Chapter 8 Dimitri
DIMITRI
Three am finds me exactly where I’ve been for the past seven hours—sitting in my office, staring at security footage until my eyes burn.
I’ve watched the attack forty-three times now (yes, I’ve counted). Frame by frame. Angle by angle. The conference room had eight cameras. All of them captured the chaos from different perspectives. And none of them tell me what I need to know.
I pause the footage again. Rewind. Watch the window explode inward for the forty-fourth time. Glass shattering in slow motion, each shard catching the light. Then the first muzzle flash from outside. Then chaos.
My eyes track across the screen, taking in every detail.
The way my men moved, diving for cover in the right directions.
The way the Ashford guards reacted (slightly slower, less coordinated, but still professional).
The civilians, Konstantin, Vincent Ashford, the various advisors and seconds-in-command, all of them scrambling.
And Vera. Frozen in her seat for three full seconds before I grabbed her. Her face was blank with shock, her body rigid, like her brain couldn’t understand what was happening fast enough to react.
I watch myself throw her to the ground and cover her body with mine. Even in the grainy security footage, I can see the violence of it. The way her head snaps back and how she crumples under my weight. I’d been rough. Brutal, even.
But gentle wouldn’t have saved her life.
The bullets tear through the space where her head had been moments before. If I’d been one second slower...
I close that line of thinking immediately. She’s alive. That’s what matters.
I rewind again. This time, I focus on the windows. The angle of the shots. The pattern of destruction.
Professional. That’s the word that keeps coming back to me. Whoever did this wasn’t some random opportunist or a rival family taking a shot in the dark. This was planned and coordinated.
Someone knew exactly when that meeting would happen. They knew where everyone would be positioned. They knew our security protocols, which guards would be stationed where, which exits would be monitored, and which blind spots existed in our coverage.
This wasn’t an outside attack.
This was betrayal.
The thought sits heavy in my gut. Someone on the inside gave up that information. Someone I trust (or someone the Ashfords trust) sold us out.
I pull up a blank document and start making a list.
The Volkov side includes Konstantin, Roman, Mikhail, Sergei, Viktor, Boris (Konstantin’s right-hand man), and our security team which includes five men.
The Ashford side includes Vincent, Marcus (his name is darker from how my pen presses against the paper—how I wish I could gut him alive), their various advisors and security personnel.
Then I list the staff—people who arranged the location, who set up the room, and those who had access to scheduling.
The list is longer than I want it to be. Too many people. Too many potential leaks. Fuck.
I stare at Konstantin’s name at the top. My uncle. The man who guided me after my father died and taught me everything I know about running this organization. He stood beside me through every crisis, every decision, every moment of doubt.
No. Not Konstantin. He’s the one person I can trust without question. He’s family and has proven his loyalty a thousand times over.
I draw a line through his name. Whatever is happening, Konstantin isn’t part of it. I’d stake my life on that.
But that leaves everyone else as potential suspects. And at the top of that list, underlined twice, is Marcus Ashford.
The man who killed Alexei. The man who had every reason to want the peace to fail. The man whose smug expression at that meeting suggested he knew something was coming.
Trust no one.
The phrase echoes in my head like a mantra. It’s the first rule of this business, the lesson beaten into me from childhood. Trust is a weakness. Trust gets you killed.
I thought I’d learned that lesson and that I understood it.
But apparently, I still had people I trusted. I still had blind spots. And one of those blind spots nearly got Vera killed yesterday.
The thought makes me want to punch something.
I pull up the footage again and watch myself cover her body. I can still feel the phantom sensation of her trembling beneath me, and hear the echo of my own voice ordering her to stay down.
I’d been fucking terrified.
Not for myself. I’ve been shot at before, and been in worse situations than a simple ambush. Danger is part of the job, and it’s part of the life I chose.
But watching those bullets tear through the air where she’d been sitting, knowing I had seconds—less than seconds—to move her out of the way...
My heart had stopped. It had actually stopped. For one brief, horrible moment, I’d imagined those bullets hitting her. Imagined her blood spreading across that conference room floor, and having to tell Vincent Ashford I’d failed to protect his daughter.
I imagined losing her.
That last thought stops me cold.
Losing her? Why the fuck would I think of it that way? She’s not mine to lose. She’s a means to an end. An insurance policy as I like to say.
Except I’d thrown myself over her without thinking and covered her body with mine. I made myself a goddamn human shield and exposed my own back to gunfire to keep her safe.
That’s not how you protect an insurance policy.
That’s how you protect someone you care about.
The realization makes me want to put my fist through a wall. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. This is why I’ve been maintaining distance, why I’ve been a dick during those dinners, and why I’ve been pushing her away.
Because if I let myself care about her—even a little—this all becomes infinitely more complicated.
And yesterday proved I’m already in too deep to pretend otherwise.
“God, I’m fucked,” I mutter to myself.
I scrub my hands over my face, exhaustion pulling at me.
I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, and I can’t remember the last time I ate.
Yesterday morning, maybe? The bullet graze on my arm throbs with every heartbeat, poorly bandaged and probably in need of proper medical attention. Dr. Petrov is going to have my head.
But I can’t rest. Not until I figure out who did this. Not until I know Vera is safe.
Vera is safe.
When did I start thinking of her safety as my primary concern?
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Roman.
All clear at the estate. Extra security in place. No suspicious activity.
I type back.
Keep everyone on high alert. Trust no one.
Even as I send it, I wonder… can I even trust Roman? He’s been with me for eight years. He’s loyal, efficient, and has never given me reason to doubt. But someone close gave up that information. Someone I would never suspect.
Trust no one.
The sun is starting to rise outside my window, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Another day. Another pile of problems to solve. Another step deeper into this mess I’ve created.
I need information. I need to figure out who knew what, who had access, who might have a motive to sabotage the peace.
And there’s only one person who can help me get intel on the Ashford side.
I pull out my phone and dial the estate.
“Mrs. Kozlov,” I say when she answers. “Tell my wife I need to see her. Have a car bring her to my office. Now.”
There’s a pause. Mrs. Kozlov is stunned by this. “Should I tell her why, Mr. Volkov?” she asks.
“No. Just tell her to come.” I hang up before she can ask more questions.
Forty minutes later, there’s a knock on my office door.
“Come in,” I bark, rubbing my eyes again. They feel like there’s sand in them. God, I’m so tired.
The door opens, and Vera enters.
She’s wearing a light cotton dress. It’s pale yellow with short sleeves and a modest neckline.
It’s simple, probably something Mrs. Kozlov picked out, and it skims her frame in a way that shows she's lost weight.
The color should make her look washed out, but instead it catches the morning light streaming through my window, making her skin look warmer. Softer.
Her hair is down today, falling in loose waves past her shoulders—that reddish-brown color shot through with copper and gold highlights from the sun.
She isn’t wearing makeup, or at least not much. I can see the shadows under her eyes, evidence of a sleepless night that matches my own. But her eyes themselves are clear and focused. Those warm brown irises with flecks of amber that seem to catch every bit of light in the room.
She carefully closes the door behind her, her movements controlled despite the obvious tension in her shoulders. Her hands clasp together in front of her, fingers intertwining tightly, and she stands there for a moment, clearly uncertain whether to come closer or stay by the door.
I study her closer. She looks tired and rundown, clearly surviving on adrenaline and fear for too long.
And beautiful.
The thought hits me without permission. She’s beautiful standing there in that simple dress with her hair down, looking at me like she’s not sure if I'm going to yell or just dismiss her. Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with styling or effort and everything to do with the determined set of her jaw and the way she’s holding herself together through sheer force of will.
This is more dangerous to my carefully maintained distance.
Her eyes meet mine and I see wariness and caution there. She moves toward the chair across from my desk but perches on the edge of it like she expects me to lunge across and strike her.
The realization stings more than it should.
Is that really what she thinks of me? That I’d hurt her physically? That I’m capable of...
But then I remember the dinners. The nasty words. The way I’ve deliberately made her life hell since our marriage.
Of course she thinks I might hurt her. I’ve given her every reason to be afraid.
“Sit back,” I hear myself say. “You look like you’re ready to bolt.”