Chapter 14 Dimitri
DIMITRI
The left side of my face throbs with every heartbeat but I ignore it.
Just like I ignore the way the bandage pulls at the stitches Dr. Petrov put in my forehead and the bruising that’s spread across my cheekbone in shades of purple and black.
I ignore everything except the maps and timelines and personnel files spread across my desk like evidence at a crime scene.
Because that’s what this is. A crime. Multiple crimes. And I’m going to find who’s responsible if it’s the last fucking thing I do.
The rage simmers just beneath my skin, hot and vicious and barely contained. It’s been there since the moment that bomb went off and I heard Vera screaming and saw blood on her face.
Someone tried to kill us. My wife. My—
The baby.
My hands curl into fists on the desk, and I have to force myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Control. I need control.
Vera is resting upstairs. Dr. Petrov checked her thoroughly, ran every test, and did another ultrasound.
She’s fine. The baby is fine. They’re both miraculously, impossibly fine.
But that’s just luck. Dumb fucking luck that I swerved when I did, that the bomb hit the decoy car instead of ours, and that we were thrown clear before the flames reached us.
Next time, we might not be so lucky.
And there will be a next time. Whoever is behind these attacks won’t stop until we’re both in the ground with Alexei.
I pull out my list, reviewing it for the hundredth time.
Attack 1: Peace meeting ambush. Someone knew the exact location, timing, and security protocols. 0 fatalities
Attack 2: Car bomb. Someone knew our route, vehicles, and schedule. 2 fatalities.
But those aren’t the only incidents. I’ve been too focused on the major attacks to see the pattern of smaller ones.
August 20: Security breach at the east warehouse. Someone accessed our shipping manifests, but nothing was taken. Dismissed as opportunistic thieves.
August 28: Sabotaged shipment. Three crates of merchandise destroyed. Blamed on rival organization.
September 10: Meeting location leaked to the press. Had to relocate at the last minute. Blamed on loose lips.
Every single one required inside information. Someone in my organization is feeding intel to an enemy. It’s someone close enough to know schedules, routes, locations, which means it’s someone I trust.
Trust. That’s what this all comes down to. I’ve spent my entire life building this organization based on loyalty, on the idea that we’re family, that we protect our own. And someone has betrayed that. They’ve sold us out.
I just don’t know who.
A knock on my door interrupts my spiral. “Come in.”
Konstantin enters, looking serious. He moves with the confidence of someone who’s survived forty years in this business and has seen everything and can’t be rattled but I see the concern in his dark eyes as they sweep over my face, taking in the damage.
“You look like death warmed over,” he observes, settling into the chair across from my desk.
“Feel like it too.” I gesture to the files spread before me. “We need to talk.”
He follows my gaze, taking in the maps and timelines and personnel files with the practiced eye of someone who’s done this analysis a thousand times. “You’ve been busy.”
“Someone’s trying to kill us, Uncle. I’m trying to figure out who before they succeed.” I lean forward, ignoring the protest from my bruised ribs. “Look at this. Every attack, every incident in the past month. They all required inside information.”
Konstantin studies the timeline I’ve created, his expression unreadable. “You think we have a traitor.”
“I know we have a traitor.” I point to the list. “The peace meeting—someone gave up that location. The car bomb—someone knew our exact route, our timing, and what vehicle I’d be in. This isn’t random. This is coordinated and deliberate. Someone on the inside is feeding information to an enemy.”
“Or,” Konstantin says carefully, “the Ashfords are more clever than we give them credit for. Marcus has always been ambitious. Perhaps he’s decided to eliminate both you and his brother, consolidate power—”
“Marcus was at the peace meeting when it was bombed,” I interrupt. “He would have died too. And yesterday’s attack—that would have killed Vera. Why would he kill his own niece?”
Konstantin shrugs. “Perhaps she’s acceptable collateral damage to him. Perhaps he’s decided that removing you is worth the sacrifice.”
The casual way he suggests Vera’s death makes violence surge in my chest. “She’s not collateral damage,” I hiss, wanting to punish anyone who dares to think that.
“Isn’t she?” My uncle raises an eyebrow. “That was the arrangement, wasn’t it? She’s here as a hostage to keep the peace. If the peace is broken anyway—”
“She’s my wife.” I say warningly. “And she’s carrying Alexei’s child. That makes her family. No one touches her. No one.”
Konstantin studies me for a long moment, and I see something flicker across his face. Surprise? Concern? I can’t quite read it. “You’ve grown attached.”
I shrug because I don’t even know what I’ve grown to feel. “She’s under my protection.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He leans back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “I asked if you’ve grown attached. Because from where I’m sitting, you’re exhibiting signs of something more than duty.”
I look up sharply, but don’t respond.
“Dimitri.” His voice softens slightly. “I understand the impulse to protect her. She’s pregnant with your brother’s child. That creates a bond, a sense of responsibility. But don’t confuse responsibility with—”
“I’m not confused about anything,” I bite out. “And I’m not discussing my personal life with you. What we will discuss is that someone in our organization is trying to kill us, and we need to find out who before they succeed.”
Konstantin sighs, clearly deciding to let it go for now. “What do you propose?”
I pull out another file and this one thicker, more worn. “I’ve been reviewing everyone who had access to both pieces of information. The meeting location and our route yesterday. There are seventeen people on that list.”
“Seventeen,” he murmurs as he takes the list, scanning it. I watch his eyes move down the page, taking in each name. “These are all trusted men. People who’ve been with us for years.”
That means nothing to me right now. “One of them is a traitor.”
“Or,” he says again, that careful tone back, “the Ashfords have better intelligence than we thought. Perhaps they’ve compromised our communications or—"
“Perhaps nothing.” My patience is wearing thin. Why is my uncle being so fucking obtuse? “Someone close gave us up. Someone who knew exactly where we’d be and when. I need to figure out who before they try again.”
Konstantin sets down the list, his expression troubled. “Be careful, Dimitri. Paranoia can be as dangerous as complacency. If you start suspecting everyone, you’ll tear this organization apart from the inside. That might be exactly what our enemy wants.”
He’s not wrong. Witch hunts destroy empires faster than external attacks ever could. But what’s the alternative? Ignore the pattern? Pretend someone isn’t actively trying to kill us?
“I’ll be careful,” I say, though we both know it’s a lie. Careful went out the window the moment that bomb went off. “But I’m not stopping until I find who’s responsible.”
My uncle glances at his watch and stands. “Then I’ll help however I can, you know that. But Dimitri—” He pauses, his gaze meeting mine. “Don’t lose sight of what matters. The living. The future. Don’t let the hunt for a traitor consume you.”
After he leaves, I sit in the heavy silence, staring at the files. The living. The future.
But I can’t think about the living without thinking about the dead.
I pull out another file. This one I’ve reviewed a hundred times and haunts me in the early morning hours when sleep won’t come.
Alexei’s case file.
The crime scene photos still make me cringe. My baby brother, lying in that warehouse, with two bullets in his chest. Blood pooling beneath him. Eyes staring at nothing. Dead at twenty-eight because I was stupid and let him go to a meeting he shouldn’t have gone to.
I’ve memorized every detail. The angle of his body. The position of his hands. The blood spatter pattern on the concrete. The shell casings found six feet away.
But something has been bothering me and I couldn’t quite articulate it until now.
I pull out the forensic report, scanning the section about the gunshot wounds. Close-range shots, approximately 3-5 feet based on powder burn patterns.
But when I look at the photos with a marksman’s eye, the powder burns don’t match close range. They’re too light. Too dispersed. They’re more consistent with shots fired from 10-15 feet away.
I grab the surveillance document with a timestamp from the warehouse district. The Ashford vehicles were captured on camera arriving at the warehouse at 9:40 p.m.
But Alexei’s time of death is estimated at 9:30 p.m.
I growl in frustration. How did they ambush him if they weren’t there yet?
The inconsistency gnaws at me. I’ve noticed it before and dismissed it as margins of error in forensic estimates. But what if it’s not? What if—
A knock interrupts my thoughts. Konstantin again? But when the door opens, it’s Roman and he looks grim.
"Boss. We finished going through the wreckage from yesterday. You need to see this.”
He sets a twisted piece of metal on my desk—part of the bomb’s detonator. Professional grade. Military issue. The kind you can’t buy on the street.
“Whoever built this knew what they were doing,” Roman says. “This isn’t some amateur with a grudge. This is trained. Someone has access to serious resources.”
I study the device, my mind racing. Military grade means connections. It means someone with ties to government or international organizations.
It means this is bigger than a simple family feud.