Chapter Twenty-Four
She thinks she’s hiding it.
Freya stands by the reinforced glass of the safe house window, her back to me, pretending to watch the water recede from the gravel drive. Her posture is rigid, her shoulders squared in a way that screams defensiveness.
I see the tremor in her hands as she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. I see the faint, lingering flush on her cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold morning air.
She’s unraveling. Or perhaps, she’s finally knitting herself back together, just into a shape that fits me.
I walk up behind her, the floorboards silent under my boots. I don’t announce myself; I just step into her space.
Her breath hitches—a sharp, betrayed intake of air that she tries to swallow. She knows I’m here.
“You’re loud,” I murmur, stopping just inches from her back.
“I’m breathing,” she retorts, though her voice lacks its usual bite. It’s breathy, soft.
“You’re thinking.”
I reach out, my fingers brushing against her cheek. I catch the lock of hair she missed, tucking it behind her ear.
She leans into the touch, just a fraction. An unconscious surrender. It’s the most honest thing she’s ever done.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, the words slipping out before I can censor them.
She stiffens, pulling away slightly to turn and look at me. Her eyes are wide, wary. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes it harder,” she whispers.
“Harder to what?”
“Hate you.”
I smirk. “I never asked you to hate me, Freya.”
“No,” she agrees. “You just demanded my obedience, destroyed my freedom, and dragged me into a war.”
“Exactly.” I step closer, forcing her to look up at me. “I never asked for your hate. That was all you.”
I lower my head, intending to kiss her, to seal the moment before we have to return to the real world.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a jarring, intrusive sound. A reminder that the world outside this concrete bubble is still spinning, still deadly.
“Ignore it,” she whispers, reading my mind.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“It’s Yuri.”
“Then he can wait.”
She reaches up, her fingers curling into the lapels of my jacket, pulling me down. Her lips are soft, hesitant, but as they move against mine, the hesitation melts away. She tastes like mint and the lingering aftertaste of the peaches we shared in the dark.
For a second, I let myself forget. I let myself sink into the warmth of her mouth, the softness of her body, the illusion that we are just a man and a woman, not a Pakhan and his bargaining chip.
The buzz comes again. I pull back, resting my forehead against hers. A low curse slips from my lips.
“Go,” she says, her voice trembling. “Answer it.”
I step away, putting the necessary distance between us. I pull the phone from my pocket. The screen is cracked, the brightness turned all the way down.
“Gromov.”
“Where are you?” Yuri says, without preamble.
“We got caught in the storm. We’ll return shortly.”
“Sure, Boss, but there’s something… penthouse.”
His voice is static. I can hear him on the line, but the words come in and out.
“Yuri?”
The line goes dead.
I turn to Freya, brows furrowed. “I need to go. Stay here.”
“Wait—”
“Freya.”
But she’s already grabbing her jacket. “You’re not leaving me here. If something’s wrong, I want to help.”
She’s impossible, but I know arguing will only make things worse. I glare, but say nothing as she darts for the door. As I wrench the door open, though, I fix her with a look and say, “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t.”
The drive back to the city is a blur of adrenaline and silence. I drive with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh, a tether in the chaos. I can feel her trembling, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t ask questions.
We pull up to the private underground garage. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The usual hum of the ventilation system is absent.
“Stay behind me,” I say, killing the engine.
I reach under the seat, pulling out my Sig Sauer. I check the mag. Full.
I get out, opening her door. She’s already moving, staying close to my back.
We take the service elevator. It rises slowly, the numbers clicking by with agonizing slowness.
“What if someone’s broken in?” she whispers.
“Then they die.”
The doors open, and the penthouse is a disaster zone.
The lobby is torn apart. The sofa is overturned, stuffing spilling onto the marble floor. Glass crunches under our boots.
“Stay here,” I command, gesturing toward the wall.
“No.”
“Freya—”
“I’m not leaving your side.”
I look at her. I see the fear in her eyes, but I also see the steel. She’s not running.
“Fine,” I say. “Keep low.”
We move through the apartment, clearing the rooms one by one. The living area, the kitchen, the guest bedrooms. Empty. Destroyed.
Finally, we reach the main hall.
I hear them before I see them. Voices speaking in Italian.
I hold up a hand, signaling Freya to stop. I press her back against the wall, shielding her with my body.
There are three men armed with assault rifles. They’re ransacking the office, tearing drawers out, smashing the computer screens.
“Check the safe,” one of them says.
“It’s empty,” another replies. “Gromov moved everything.”
“Find the girl. Lorenzo wants her.”
I feel Freya flinch against my back.
I step into the hallway. “Looking for me?”
The men spin around, raising their weapons. They’re too slow. They’re thugs, hired muscle. I’m a Pakhan.
I fire three times. Three shots. Three kills. The bodies hit the floor, the sound deafening in the sudden silence.
Gunfire erupts from the living room behind us. More men. They must have flanked us.
“Move!” I shout, grabbing Freya’s arm and shoving her toward the bedroom.
“No!” she cries out. “I can’t leave you!”
“Go!”
I push her through the door and slam it shut, locking it. I turn, raising my weapon just as two men step into the hall.
I drop the first one with a shot to the chest. The second one returns fire. I feel the burn of a graze along my ribs, a sharp, hot sting. I ignore it.
I aim and fire. He drops.
I’m about to check the hallway when I hear the splintering of wood. The bedroom door. They’re trying to breach it.
“No,” I snarl, sprinting toward the door.
I turn just as a man raises his rifle. I tackle him, driving him into the wall. We hit the floor, struggling. He’s strong, fueled by desperation and drugs. He lands a solid blow to my jaw, dazing me.
I see stars.
I reach for my knife, the one strapped to my ankle. I pull it free and drive it into his neck. He goes still, gurgling.
I scramble to my feet, blood dripping from my jaw.
Freya is crouched in the corner, her hands over her head. Yuri is there now, having materialised when the fight started. He hovers over Freya and downs the last guy in a spray of blood.
Freya’s terrified, but she’s not screaming.
I run to her, dropping to my knees. I grab her shoulders, pulling her into my arms.
“You’re hurt,” she gasps, her hand flying to my side. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing!”
Yuri growls. “I tried to warn you, someone snuck up on me. You all right, Freya?”
She isn’t listening. She presses her hand against the graze, trying to stem the flow of blood. Her touch is gentle, desperate.
“We have to move,” I say. “There could be more. The staff?”
“All accounted for.”
I stand up, pulling her with me. I keep her behind me, shielding her with my body as we move through the wreckage of the apartment.
We reach the service elevator. It’s still waiting. I smash the button, keeping my weapon raised. The doors slide shut, sealing us inside.
I lower my gun, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The adrenaline is fading, leaving me shaky and weak.
She’s clinging to me, her face buried in my chest. She’s sobbing, silent, racking sobs that shake her entire body.
“Shh,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around her. “It’s over.”
“It’s not over,” she cries. “They almost… they almost…”
“But they didn’t.”
I hold her tighter, feeling the frantic beat of her heart against mine. I stroke her hair, murmuring meaningless reassurances.
Lorenzo. He did this. He came into my home and threatened my wife. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to tear him apart, piece by piece, and feed him to the sharks.
First, I have to keep her safe.
***
We don’t stay at the penthouse. We can’t. It’s a crime scene now, a tomb.
We go to a hotel while Yuri sets up the safe house for long-time use. It’s a small, discreet place in the Village that I own under a shell company. It’s not a fortress, but it’s off the grid. Safe.
The room is small, dingy. The carpet is stained, the wallpaper peeling. The bed is big, and the lock works.
I sit on the edge of the bed, watching her.
She’s sitting in the armchair, her knees pulled up to her chest. She’s stopped crying, but she looks small. Fragile.
“Let me see,” I say, gesturing to the graze on my side.
She stands up slowly, walking over to me. She gently lifts my shirt, exposing the angry red line across my ribs. It’s shallow, but it hurts like hell.
She cleans it with water from the bathroom, her touch featherlight. She bandages it with a kit she found under the sink, her fingers shaking.
“You need a doctor,” she says.
“No doctors.”
“Nikita—”
“No doctors,” I repeat, catching her hand. “It’s just a scratch.”
She looks at me, her eyes searching my face. She sees the pain, but she also sees the resolve.
“You’re going after him, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Soon.”