the safe room was burned into my memory from the tour Vasily had given me during my first week. Down this hallway, left at the portrait gallery, through the sitting room, down the stairs. I moved as quietly as I could, stepping over debris, freezing at every sound.
Another body in the portrait gallery—one of Pankratov's men this time, his face a ruin of blood and bone. I stepped around him, not looking, not letting myself think about what I was seeing.
The sitting room was empty, furniture overturned, but no bodies. I was almost to the stairs. Almost safe.
I didn't see him until it was too late.
He stepped out of the shadows beside the fireplace—a big man, broad-shouldered, with a shaved head and a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. His eyes found me, and his lips curved into a smile that made my blood freeze.
"There you are," he said, his English heavily accented. "We've been looking for you."
I ran.
I made it three steps before arms grabbed me from behind—another man, one I hadn't seen. I screamed and fought, driving my elbow back into his stomach, raking my nails across his face. He cursed, and his grip loosened. I twisted free and ran again.
The scarred man caught me by the hair.
Pain exploded across my scalp as he yanked me backward. I fell against him, still fighting, kicking at his shins, clawing at his hands. He laughed—actually laughed—and wrapped an arm around my throat, cutting off my air.
"Stop fighting," he said against my ear. "Or I'll hurt you worse than I need to."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. My vision was going dark at the edges, my lungs burning. I clawed at his arm, but he was too strong.
"The boss wants her alive," another voice said. "Don't damage her too much."
The pressure on my throat eased slightly. I gasped for air, choking, my legs giving out beneath me. The scarred man held me up like I weighed nothing.
"Search her."
Hands patted me down—rough, impersonal. They found nothing. I had nothing—no weapon, no phone, nothing that could help me.
"Clean," someone reported.
The scarred man turned me to face him, his hand still tangled in my hair. Up close, I could see the cruelty in his eyes—the pleasure he took in my fear.
"Mrs. Chernov," he said, savoring the name. "Mr. Pankratov sends his regards. He's been wanting to meet you for a long time."
"Go to hell."
He backhanded me across the face. Stars exploded behind my eyes. I tasted blood.
"Careful," the other man said. "Pankratov wants her in one piece."
"One piece doesn't mean undamaged." The scarred man grabbed my jaw, forcing me to look at him.
"Your husband killed a lot of our people.
Destroyed shipments, territories, years of work.
The boss wants to return the favor." His eyes dropped to my stomach, and something shifted in his expression.
"Is it true? You're carrying his child?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer, even if I'd wanted to.
He smiled—a terrible smile, full of dark promise. "Pankratov will be pleased. A wife is leverage. A child is a dynasty."
They bound my hands behind my back with zip ties that bit into my wrists. Someone threw a hood over my head, plunging me into darkness. Then they were dragging me through the house, over debris and bodies I couldn't see, out into the evening air that smelled of smoke and salt.
I heard the crash of waves, the rumble of a boat engine. Hands shoved me forward, and I stumbled down what felt like a gangplank, landing hard on a metal deck.
The hood was ripped off.
I blinked in the fading light, my eyes adjusting.
I was on a speedboat, surrounded by armed men.
Behind us, the island was burning—flames licking from windows, black smoke rising against the twilight sky.
The house I'd come to think of as home, the prison that had become a sanctuary, consumed by fire.
And somewhere in the wreckage—Yelena, Kirill, everyone who'd tried to protect me.
Were they alive? Dead? I didn't know. Couldn't know.
The boat's engine roared, and we pulled away from the shore. The island grew smaller and smaller, a dark shape against the orange glow of flames, until it was just a speck on the horizon.
Then it was gone.
I sat on the cold metal deck, my hands bound, my face throbbing where the man had struck me, and watched the Mediterranean stretch endless and dark in every direction.
Vasily was somewhere in the sky, flying back to an island that was already lost. He'd land to find ashes and blood and the knowledge that he'd failed to protect me. Failed to protect us.
Come back to me, I'd said.
But I wouldn't be there when he did.
My hand flexed uselessly behind my back, wanting to touch my stomach. The baby. Our baby. The tiny life that had no idea what kind of world it was being born into, what kind of danger it was already in.
I'll protect you, I promised silently. Whatever it takes. Whatever I have to do.
I didn't know how I'd keep that promise. Didn't know what Pankratov wanted, what he'd do to me, how long I'd be able to survive.
But I knew one thing with absolute certainty.
Vasily would come for me.
He would burn the world down to find me. Would kill anyone who stood in his way. Would stop at nothing until I was back in his arms.
I just had to stay alive until he did.
The boat cut through the dark water, carrying me toward an unknown shore. I closed my eyes and thought of green eyes and rough hands and a voice that called me little dove.
And for the first time since Vasily Chernov had kidnapped me from my life, I prayed.