Chapter 3
Nikolai
The Sidorov auction house smelled of old money.
Tobacco. Leather. Blood.
I sat in the third row, the velvet seat beneath me plush and clearly expensive. We’d been here hours already. I glanced at Maksim. He yawned.
Lot 34 was on stage. Three paintings in ornate frames, Impressionist works stolen from the Gardner Museum in 1990. The auctioneer's voice boomed through speakers: "Sold for one point two million dollars to the Sokolov representative."
Polite applause. Professional. Like they'd just bought art at Sotheby's instead of stolen property at a criminal auction.
Viktor Sokolov stood to claim his purchase. White hair, dead eyes, the kind of man who'd watched people die and felt nothing. He nodded once. Two of his men moved toward the stage to collect.
My attention drifted. So many lots already, and none of them mattered. The weapons we'd come to assess went to the Kozlovs an hour ago. The intelligence files we'd considered went to the Morozovs. There was nothing left on the roster that served Besharov interests.
Except I was still here. Watching paintings get sold to dead-eyed old men at 9:47 PM on a Thursday.
My jaw clenched. I forced it to relax. Counted to four.
Anton Belyaev sat five rows ahead. I'd been tracking him since we arrived. Heavy men flanked him—all armed, all scanning the crowd with professional paranoia. More security than anyone else brought. The Kozlovs had four men. The Morozovs had three. We'd brought two—Kostya beside me, Maks three seats down.
The Belyaevs had six. Which was either paranoia or preparation.
I counted them again. Confirmed. Six.
The one on Anton's immediate right was the most dangerous. Broad-shouldered, scar bisecting his left eyebrow, hands that never stopped moving. Checking his weapon. Adjusting his jacket. Scanning. A soldier who'd seen combat and expected more.
The others were competent but less experienced. Younger. Eager. The kind of men who'd follow orders without questioning whether those orders were strategically sound.
Anton himself sat perfectly still. Dark hair slicked back, expensive suit, the kind of handsome that looked manufactured. But his eyes were wrong. Flat. Empty. Shark eyes in a human face.
He'd bid on four lots so far. All strategic acquisitions. Lot 18: military-grade weapons, outbid by the Kozlovs but he'd driven the price up. Lot 23: encrypted data drives containing port authority schedules, purchased for three hundred thousand. Lot 27: a shipping manifest showing Coast Guard patrol patterns, purchased for one-fifty. Lot 31: a crate of surveillance equipment, purchased for two hundred thousand.
They weren't here to liquidate assets. They were here to build an arsenal.
For what? The Belyaevs were new to New York. Less than two years establishing operations. They should be focused on consolidating territory, building relationships, proving they could play by the old codes.
Instead they were stockpiling weapons and intelligence like they were preparing for war.
Against who? Us? All five families?
The thought made my chest tight.
Beside me, Kostya shifted in his seat. The velvet groaned under his weight. My middle brother was built like a tank—six-five, two-forty, all muscle and violence barely contained in tactical gear. He'd refused the suit I'd suggested. Said he wasn't here to look pretty, he was here to protect me.
"When are we leaving?" he muttered in Russian. His voice was low but impatient.
"Soon," I replied.
"Why not now?"
Good question. I didn't have a good answer.
The weapons were gone. The intelligence was gone. There was nothing left tonight that justified staying. We should have left an hour ago. Should be back at the compound, analyzing what we'd seen, planning our response to the Belyaevs' obvious preparations.
Instead I was sitting in an overpriced chair watching art and assets change hands.
I remembered my grandfather’s advice.
"Stay until the end," he'd said. "Trust me, Kolya."
Mikhail Grigorievich Besharov didn't make requests without reason. Didn't waste words. Didn't ask me to trust him unless something significant was in motion.
The thought made my hands shake slightly. I clasped them together. Forced them still.
Kostya noticed. Of course he noticed. He'd spent our entire lives watching for signs that I was spiraling.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"Fine," I lied.
The whole time we’d been here, I’d been calculating threats.
The auction hall was impressive in that deliberately intimidating way that old money preferred. High ceilings with exposed industrial beams painted matte black. Concrete floors polished to a shine. Rows of velvet chairs arranged in a semicircle facing the raised stage. Professional lighting that could illuminate a single object or flood the entire space. A massive screen on the right displaying lot numbers and starting prices in clean sans-serif font.
On stage, the two men in tactical gear wheeled Lot 34 off. The paintings disappeared into the wings. The massive screen changed.
Lot 35. Information scrolled across the display. Military-grade explosives. C4. Detonators. Enough to level a building.
The auctioneer began his pitch. "Lot 35, commercial-grade explosives, military specifications. Opening bid at one hundred thousand dollars."
Paddles rose immediately. The Kozlovs. The Belyaevs. The price climbed fast—two hundred thousand, three hundred thousand, four-fifty.
The Belyaevs won at five hundred thousand.
Anton stood to claim his purchase. Turned slightly. Those shark eyes swept the room. Found me. Held.
Recognition. Challenge.
Message received: We're not afraid of you.
My chest tightened. I counted to four. In for four, hold for four, out for four.
Lot 35 was wheeled off stage. The screen changed again.
Lot 36. More art. I watched dispassionately, my mind running calculations. The Belyaevs had spent $1.15 million tonight on weapons, intelligence, surveillance equipment, and explosives. That was a significant investment. That was preparation for a major operation.
I needed more information. Needed to know what they were planning. Needed—
Lot 36 sold. The screen changed.
The auctioneer's voice filled the space with professional enthusiasm. "Lot 37. Debt bondage contract, obligation of two point three million dollars. Female, age twenty-four, American-born with Russian heritage. Fluent in both languages. Classically trained in ballet with American Ballet Theatre. Photographic memory confirmed through testing. Suitable for household management, intelligence analysis, or creative enterprises. Opening bid at fifty thousand dollars."
My jaw clenched. Debt bondage lots made me uncomfortable. Had since the first time I'd attended one of these auctions at twenty-five and watched a woman sold like furniture to a Kozlov associate who'd looked at her the way normal people looked at livestock.
I'd voted to ban them from Besharov acquisitions. Mikhail had overruled me. Said sometimes people needed to be bought to be saved. Said the world wasn't fair and pretending otherwise didn't help anyone.
I'd stopped attending auctions that included them.
But tonight I was here. Watching the screen display information about a woman's life reduced to selling points. Photographic memory listed as "intellectual asset." Ballet training listed as "physical conditioning, flexibility, performance experience."
They'd made her a product.
The stage lights brightened. The auctioneer gestured toward the wings. "Ladies and gentlemen, Lot 37."
Sophie Andreeva walked onto the stage.
My heart stopped. Actually stopped, just for a moment, that sensation like missing a step on stairs. Then it slammed back into motion, racing, my pulse loud in my ears.
This didn't happen to me. I didn't have immediate physical reactions to anything. I'd trained myself out of that response by the time I was sixteen. Control was survival. Emotional responses were vulnerabilities I couldn't afford.
But every system in my body was firing like I'd touched a live wire.
She was small. Maybe five-three in the flat black shoes they'd given her. The grey dress was simple, expensive, chosen to make her look like a blank canvas. It fit well—not tight, not loose, just skimming her body in a way that suggested curves without emphasizing them.
Her hair fell past her shoulders. Dark blonde, honey-colored under the stage lights. It looked soft. I wanted to touch it.
That thought alone should have terrified me.
She was beautiful. Delicate features, heart-shaped face, the kind of beauty that made men want to protect her. But it wasn't just beauty. There was something else. Something in the way she held herself.
Dancer's posture. Spine straight, shoulders back, chin up. She was trying to look bigger than she was. Trying to look strong, intimidating, capable. Her small frame couldn't pull it off but she tried anyway.
Her eyes swept the crowd. Blue-green, striking even from three rows back. But it was the way she looked that destroyed something in my chest. Systematic. Methodical. Cataloging.
A trapped animal assessing the cage.
I knew that look. Saw it in the mirror every morning. The need to understand the space, to calculate odds, to find safety through information.
She was scared. Trying not to show it. Failing.
My hands gripped the armrests of my chair. I forced them to relax. Counted to four. It didn't work.
The auctioneer smiled at the crowd. "As you can see, Lot 37 is in excellent physical condition. Former professional dancer with American Ballet Theatre until an injury ended her career three years ago. Maintained her physical conditioning despite the setback."
He said it like a car salesman describing a vehicle with minor cosmetic damage.
On stage, Sophie's jaw clenched. Her hands fisted at her sides.
That's when I saw it. The detail that changed everything.
Her hands.
They were clenched into fists so tight her knuckles were white. But her thumbs—her thumbs were tapping against her fingers in a rhythmic pattern. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
Self-soothing. A grounding technique. The kind of thing people did when they were fighting panic attacks or managing overwhelming anxiety.
The kind of thing Littles did when they were trying not to regress.
My breath caught.
I'd been in the DDlg community for eight years. Always as a Daddy Dom, never with a permanent Little because the vulnerability terrified me. Letting someone see that soft, young, dependent part of themselves meant trusting them completely. Trusting that you'd protect them, care for them, keep them safe.
I'd never found someone I trusted myself to care for. Never found a Little who could handle my level of control and structure. Never found anyone who made me want to try.
But I knew the signs. Had studied them, learned them, understood them the way I understood threat assessment and financial analysis and anything else I needed to survive.
She was fighting regression with everything she had.
Somehow, I just knew. She was a Little. In distress. Being sold on a stage to criminals who would use her, break her, destroy that soft vulnerable part of herself that she was trying so hard to protect.
And my immediate, irrational, absolutely certain thought was: Mine.
The word echoed in my head like a command. Like something fundamental and undeniable. Like gravity.
Mine. Mine to protect. Mine to care for. Mine to keep safe. Mine.
My chest was tight. I couldn't breathe properly. My hands were shaking and I couldn't make them stop.
This was insane. I didn't know her. Didn't know anything about her except what was on the screen and what I could observe from three rows back. She could be manipulative, dangerous, completely wrong for me.
Except every instinct I had—the analytical ones and the ones I didn't have names for—was screaming the same thing.
She needed someone. She needed me.
And I needed her. It made no sense, but it didn't matter.
"Kolya." Kostya's voice was quiet, concerned. "What's wrong?"
I couldn't answer. Couldn't look away from the stage. From her.
Sophie's eyes swept the crowd again. Found mine for just a moment. Grey-green and terrified and furious. Trapped.
Something in my chest cracked open. Something I'd kept locked down for twenty-eight years because vulnerability was dangerous and caring meant losing control.
I didn't care about control anymore.
I cared about her.
The auctioneer continued his pitch, explaining her skills, her training, her photographic memory. Making her sound like a prize acquisition instead of a human being who was counting to four over and over again to keep from falling apart.
"Bidding starts at fifty thousand dollars," he said.
I should stay out of this. Had no strategic reason to acquire a debt bondage contract. No reason to buy a woman I didn't know. No reason to derail whatever plan Mikhail had orchestrated by staying tonight.
But when the first bid came—seventy-five thousand from a Morozov associate—my hand started to rise.
Kostya grabbed my wrist. "Don't," he said quietly.
"Let go."
"Kolya, you don't need—"
"Let. Go."
He released my wrist but his eyes were burning into the side of my face. Demanding an explanation I couldn't give.
Because I didn't understand it myself. Didn't understand why this woman on this stage at this moment felt like the most important thing in my entire life.
I just knew she was.
The bidding climbed. One hundred thousand. One-fifty. Two hundred. Three hundred.
I should let it go. Should let someone else buy her, deal with the debt, handle the complication.
But then Anton Belyaev's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Five hundred thousand."
And I understood exactly why Mikhail had told me to stay.
My hand was in the air before my brain authorized the movement. "One million dollars."
The words came out clear. Calm. Like I announced million-dollar purchases every day.
The auction hall went quiet. Not completely—there were still dozens of people breathing, shifting, existing—but quiet enough that I heard Kostya's sharp inhale beside me.
Heads turned. All five families, their soldiers, the auction staff, everyone trying to identify who'd just doubled Anton Belyaev's bid.
The auctioneer's smile widened. "One million dollars from the Besharov representative. Do I hear—"
"Kolya." Kostya's hand gripped my shoulder. Hard. "What are you doing?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. My entire focus was on Anton Belyaev as he stood slowly, deliberately, and turned.
Those shark eyes found me across three rows and twenty feet of space. Recognition flickered. Then calculation. Then something colder—challenge.
He knew who I was. New Pakhan of the Besharov family, elevated six months ago when Mikhail stepped down. Young. Untested. Trying to prove I deserved the position.
This was a test. He was testing me. Publicly. Seeing if I'd back down.
I held his gaze. Didn't blink. Didn't look away.
His smile was thin. Predatory. "One point two million."
The room's attention swung back to me. Waiting. This wasn't about the woman anymore—if it ever had been. This was about power. Territory. Who would yield.
On stage, Sophie's eyes found mine for the first time.
Grey-green. Terrified. Furious. Searching.
The impact of that eye contact hit me like a physical blow. Something passed between us in that moment—recognition, maybe, or understanding, or just the acknowledgment that we were both trapped in this nightmare but at least we could see each other clearly.
She saw me. Really saw me. Not the Pakhan or the strategist or the carefully constructed armor. Saw the man underneath who was counting to four over and over again to keep from losing control completely.
And I saw her. The fighter underneath the fear. The intelligence behind the dancer's grace. The Little she was trying so hard to hide.
"One point five million," I said.
My voice was steady. My hands were shaking. I clasped them together. Forced them still.
Kostya swore quietly in Russian. Something creative involving my intelligence and my sanity and whether I possessed either.
The auctioneer beamed. "One point five million dollars. Do I hear—"
"Turn for us, Miss Andreeva." Anton's voice carried across the room. Not a request. An order. "Let us see what we're buying."
The auctioneer gestured enthusiastically. "Of course. Miss Andreeva, please turn slowly so our guests can assess the merchandise."
Merchandise. He called her merchandise.
On stage, Sophie's jaw clenched hard enough I could see the muscle jump. But she turned. Slowly. Mechanically. The grey dress shifting around her legs.
That's when I saw the limp.
Slight. Almost imperceptible. Her left leg bearing weight differently than the right, a tiny hitch in her movement. Old injury. Probably the one that ended her ballet career.
My analytical mind catalogued details without permission. The way she compensated for the weak knee by shifting weight to her right side. The way her posture stayed perfect despite the injury—years of training overriding pain. The way she moved with a dancer's grace even now, even here, even while being displayed like livestock.
She completed the turn. Faced forward again. Her hands were still fisted at her sides, knuckles white, thumbs still tapping that four-count rhythm.
The auctioneer continued like nothing was wrong. Like this was normal. Like selling human beings was just another Thursday night.
"As you can see, Lot 37 is in excellent physical condition. Nothing that would impact household duties or other service obligations."
Service obligations. Code for whatever the buyer wanted to use her for.
My stomach turned. I'd been uncomfortable with debt bondage lots before. Now I wanted to burn this entire building down.
"Height of five feet three inches," the auctioneer went on. "Weight approximately one hundred and ten pounds. Medical examination confirms excellent health. No chronic conditions, no dependencies, no complications."
He was reading her like a spec sheet. Like she was a car or a computer or any other object being sold.
On stage, Sophie's breathing was too controlled. That four-count pattern. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The same technique I used. The same desperate attempt to manage panic through structure.
"One point eight million." Anton's voice. Calm. Certain. Challenging me to continue this insanity.
The rational part of my brain—the part that had kept me alive through five years of strategic planning and territorial negotiations—was screaming. This was irrational. Wasteful. Emotional decision-making that would cost me more than money. It would cost me reputation. Respect. The appearance of control that kept people from testing me.
Buying a debt bondage contract for more than the actual debt was stupid. Buying one because of an irrational protective instinct toward a woman I didn't know was stupider.
Doing it in a bidding war with Anton Belyaev was strategic suicide.
"Two point two million," I said.
Kostya's hand tightened on my shoulder. "Brother. Stop. This is—"
"Not now."
"You're paying almost a million dollars more than her actual debt," he hissed. "For what? You don't need—"
"I said not now."
I didn't look at him. Couldn't look away from the stage. From her.
Sophie's eyes had found mine again. Held. There was something in her expression—confusion, maybe, or hope, or just exhausted resignation. She didn't understand why I was bidding. Neither did I.
I just knew I couldn't let Anton Belyaev have her. Couldn't let that shark-eyed predator own a woman who counted to four when she was scared. Who fought regression because she thought being Little was weakness. Who was so obviously alone and terrified and trying so hard to be strong.
The auctioneer's voice rose with excitement. "Two point two million dollars from the Besharov representative. An excellent bid. Do I hear—"
Anton stood again. That thin smile still in place. He buttoned his suit jacket with deliberate precision. A man who knew he had time, knew he had resources, knew he could outlast me.
"Two point five million dollars," he said clearly.
The room reacted. Murmurs, whispers, heads turning. Two point five million was more than the debt by two hundred thousand. That was pride money. Fuck-you money. The amount you paid when it stopped being about the asset and became about the win.
My mind raced. Calculated. Two point five million. I could justify three million if I had to—barely, with creative accounting. But anything over that would require explanation. Would require admitting I'd made an emotional decision. Would show weakness.
The strategic choice was to let it go. Let Anton have her. There were other ways to counter the Belyaevs' preparations. Other ways to demonstrate Besharov strength.
On stage, Sophie's shoulders dropped slightly. Defeat. She thought it was over. Thought she knew where this ended.
And maybe she was right. Maybe I should let it go. Should make the smart choice. Should—
The north entrance exploded.
The blast wave hit before the sound did. Physics working backward—pressure slamming into my chest, stealing air from my lungs, then the noise catching up. Deafening. The kind of sound you felt in your bones.
The north entrance doors—reinforced steel, three inches thick, designed to withstand battering rams—flew off their hinges like playing cards. They spun into the auction hall, one slamming into the back row of chairs, crushing velvet and wood. The other skidded across the polished concrete, coming to rest against the stage.
Commercial-grade explosives. C4, probably. Enough to blow reinforced doors into shrapnel. Enough to announce that someone had stopped playing by rules.
Smoke billowed through the destroyed entrance. Grey-black, chemical-smelling, filling the space.
Then gunfire.
Automatic weapons. Multiple shooters. The sound was distinctive—short controlled bursts, professional, military-trained. This wasn't spray-and-pray. This was execution.
Belyaev soldiers poured through the smoke. I counted fast—twenty, twenty-five, all armed with rifles. Military-grade. They moved in formation, covering angles, professional as any tactical team.
They shot the Sidorov guards first.
Five guards positioned around the auction hall. Five men who'd worked these auctions for years, kept the peace, enforced the neutrality that made The Settling sacred ground.
All five went down in less than ten seconds. Methodical. Efficient. Three shots each—two to the chest, one to the head. Professional kills.
The auctioneer was reaching for something under his podium—panic button, weapon, didn't matter. Three shots. He dropped behind the podium. Didn't get up.
Then Yevgeny Sidorov.
The elderly Pakhan had stood from his seat in the front row, probably trying to understand what was happening, probably thinking this was a mistake that could be corrected. He'd run The Settling for fifteen years. Had kept it neutral. Had made it sacred through sheer force of will and reputation.
Three shots to the chest. He fell backward into his chair. His head lolled. Blood spread across his expensive shirt.
Dead. Just like that. The man who'd created the only neutral ground in the bratva world, murdered in his own auction house.
The room erupted.
People screaming, running, chairs overturning. The Kozlovs drew weapons immediately—Pavel Kozlov was on his feet with a pistol in each hand, firing at the Belyaev soldiers. Two of them went down. The others found cover behind overturned chairs.
The Morozovs moved as a unit toward the east exit. Viktor Morozov's men surrounded him, guns out, creating a protective formation. Efficient. Practiced. They'd drilled for this.
The Sokolovs were slower—old men trying to remember how to move under fire. Viktor Sokolov stumbled. One of his men caught him, hauled him toward the west exit.
The Volkovs—the three men I'd cataloged earlier—were moving too. The oldest giving orders, the other two covering him, all three armed and dangerous.
And the Belyaev soldiers kept coming. Fanning out through the auction hall, guns raised, shooting anyone who fought back.
This was insane. Attacking The Settling violated every code, every tradition, every unspoken agreement that kept the five families from open warfare. This was sacred ground. Neutral territory. The one place where violence wasn't allowed because violence here would destroy the fragile balance that kept total chaos from erupting.
The Belyaevs had just destroyed it anyway.
Beside me, Kostya was on his feet. He had his gun out—a Glock 19, the one he carried everywhere—and was firing controlled shots at the Belyaev soldiers advancing down the center aisle. Two shots, center mass. One soldier dropped. Three more moved to replace him.
"NIKOLAI!" Kostya's voice cut through the chaos. "WE NEED TO GO!"
He was right. Every strategic instinct I had screamed the same thing: LEAVE. This wasn't my fight yet. This was the Belyaevs making a catastrophic mistake that would unite all five families against them. This was strategic suicide. Smart move was to survive, regroup, prepare for the war that was coming.
Stay out of it. Get to safety. Let the Belyaevs destroy themselves.
Except.
On stage, three Belyaev soldiers were moving toward Sophie.
She was backed against the far wall, small and terrified in that grey dress, her hands up like that would protect her. One soldier grabbed her arm. She fought—twisted, kicked his knee hard enough to make him stumble, clawed at his face with her other hand.
Good. Fight. Don't let them—
Another soldier grabbed her from behind. Wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides. She thrashed, kicking backward, but he was twice her size and trained for this.
The third soldier pulled something from his tactical vest. Black fabric. A hood.
He forced it over her head. Her scream was immediate, muffled by the fabric. Panicked. The sound of someone whose worst fear was coming true.
They were taking her. Taking her into the smoke and chaos and whatever hell the Belyaevs had planned.
"NIKOLAI!" Kostya again, desperate now. "WE GO NOW OR WE DON'T GO!"
I should leave. Should trust that someone else would handle this. Should make the strategic choice that kept me alive to fight another day.
But that was Sophie screaming under a black hood. Sophie being dragged off stage by men who'd just murdered an old man in cold blood. Sophie who counted to four when she was scared and tried so hard to be strong and was so obviously, desperately alone.
Mine, the irrational part of my brain insisted. Mine to protect. Mine to save. Mine.
I was moving before the thought finished forming.
Drew the knife from the sheath at my spine—seven inches of folded steel, gift from Kostya when I became Pakhan, kept razor-sharp because a dull blade was a useless blade. The weight was familiar in my hand. The balance perfect.
Charged toward the stage. Kostya was shouting something behind me. Didn't matter. Nothing mattered except closing the distance between me and those soldiers.
The first soldier was dragging Sophie down the stage steps. Hadn't seen me coming. Too focused on his prize.
I slammed into him from the side. My knife went into his throat just below the jaw. Felt the resistance of tissue, then the hot spray of arterial blood. He dropped Sophie, grabbed at his neck. Useless. He was already dead, just taking a few seconds to realize it.
The second soldier spun toward me, raising his rifle. Too slow. I was already moving, already inside his guard. Two shots center mass from the Glock I'd drawn with my left hand. He went down hard.
The third soldier had Sophie over his shoulder. Was running toward the north entrance, toward the smoke and the destroyed doors and whatever extraction point the Belyaevs had planned.
I chased him.
My legs burned. My lungs screamed. Didn't matter. He was fast but I was faster, motivated by something beyond strategy or survival.
I tackled him from behind. We went down hard, concrete slamming into my shoulder, Sophie tumbling free. The soldier recovered fast—training kicking in, twisting under me, throwing an elbow that connected with my ribs. Pain exploded. Air left my lungs.
He was good. Trained. Vicious. He had six inches and forty pounds on me. Should have been an easy win for him.
But I'd spent eight years learning to fight. Not because I liked violence—I hated it, hated the chaos and the loss of control—but because being Pakhan meant being able to protect myself when control failed.
I broke his arm first. Grabbed his wrist, twisted, used leverage and angle to snap the radius. He screamed. I didn't stop. Dislocated his shoulder with a savage wrench. He tried to headbutt me. Missed. I got my hands around his neck, found the position Kostya had taught me, and twisted.
The crack was loud enough to hear over the gunfire.
He went limp. Dead weight. I shoved him off me, gasping, my ribs protesting every breath.
Sophie was screaming under the hood. Kicking blindly, not knowing who had her, not knowing if she was safe or in more danger.
I scooped her up. Threw her over my shoulder. She immediately started fighting—landing kicks to my ribs that made the pain spike sharp and bright.
"Stop fighting me," I growled in Russian. Then English. "I'm getting you out of here."
She didn't stop. Kept fighting. Couldn't see, couldn't know, just knew someone had grabbed her and instinct said fight.
I ran.
Smoke burned my eyes and throat. The auction hall was chaos—gunfire, screaming, people running in every direction. Sophie's weight across my shoulder was maybe a hundred and ten pounds but felt like more when she kept kicking my ribs.
I ran toward the east exit. Weaved between overturned chairs, stepped over bodies I didn't let myself look at too closely. My shoulder throbbed where I'd hit concrete. My ribs protested every breath. Didn't matter. Just had to move. Had to get her out.
Another kick to my ribs. Harder this time. The pain was sharp enough to make me stumble.
"Stop," I gasped. "I'm trying to help you."
She didn't stop. Couldn't hear me or didn't believe me or was too far gone in panic to process words. Just kept fighting. Her hands found my back, my shoulders, clawing for purchase, for leverage, for anything that might help her escape.
A Little's worst nightmare—being grabbed, hooded, carried into danger while unable to see or understand what was happening. Every instinct she had was screaming that she was being taken, being hurt, being—
Gunfire erupted to my left. Close. Too close. I ducked instinctively, felt the displacement of air as bullets passed over my head. Someone screamed. Not Sophie. Someone else.
I didn't look back. Just kept moving.
"NIKOLAI!"
Kostya's voice, somewhere behind me. Then he was there, massive and deadly, moving through the chaos like violence personified. His Glock was in a two-handed grip, firing controlled shots at Belyaev soldiers who'd noticed my escape attempt.
Two soldiers went down. Three more moved to replace them.
"What are you doing?" Kostya roared. Not asking. Demanding explanation while laying down covering fire, because that was my brother—furious and loyal in equal measure.
"Getting her out!" I shouted back.
"You should have left her!"
"Couldn't!"
He swore. Something long and creative in Russian. But he didn't argue further. Just moved with me, covering my six, shooting anyone who tried to stop us.
Maks appeared from somewhere in the smoke. My youngest brother looked wrong without his tablet, without his usual polished composure. His suit jacket was torn. Blood on his face—his or someone else's, couldn't tell. But he had his gun out and his eyes were clear.
"East exit's blocked," he said fast. "Four soldiers. We need to go through them or find another way."
"Through," I said. Because I couldn't carry Sophie much longer. My shoulder was screaming. My ribs felt like someone had taken a hammer to them. We needed out now.
"On three," Kostya said. He moved ahead, Maks flanking him. "One—"
They didn't wait for three. Just charged.
The gunfight lasted maybe ten seconds. Felt like longer. Kostya took point, drawing fire, his massive frame absorbing damage that would have killed smaller men. Maks moved low and fast, shooting with precision that came from years of intelligence work teaching him exactly where to aim.
Four Belyaev soldiers. All four went down.
But Kostya took a round to his shoulder. I saw him stagger, saw the blood, saw him keep moving anyway because that was who he was—unstoppable even when he should be stopped.
"Move!" he barked.
I moved. Through the exit, into a concrete hallway that smelled like exhaust and old fear. Emergency lighting cast everything in sickly yellow. Sophie was still fighting me, weaker now, exhausted or giving up or just running out of fight.
"Almost there," I said. To her or to myself, didn't matter. "Almost safe."
The hallway opened into a parking lot. Cold night air hit my face like a gift. I sucked in breath, tasted city—garbage and exhaust and that particular New York smell that meant home.
Our car was where we'd left it. Black Mercedes, armored, windows bulletproof. Maks had the keys. He ran ahead, unlocked it, threw open the back door.
I stumbled toward it. My legs barely worked. Adrenaline was crashing, leaving exhaustion and pain in its wake.
Got Sophie into the backseat. She immediately scrambled away from me, pressing herself against the far door, hands up in defense even though she couldn't see through the hood.
"Drive," Kostya ordered Maks. Blood was running down his arm, soaking his shirt. He didn't seem to notice. Just got in the passenger seat, gun still in his good hand, watching for pursuit.
I climbed into the backseat beside Sophie. Pulled the door shut. Maks was already moving, tires squealing as we peeled out of the parking lot.
Gunfire behind us. Bullets sparking off the armored body, spiderwebbing the bulletproof glass. But we were moving.
We were out.