Chapter 33 Vaughn
VAUGHN
Dad said he won’t be sending men to the Dimitriev estate in Chicago.
He clearly stated that he won’t allow me to start a war to save Yulian.
But I am starting that war. I don’t care how many wars I have to take part in just to get Yulian out of his father’s claws.
But Dad, as the Pakhan, told me that our resources won’t be used for war so as not to risk countless deaths on both sides.
Instead, he offered to go himself on a covert rescue mission. Mom said she’s going, too, despite my and Dad’s objections.
“Nonsense, you need a sniper.” She stroked Dad’s stubble. “I’m the best, remember?”
Dad grumbled some more, not wanting her in the middle of this, but then conceded, mostly because he didn’t have a choice.
So here we are, my parents and I, along with two enforcers who were apparently in the same unit as my parents in their army days, plus Viktor—Dad’s right hand and my aunt’s husband.
Despite our intel, accessing the Dimitriev mansion is impossible without raising some alarms. If we’re discovered, Yaroslav will have us killed in a heartbeat, which is why Cyrus came along.
He helped us with access, freezing security measures and allowing us to infiltrate the mansion unnoticed.
My dad asked if I could trust Cyrus with our lives—including Mom’s, who’s keeping guard outside.
The truth is, I can’t. Cyrus is a snake, his loyalties slippery at best. His ties to the Russian mafia are murky, even if he did help the Chicago Bratva expand.
Every move he makes feels too smooth and calculated.
And I can’t stand that he’s been Yulian’s shadow for four years, filling the space that should’ve been mine.
Yes, my irrational jealousy doesn’t help in making me warm up to the guy.
But there’s one thing I trust Cyrus with—his friendship with Yulian. He’s spent years protecting and shielding him from Yaroslav—no, I don’t like it, I should’ve been the one to do that—spending exponential time and resources to make sure he doesn’t end up killed.
Yulian said he’s Cyrus’s only friend. When everyone shunned and mocked and bullied Cyrus while growing up, Yulian was the only one who understood him.
So maybe that’s why I took my chances. Or due to the fact that I never see Cyrus with anyone but Yulian.
The reality is, even if Cyrus hates me, doesn’t approve of me, thinks I’m bad news for Yulian, he’d still want to rescue him.
So no, I don’t particularly trust Cyrus, but I trust his friendship with Yulian.
Even with the access he gave us and the cameras looping, we still have to take out any threat without drawing security’s attention.
I glance at Dad moving ahead, his gun raised, while Uncle Viktor and the others cover our backs. I signal toward the stairs, and Dad takes the lead.
Cyrus is positive Yaroslav would keep Yulian underground. My jaw tightens at the thought of what he might have done.
But I force myself to breathe, to focus. First, I get Yulian out. Then I’ll think about Yaroslav.
A man shows up at the bottom of the stairs. He jumps back, his gun half drawn, but I shoot him in the head before he can blink.
My dad gives me a look of pride as we continue down the dimly lit hallway.
I tend to concentrate better when under stress or duress, which is why I’m hyperaware of the slightest movements.
Several men appear in the hallway, blocking the way to the room at the end of it—the one where Cyrus said Yulian would most likely be.
At first, the men don’t notice us as they smoke and talk in Russian.
“Go.” Dad shoves me. “I’ll have your back.”
I give a curt nod and then shoot my way through, injuring or killing anyone who blocks my way. I don’t give a fuck about anyone other than Yulian right now.
Dad and Viktor cover for me as I shoot the metal lock off the cell and shove the door ajar, my gun raised. If I see Yaroslav doing anything to Yulian, I’ll kill him right here and now.
The door groans open on rusted hinges as my senses go on high alert.
The scent of blood hits me first—a thick, metallic punch to the throat that coats my tongue and makes my hair stand on end.
My lips part when I see him.
Yulian.
He’s crumpled on the stone floor, little more than a shadow slumped against the far wall. A chair lies toppled nearby, restraints scattered. His shirt hangs in tatters—ripped down the back, shredded across the front, dark with blood dried in patches and still wet in streaks.
Angry bruises mar the pale stretch of his ribs, one so dark and bloated, it’s probably broken. Maybe more than one.
His face is so swollen and bloodied, one eye sealed shut, his lips split and crusted in red.
I almost don’t recognize him.
It’s not him.
My Yulian is chaos wrapped in flesh, a force of nature with thunder in his voice, fire in his veins, and an untamed surge of energy.
He can’t possibly be like…like this.
I blink twice, but the scene doesn’t disappear. I rush toward him with my heart in my throat.
The gun slips from my hand as my knees hit the floor, hard. I don’t feel the impact. I can’t feel anything but him.
“Yulian,” I rasp, my voice choked. “Fuck. Yuli—”
I touch his face gently with trembling fingers, terrified he’ll shatter in my palm. He doesn’t move. His skin is cold. Too cold. I press my ear to his mouth, stilling everything inside me.
For a few seconds, I don’t breathe, holding it in, ignoring the chaos outside as I listen.
What if Yaroslav killed him? Why wasn’t I here earlier?
Why—
One unsteady breath fills my ear, then another.
It’s shallow and fragile, but it’s there.
He’s alive.
A sound tears from my throat. I don’t know what it is—relief, rage, grief—maybe all three. My lips are trembling as I gather him in my arms as carefully as I can. He lets out a barely audible moan, his head lolling against my shoulder. His blood seeps through my shirt, feeling hot and sticky.
But that means he’s here. He’s alive.
A crushing feeling of guilt and anguish tears through my skin. I shouldn’t have let him go last night. If I hadn’t, if I hadn’t been too stuck in my own head to listen to him, I wouldn’t be collecting his barely alive body.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper against his hair, stroking it softly because he always loves it when I do that. “Stay with me, all right? I’ll get you out of here.”
I shift, hoisting him onto my back and grabbing his wrists. He’s heavier than usual, almost dead weight. My spine screams as I rise, but I don’t care. I’d carry the world if it meant getting him out of this place.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur even though he doesn’t hear me. “I’ll always get you.”
We managed to escape without sustaining any injuries.
Then I flew Yulian all the way to Russia to my uncles’ private estate in Ust-Koksa, located deep in the Altai Mountains of Southern Siberia.
Keeping him in the States was simply not safe, neither for him nor for my parents. Taking him to New York was out of the question, as that’s where Yaroslav would look first. Russia, however, is ironically safer.
Especially at my uncles’ residence that’s tucked away from watchful eyes and isn’t marked on any map, swallowed entirely by pine forests with mountain air sharp enough to cut through bone.
Guess Yulian and I have come full circle—back to a mountain.
I smile as I hold Yulian’s hand while he sleeps in the room my uncles provided for him.
It’s been two days since we came here, and he still hasn’t woken up.
Uncle Anton’s private doctor said Yulian is fine, considering everything.
According to him and the doctor we had on board on the private jet, Yulian sustained serious trauma.
Two fractured ribs—one clean, one hairline—along with severe bruising along the chest wall.
They’ve stabilized the ribs, but he’ll need to avoid any hard impact or strain for at least four to six weeks.
There are shallow lacerations across his back and torso, none deep enough to damage internal organs, but a few required sutures.
He’s got a mild concussion, a split lip, one swollen-shut eye, and dehydration from blood loss.
His vitals are stable. They’ve rehydrated him and put him on antibiotics, saying that he’ll recover from the physical damage with time and rest.
But what about the mental damage?
How about dealing with the reality that his own dad beat him half to death just because he didn’t approve of his sexual preferences?
Why do we live in a world where that’s a thing?
“I’m sorry I was late.” I bring his hand to my face, laying his palm flat against my cheek. “And I don’t mean just two days ago, but all of it, baby. I’m sorry it took me four years to save you from that man.”
I should’ve taken him away after I saw him beating him up that first time. When I was kicked out of the hospital, I shouldn’t have left alone.
Like now, I should’ve just kidnapped him and hid him away from the world.
Maybe then I wouldn’t have felt as if my heart was being ripped out of my chest at seeing him so broken.
And in pain.
Maybe we would’ve been together if I weren’t such a coward who watched from afar and kept myself squarely in denial.
If I didn’t put distance when I should’ve gotten close. When I didn’t reply to his videos even though I saved them to my phone and watched them religiously.
If I were just…there for him like he’s always been there for me.
He stirs and I sit up straighter as his eyes blink open, unfocused, lost. His left blue eye is not as swollen now, but the bruise around it is dark blue, almost black.
“Yulian?” I stroke his hair gently. “Can you hear me?”
He blinks a few times and lies motionless for a few seconds, as if he’s not sure what’s going on. Is the concussion that bad—
He reaches a hand toward me, but the moment he touches my cheek, his good eye widens, and he drops his hand back down.
I don’t like it.
He usually won’t stop touching me, so why does he seem like he was caught making a mistake?