Chapter 29
Anastasia, with a ballerina-like twirl, all but flies from her seat, gun in one hand, knife in the other. Ivan bolts too, practically chasing her out of my office, and I quickly follow after retrieving a gun from my desk drawer.
My office walks right out to the upstairs balcony that overlooks the foyer below. The chaos below.
A throng of about a dozen men—after a quick count—have blown down the thick front doors and are locked in combat with my soldiers. It’s not enough, for every one of my men, they have two, and I now understand Papa’s insistence for so much protection after speaking with Ivan.
Anastasia makes it down the stairs by the time I’ve finished my survey. She jabs her blade into the neck of an intruder who goes down instantly, thumping to his knees. Her gun presses into the chest of another who quickly rushes at her, and a loud bang has him dropping dead.
Across the room, Lev roundhouse kicks an assailant. He has no weapon that I can see, and judging by his flushed expression, the blood dripping from his lip, and sweat shining on his forehead, he’s been in hand-to-hand combat since the start.
I rush down the stairs two at a time, trying to shoot into the masses and take as many down without wiping my own out. An impossible feat I learn until I’m stable on the main floor. Blood pumping, adrenaline coursing, I throw myself into the fray.
An invader whirls around, his fist up and aiming for my face. I duck to the left, straighten, and then shoot, lodging a bullet in the centre of his chest. By the time he’s a corpse on my floor, I’m turning for the rest of the crowd.
My gaze barely lands on the next person before a rough shove throws me off balance and toward the ground. I nearly land on my back but gain enough stability to roll to my feet and get upright again and study the chaos’s status.
A mountain-sized man comes up behind Anastasia and wraps what I suspect is a steroid-fuelled muscular arm around Anastasia’s neck, instantly squeezing. Her skin flushes red with the sudden onslaught of blood. I move to assist, but her fighting instincts kick in and the knife in her hand lifts toward his flesh. He sees it coming, though, and whacks it from her hand before gaining control of the gun in her other, leaving her weaponless.
I angle my own gun at his forehead, which causes him to release her and bear down on me, despite the weapon positioned at him. My finger flexes on the trigger with no hesitation, but he’s too quick and knocks the weapon away, the force yanking it straight to the floor.
“Don’t even think about it, bitch.”
That accent…Before I think too long on it, I channel everything Dimitri taught me and crouch, ducking for his knees, eyes locked on my real target right by his feet. My gun. As he avoids me, I stretch an arm at the same time Anastasia’s gotten back up, sees precisely what I’m doing, and lightly kicks it straight into my hand. Still crouching, I whip my arm up toward the asshole and pull the trigger, hitting the nearest part of him.
He howls in pain, clutching his blown-out cock as he drops to his knees, but I’m already on my feet, gun positioned at his temple. I jerk the trigger, killing him and ending his pain much sooner than deserved, before taking off.
My breaths are heavy now as another man goes to jump me. Seeing it, I crouch in time for him to roll over my back, his fists barely missing my stomach as he swipes out an arm.
It’s then I realize, despite the gun in his hand, he’s not using it against me.
The man I just killed, lying dead behind me, blood seeping from his pants also attempted force over weapons.
I’m not to be killed.
Which only means one thing: whoever’s behind this wants to do worse to me than a simple death during combat.
Across the room, Anastasia and Lev are both fighting, but looking worse than I last saw. The couple men I have remaining are still fighting, but it seems like for every one we take down, two more pop up, as though a continuous army is waiting outside.
I scan the room for my uncle, noticing he isn’t here, and a flash of anger swirls in my gut. All those pretty words about loyalty and doing right by the Bratva and he abandoned us in a time of need. Or he’s dead, in which case, I don’t know how to feel.
We’re losing—badly. My head thumps with a massive migraine from getting whacked. My body is tender in some places, promising bruises. No matter how hard or how quickly I breathe, it feels like my lungs will never be full enough.
As soon as I finally manage a step toward my remaining soldiers, another person walks through the destroyed door. His steps are slow and paced, commanding attention from both sides as there’s a pause in the fighting. His glare is focused on me before sharp, deadly eyes scan the room, studying the bedlam. An older man, his thick hair a light shade of silver, but in no way could he ever be considered frail and elderly for the way he himself stinks of death and destruction.
Lev twirls a gun he must have picked up at some point until it’s pointed at the intruder, who only smirks in his direction.
“Drop your weapons. Now.”
Lev and Anastasia obviously don’t obey and look toward me for instruction. As do the few soldiers remaining alive. All looking to me for guidance while I’m stuck. This isn’t weapons deals, fighting rings, prostitution, or drug deals. This isn’t hunting Boris down through means of other political ilk. This isn’t even a small battle downtown. This is my home . The ancient mansion getting trampled on and threatened by strangers in a losing battle.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to do. Don’t know how to handle this.
What would Papa do?
For fucking once, I want his direction. Not to come up with an answer and do the opposite, but a concrete, definitive plan that’d work.
My hand tightens around my gun’s handle as I scan the room, counting my side versus theirs. Seven, including myself, against eight, nine, ten…fifteen. Almost double the manpower. This has to be more than what I counted when rushing from my office. No way, I missed that many bodies.
The newcomer, the presumed leader of this group, smirks and tilts his head, waiting for my answer. He’s assuming I’ll continue fighting, and I want to. More than want, actually. Need to. A driving force demanding I do anything and everything but give up.
But sometimes to yield is to fight.
A temporary submission, as much as it disgusts me, pauses the fighting. Allows us all to breathe and regroup and maybe end this in a cleaner manner. To continue fighting likely means a quick loss, even if admitting that sickens me.
I nod once and repeat the command, this time giving it myself. “Drop your weapons.”
My soldiers drop their guns, instantly obeying my order before their hands lift in submission. Lev moves slower, bending as he stares at me with a question in his gaze. He rests the gun on the ground and kicks it a few inches away—still in reaching distance but the illusion of further—continuing to silently ask me if I’ve lost my mind.
Maybe I have.
Anastasia is the only one who doesn’t move. She stares back, her mouth in a hard line, brows furrowed.
I nod once, silently reassuring her, Trust me. Drop the gun.
Annoyance pours off her in waves that I wish I could bottle and drown the intruders with, but she lowers her weapons, shifting her glare to the presumed leader as they land with a clang on what should be a smooth and shiny tiled foyer. Except now, it’s stained with blood of both enemy and comrades.
Soldiers move toward us and kick all our weapons farther away, making my teeth grit. Naturally they would, and certainly something I’d order my side to do had the tables been turned, but it doesn’t change the fact of it feeling like we’re naked without a stitch of clothing to reach for.
“Good,” the asshole leader murmurs, his deep timbre, and a familiar accent reminding me of the guy I killed earlier and the one I have cuffed to a bed. “Seems you can listen when motivated.” He gestures a hand toward them, crooking his fingers toward the floor. “Now, kneel.”
Fucking Italians.
Their mercenary failed, so they’ve come to finish what Zeno started, and the man giving orders must be Alessandro Vitale, the leader of the Cosa Nostra. I study him intently, memorizing every inch of him so I know who I’ll be cursing from my march here to the afterlife. Every blink of his eyes, every shift of his body, every breath he makes, learning my newest enemy in the only way I can for now.
If only Ivan talked faster and I learned what enticed this war, especially now, after all these years.
Lev, Anastasia, and my soldiers kneel after another glance toward me that I don’t return. Anastasia’s rage is basically vibrating off her, and I wish she left for her private performance earlier than planned so she’d be safe.
Once they’re done, the leader looks my way with a sneer and a rapid gesture. “You too. You think because you call yourself Pakhan that you’re exempt? Typical Russian rifiuto .”
“ Ital'yanskaya mraz' ,” I shoot back. Italian scum is politer than the string of curses running through my head. “Fuck you.”
His mouth folds in the corners. “Hm.”
There’s a shuffling behind me and heavy hands press into my shoulders, forcing my legs to buckle beneath the strength of the two soldiers who come up behind me. With gritted teeth and determination I feel Papa would be proud of, I attempt to hold my ground, but the effort only lasts so long before I too am on my knees, three feet away from Anastasia and the others. A barrel pokes into the back of my head.
The leader I’m presuming to be Vitale smiles in a cruel way. “Now that you understand your place…where is he?”
There’s only one he this fucker, the one with the same accent, would be asking about, but with a blank expression, I blink up at him. “Who?”
“You know who I’m talking about.”
“If you’re asking about the fellow Italian asshole you sent my way, he could be dead.”
Smack!
After comprehending what happened—that he fucking hit me—he pulls his hand back to his side, flicking it as though he’s the one who’s sore, rather than my stinging cheek. I rotate feeling back into my jaw and check that everything is still in one piece and not broken. Down the row beside me, my Elite and soldiers toss out slurs and swears.
“Do it again and I’ll take you down with me.”
Completely ignoring my threat, he bends slightly until his face is lined up with mine. “Let’s try that again. Before I tear this mansion to the ground to find him myself.”
My heart jumpstarts at that, at the image of this ancient place, home to me and so many Volkovs before, engulfed in cruel terror as these intruders smash their way through, ruining history and wealth, turning it into a ruin.
I shrug, downplaying the effect his threat has on me. “Then he’ll go down with the rest of it.”
The Italian boss narrows his eyes before waving his hand at a few nearby men. “Search the mansion. Leave no inch unturned. Destroy whatever it takes to find him.”
They disappear instantly, one rushing down the hallway and another toward the staircase that’ll bring him to the same floor as Zeno. It won’t be long before they find him, and based on the sudden banging upstairs, making me flinch as I imagine the destruction the asshole is purposely doing during his search, they’re close.
All this for a hired gun? Something isn’t lining up…
A crash from upstairs tears at my insides. Papa did everything to protect these lands, and I need to do the same before I no longer have a property to call my own. Which means admitting Zeno’s exact location. They’ll find him eventually and telling them now means keeping the rest of the upstairs intact.
Instead, I cling to a bit of my pride and ask, “All this for some merc?”
The Italian smiles. Grins in a knowing way that makes my stomach churn. It makes the skin on his forehead wrinkle and draws my attention to the crow’s feet around his eyes.
A whoop comes from upstairs and I suspect they’ve found him. With a resigned sigh that lowers my lids for a moment, I block all this out. Return to a time before Zeno came into my life and fucked everything up. It’s a coping mechanism that only lasts for a second because when the smooth chuckle comes from behind me, the gentle sound reminding me of another one he once made in my room, I open my eyes again.
The leader moves away from me and lowers his head in greeting.
That’s when my stomach drops.
Because there’s no logical reason a leader would bow to another unless?—
Sluggish steps come up behind me, scraping against my smooth tile like he’s too lazy to lift his feet. Or perhaps it’s the gunshot wound causing a limp. As the figure moves into my line of sight, I focus on the man who tricked me not once, not twice, but now three times.
Despite his subtle limp, Zeno’s grinning wide. His wrist is red from where the cuff was tightened around his skin, and I don’t want to picture what was done to the bed frame in order to free him.
Zeno bends and swipes a gun— my gun—from the grouping, almost like he knows exactly which one is mine. He swings it in an upwards motion before slapping the side to open the chamber, finding it full of ammo because I always ensure it is. He twirls it into a comfortable hold and keeps it loose by his side as he comes up beside the presumed leader, who I’m getting the sense is not Alessandro Vitale.
“Capo,” the man greets, “glad you’re safe.”
Capo.
Zeno grins down at me and the little I thought I knew about this damn organization comes crashing down.
Not a damn merc at all.
He’s the motherfucking head of the Cosa Nostra.