14. Damian
DAMIAN
I punch in the code and slip out, sealing them in behind me. The house above, when I reach the main floor, is a war zone—furniture overturned, glass scattered across the marble floors, bullet holes in the walls. The acrid smell of gunpowder hangs in the air, mixed with something else. Blood.
Nothing about this is new to me. None of it fazes me in the slightest. Sienna and Adam are safe, behind steel and a hidden door, with one of the few people I’d trust them with unquestioningly.
I push them to the back of my head, focusing on the fight ahead, on something that’s become so ingrained in me that it’s like muscle memory.
I move through the hallways quickly, using routes I've memorized during my years living here. The main fighting seems to be concentrated in the east wing—I can hear Konstantin's voice barking orders, the sharp crack of semi-automatic fire.
A shadow moves at the end of the corridor. Not one of ours. I raise my weapon and put two rounds in his chest before he even knows I'm there. He drops without a sound, his rifle clattering across the floor. I step over his body and keep moving.
The attackers are good. These men move with military precision, coordinated tactics. They might be Russo’s men, or they might be hired mercenaries. We won’t know until it’s over, and we find out who’s responsible for letting this happen. But we will get answers, one way or another.
I’m going to make sure of it.
There’s an anger simmering in my blood, a feeling that I’m unfamiliar with, like this is suddenly personal. Like these men have come after something that belongs to me, threatened something that’s mine. I feel more than just the usual, rote violence that comes with a fight like this.
I feel like I want them dead.
I round the corner and see Konstantin pressed against the wall near the library, reloading.
Three of his men are with him, all sporting various wounds but still fighting.
The smooth businessman facade, the diplomat, is gone now, replaced by the cold killer his father trained him to be.
The man who, sometimes, I wish he’d let out more often.
"About fucking time," he growls when he sees me. "They came in through three points—front, back, and the east terrace. Professional team. At least fifteen men."
"I was getting Sienna and Adam down to the panic room. How many are left?"
"Six, maybe seven. Holed up in the study." His jaw tightens. "They executed Mikhail when he tried to surrender. I came around the corner and saw it."
Mikhail was young, maybe twenty-two. Konstantin's newest recruit, eager to prove himself. The cold rage that floods through me is welcome. It makes everything else fall away except the need to end this.
"They want to make a statement," I growl, checking my ammunition. "Show that they can reach us anywhere."
"Then we'll make one back." Konstantin's eyes are ice-cold. "No survivors."
“Good.” There’s no room for being more civilized tonight, no room for diplomacy and negotiation. Some messages can only be delivered in blood .
“What’s the plan?”
“They're barricaded behind the desk and bookshelf.” Konstantin moves forward, motioning to three of his men to cover him. “Two at the windows, the rest covering the door.”
My finger brushes against the side of my trigger. “If all those entrances are covered, then we flank the side entrance. Catch them by surprise. Lay down enough fire that they can’t recover quickly enough.”
Konstantin nods. “That’s why you’re my right hand. My thoughts exactly.”
We move quickly, silently, boots thudding as softly as we can manage as we spill out of the room.
We filter toward the door that will lead out and let us flank the French doors that lead out of the other side of the study.
Clearly, what remains of the men knew they were overwhelmed, if they holed up. We’re about to show them just how much.
There’s a moment, right before something like this, where the world narrows down. I can feel the warm air brushing against my face as we move into position, see the glint of moonlight, smell salt. Then we move as one, crashing through the doors as we open fire, and chaos erupts.
The flash of gunfire fills the room. The noise is deafening: the sound of gunshots, the impact of bullets hitting bodies, the grunts of pain. It's brutal, efficient, over in seconds. When the echoes fade, six bodies lie scattered across the Persian rug, their blood seeping into the ancient fibers.
Konstantin kicks one of the bodies, making sure he's dead. "Giovanni's men?"
I examine the closest corpse—mid-thirties, well-built, professional gear.
There’s an insignia stitched into the fabric of his jacket shoulder—in black thread, so it’s difficult to see unless someone is looking closely.
“Hired muscle.” I look at Konstantin. “You know Giovanni did this. Tried to throw us off the track by not using his own men, but he was willing to pay to do it. This is him.”
“No doubt.” Konstantin’s jaw tightens. “And not enough men to do anything but cause damage and take out a few of our own. Testing our defenses.”
I think quickly. “Were the cameras on? Any sign of a struggle at the front gate?”
It takes all of twenty minutes to uncover what happened.
The cameras were switched off, the gates opened.
The guard on duty in the security room is dead, a pool of blood beneath him on the concrete floor.
An attempt was made to make it look as if there was a scuffle at the front gate, but not well enough to hide the truth.
Someone on the inside did this. They let the men in. And when we go to the guard shack at the front and find it empty, with no sign of the guard on duty, it’s not hard to figure out who it was.
“He tried to run.” Konstantin’s voice is clipped, and he turns to the men behind us. “Send out as many men as necessary to get him back. Bring him back alive.”
The cold edge in Konstantin’s voice is satisfying. This is the pakhan who will do what it takes to get answers. And knowing that someone here put Sienna and Adam in danger…
I want to help get those answers too.
“We need to send a message that this kind of betrayal has consequences,” I say flatly. “There can be no mercy for this.”
Konstantin looks at me, and I see a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “We will,” he promises. “No need to worry on that front. Just as soon as our men return. But first, we make sure there are no more surprises tonight."
We spend the next hour sweeping the estate, checking every room, every hiding place. The attackers are all dead—fifteen men who thought they could walk into our home and walk out alive. They were wrong.
By the time our men return with the traitor, dawn is breaking over the estate.
The cleanup is nearly finished—bodies removed, blood scrubbed from the marble floors, bullet holes patched and painted over.
To anyone who didn't know what happened here tonight, it would look like nothing more than routine maintenance .
But the smell of gunpowder still lingers in the air, and there's a tension that won't dissipate until we get our answers.
I'm in Konstantin's office when they drag him in. Igor Petrov—a man who's worked security for the Abramov family for three years. Someone we trusted. Someone who had access to the codes, the schedules, the blind spots in our defenses.
He's roughed up from the chase, his lip split and one eye swollen shut. His hands are zip-tied behind his back, and there's fear radiating off him in waves. Good, I think, with a vehemence that I don’t normally feel in these situations. He should be afraid.
Konstantin doesn't look up from the papers on his desk when they force Igor to his knees in front of it. He continues reading for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until it becomes unbearable. It's a technique I remember from his father—make them wait, make them think about what's coming.
"Igor," Konstantin finally says, his voice conversational. "Three years you've worked for us. Three years of steady pay, good benefits, protection for your family." He sets down the papers and looks up, his blue eyes sharp and intense. "Help me understand why you threw that all away."
He almost sounds kind. Like he wants to understand. But I know the violence behind that tone, and I know Igor does too. He knows what kind of a man he works for. Which means Russo must have promised him something.
Igor's voice comes out as a croak. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The lie hangs in the air between us. I step forward into the light, letting him see the blood still staining my shirt from tonight's violence.
"The cameras were disabled from the inside, the guard on duty down there, killed.
The front gate was opened with the proper codes.
" I crouch down so we're at eye level. "We know it was you, Igor.
You ran, which is the most damning evidence of all.
Clearly, you thought that someone would extract you, give you something. The only question is what, and why. "
Sweat beads on his forehead despite the chill of the air-conditioned office. "I swear, I don't?—"
Konstantin's fist slams down on the desk, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot.
"Enough." His voice is deadly quiet now.
"Fifteen men walked into my home tonight.
They killed Mikhail—a boy who looked up to you, who asked you for advice about handling his first assignment.
They could have harmed my wife, my unborn child.
" His eyes narrow. "They could have harmed Damian’s wife.”