Chapter 21 Vaughn
VAUGHN
This is about the worst timing for an attack.
The worst place, too.
Who would even dare to get on the Bratva’s bad side at such a meeting?
I don’t know, and I don’t have the time to find out right now.
Drawing my gun, I sprint behind Yulian and tap his shoulder. “I’ll cover you.”
His gaze shifts back toward me as he stops, his muscles bulging against the jacket as he breathes harshly, then forces out a grin. “No need. I have to find Alya. You should go to your parents.”
“They’ll be fine. They’re both snipers, ex-spetsnaz, and shoot way better than I do, so they don’t need me.” But you do.
I stop myself before I say the last bit.
It doesn’t matter whether or not my parents need me. Part of our protocol in case of emergency is to gather at emergency exit five, which is where I should be heading.
But I can’t just walk away from Yulian.
Not now.
He had this terrified expression when the gunshots first echoed around us. I know for a fact that he’s not afraid of attacks. I saw him being detached to the point of recklessness when he was bleeding on that mountain while shooting people left and right.
But now with his sister involved, his composure falters.
Yulian slows down and stares at me, pinching his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, probably thinking about the best way to make me leave.
He releases his lip. “You should still go.”
“You don’t tell me what to do.” I hit my shoulder against his as I bypass him. “You do the covering.”
“Mishka…” He falls in step beside me. “You must have some sort of an emergency protocol. If you don’t go, your parents will be worried.”
I purse my lips, but I don’t acknowledge his words. “Follow me. I memorized the layout of this place. The musicians’ dressing room should be on the eastern side. We have to go through the event hall to access it.”
He releases a long sigh. “You’re so damn stubborn.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” I flash him a smile.
His lips part before he clears his throat and turns around so that he’s facing the other way, his gun pointed toward any threat that might appear behind us.
As we reach the main hall, the sharp cracks intensify, muffled by the heavy velvet drapes and the noises of chaos.
They get louder and louder, echoing off the high coffered ceiling, drawing a ripple through the crowd—gasps, scraping chairs, champagne flutes shattering against marble.
It’s full-blown chaos.
The choreographed elegance I left not long ago has unraveled into something primal. Screams pierce the orchestral silence, and bodies jolt into motion, scattering in every direction.
My instincts kick in before my mind does—my eyes sweeping the space, tracking exits, estimating shooter positions from sound, motion, and the direction of broken glass.
A strong hand wraps around my shoulder, and Yulian pulls me with him behind a towering marble sculpture.
I stare at his hand on my shoulder, feeling the weight and getting overwhelmed by his scent. It sears through me—his smell, his touch, the way he acts so familiar even when he was mad at me not long ago.
Another bullet whistles past, splintering a pillar inches to our right. He crouches beside me, his breathing rapid but his eyes sharp, his suit rumpled and damp with sweat. The edge of his sleeve is darkened—
I grab on to his arm, where the jacket is slashed, and a line of red appears. “You’re hit.”
He glances down, shrugs, and flashes me that maddening grin. “It’s just a scratch. You good?”
I nod, but the tension in my shoulders intensifies and my jaw clenches.
My chest is so tight, I’m not sure what the fuck is wrong with me.
But again, I don’t have time to think about it.
We move together, pressed shoulder to shoulder, ducking and weaving through the ballroom’s broken composure. It’s like slipping into muscle memory—he takes one side, I take the other, our movements too aligned to be anything but instinctive.
Almost as if we’re on that mountain again, having each other’s backs.
Yulian shoves me behind another statue just as the air saturates with a new spray of bullets. Plaster rains down, and I taste the dust and gunmetal on the back of my tongue.
The statue takes the hit that should’ve been mine. My breath hitches, my chest tight, not from fear but from the sick realization that he’s just…too attuned to me, almost more than he is to himself.
And I don’t like that.
“Watch your own back, Yulian,” I mutter in a firm tone.
He just laughs, the sound quiet, breathless, and a bit husky. “Is that my thank-you? In that case, you’re welcome.”
I shake my head as we peel away from the crowd and slip into the side corridor reserved for staff. The lights are dim, shadows crawling over splintered furniture and gaping holes in the walls.
Yulian’s shoulders tense, both of us realizing the carnage has bled into this space, too.
I cover his back as we jog toward the musicians’ dressing room. When we enter, the silence hits instantly. No shattered wood, no holes in the walls—the room is untouched, spared from the chaos seeping through the building.
And yet the stillness doesn’t ease us. Neither of us dares to breathe.
Something’s wrong.
Yulian freezes, his hand on the gun twitching.
I follow his gaze and pause upon seeing the discarded wheelchair, lying sideways, one wheel still turning.
Alina’s shawl, which she had around her shoulders, is on the floor next to the chair, but there’s no sign of her.
“Alya,” he breathes her name, then shouts, “Alina!”
No reply.
He rushes to the balcony, and when he finds nothing, he comes back inside, his face drained of color.
“I need to…” His hand shakes around the gun, rage and terror barely contained in the taut muscles as he looks at me, his lips trembling. “I need to find her.”
“We will,” I say in a steady voice, trying to calm him.
“You don’t understand, she…she’s like that because of me. I can’t…I can’t…”
“Hey.” I grab his shoulder, squeezing slightly as I bore my eyes into his. “We’ll find her. Trust me.”
He gives a sharp nod as he bolts again, his fury barely leashed. I follow without question, keeping my attention on our surroundings, having his back.
I never thought there’d be the day when Yulian and I would be in another dangerous situation and I’d be covering for him, but here we are.
The irony doesn’t escape me.
Doesn’t matter how long I’ve been separated from Yulian—one incident and I’m fully back in the mindset from four years ago.
The mansion’s corridors feel endless now—too wide, too gilded, too much of a maze.
Even though I told Yulian we would find Alina, my strongest theory is that a guard took her to safety. At least, I hope it’s that and she wasn’t abducted, because if she didn’t crawl to hide, she was clearly taken.
Hopefully, she was taken willingly, since there was no sign of struggle in the room.
We turn a corner and come to a halt.
At the far end of the hallway, a man walks toward us, cradling Alina in his arms. He’s tall and sharp-featured, with dark curly hair and the composed stillness of someone who’s accustomed to violence. His suit is spotless, his expression unreadable.
I swear I’ve seen him somewhere, but where?
“She was trapped on the balcony,” he says quietly. “Unconscious but alive.”
When Yulian sprints toward them, the man offers her over without hesitation. Yulian steps in and takes her, his hands trembling only slightly as he curls her protectively against his chest. The man nods once, offers nothing more, then disappears down a side passage like smoke.
Yulian doesn’t seem to care about the identity of the man as he strokes her hair. “I’m here, Alyonushka, I’ll keep you safe, I’ll protect you.”
I’ve never seen Yulian this distraught, almost as if his world would’ve crumbled if something had happened to her.
They must be so close; it certainly felt like it when they were together earlier. Besides, he mentioned she’s like this because of him, so I can see the guilt crushing his usually proud shoulders.
For the first time, I don’t see the reckless, impulsive, violence-driven Yulian who seems to be on a mission to die young. I just see a caring brother who’d gladly offer his life just to keep his sister safe.
Stepping close, I shrug off my jacket and place it over her body, then gently press two fingers against her wrist. Her pulse is faint but steady.
“She’ll be fine,” I whisper as I release her.
My hand brushes against Yulian’s cold fingers, and our eyes meet.
Unsaid words filter between us—something raw and shaking, something that cuts through years of silence and deflection.
For a moment, I forget where we are, and I have the urge to thread my fingers through his, give him some form of comfort, even if it’s just silent.
I’ve never been good with consoling words or offering a shoulder to lean on, but I want to do something for him.
Anything.
I truly hate that I can be so emotionally stilted right now and wish I had a smidge of Yulian’s spontaneous energy.
At a loss for words, I remain motionless, sweeping my gaze over him. I can almost still see the bruises on his stomach and chest, and I don’t need to see his back to know it’s marked, too.
Just the thought of sending him and Alina back to their monster of a father makes my blood boil.
My phone vibrates, killing the moment.
Mom.
Fuck, they must be so worried.
I straighten, hesitating for a breath. “I have to…”
“Go, I know.” He doesn’t look at me as he gathers Alina closer, but I feel his silence like a tether I can’t cut.
I want to say something, but I’m apparently so bad at finding the right words that I just nod and turn around.
Carrying his unreadable expression with me.
The aftermath of the attack has been a blur.
It’s been a couple of days, and there’s still no answer as to who was behind it. All fingers are pointed at other enemy factions that aren’t Russian since no one would be foolish enough to attack their own.