14. Ivan
14
IVAN
C ora is laughing.
The sound is soft, carefree—something I’ve never truly heard from her before. It seeps into my bones.
She stands in a kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of my shirts, sleeves rolled up as she stirs something on the stove. The room smells like coffee and cinnamon, the windows thrown open to let in the gentle morning breeze. Where are we? I don’t know this place. Something isn’t right here.
“Paranoid much?” she asks without looking back at me.
A small giggle pulls my attention.
I turn, and there she is.
A girl.
Dark-haired, bright-eyed, her mother’s stubborn chin, my frown. She’s sitting at the table, playing with a wooden toy, her tiny fingers gripping it with pure determination.
Cora turns, catching my gaze. Her eyes shine.
"You’re staring," she teases, a soft smirk tugging at her lips.
I don’t respond. I just watch.
This is peace.
How did I get this?
The thought unsettles me. A slow, creeping sense of wrongness tugs at the edges of the dream, warping it. The air thickens, growing heavy with something unseen.
Cora frowns, tilting her head slightly.
Then, suddenly—her expression changes.
Fear.
She drops the spoon. It clatters against the counter, sending flecks of sauce flying. The color drains from her face as she takes a step toward me, her eyes wide.
"Ivan."
I stiffen.
"Wake up. I need you."
The world shatters.
Pain slams into me, dragging me back to the surface.
I gasp, the breath knocking against my ribs as consciousness comes crashing in like a freight train.
Everything hurts.
A deep, throbbing ache in my skull, the slow, sticky warmth of blood dripping down my face. My head is slumped forward, my muscles burning as I fight against the dead weight of my own body.
Rope. Tight. Unforgiving.
The chair creaks beneath me as I shift, testing the bonds. The bite of coarse fiber against my wrists tells me I’ve been here for hours—long enough for my body to settle into the pain, long enough for the bleeding to slow but not stop.
The overhead bulb swings slightly, casting long, distorted shadows across the stained concrete floor. The room stinks, the unmistakable scent of blood soaked into the walls.
I inhale slowly, forcing my mind to focus.
Where am I?
The warehouse. Darren’s men.
Memories snap into place. The docks. The ambush. My men falling around me. The blunt force of a pistol butt slamming into my skull.
And then?—
A voice.
Soft. Distant. Echoing in my skull.
Desperate.
"Ivan."
My pulse roars to life.
Cora. She needs me.
My head jerks up, the sudden movement sending white-hot pain slicing through my skull. Blood slides into my eye, blurring my vision. I blink hard, forcing it away.
She’s here. Somewhere in this place.
I try to listen past the ringing in my ears, past the steady drip, drip, drip of something leaking in the corner. The warehouse is eerily silent beyond the occasional shuffle of boots from somewhere outside the room.
I grind my teeth, my jaw clenching.
She’s close.
And if they’ve touched her?—
I force down the thought before it can consume me.
My fingers twitch against the ropes, testing for slack. Nothing. But the knots—sloppy. Rushed.
Darren’s men made a mistake.
Heat coils in my chest, slow and lethal, a force waiting to erupt.
I will find her.
I exhale slowly, flexing my hands, feeling the tension in the ropes that bind me. The fibers cut into my wrists, biting into raw skin, but I barely register the discomfort. Darren’s men tied these knots hastily, overconfident in their victory.
I shift my fingers, feeling along the back of the chair. The wood is rough, uneven. There—a jagged edge, where a bolt has loosened from the frame. My pulse slows, my focus narrowing to that one imperfect piece of metal.
I angle my wrists, pressing the thick rope against the bolt’s exposed edge, and pull. The friction is instant, searing. The fibers grind against my skin but I don’t stop.
I grit my teeth, dragging the rope back and forth, harder, faster, ignoring the sting as it saws into flesh.
Warm blood slicks my wrists, making the work messier, more painful. The coppery scent thickens in the air, but I keep going, forcing myself past the burn, past the ache, past the body’s natural instinct to recoil.
Then—a snap.
The pressure vanishes.
I yank my hands free, my breath coming slow and measured as I flex my fingers. My skin is flayed, the cuts still leaking warm trails of blood, but I barely feel it. My hands immediately drop to my ankles, working at the knots. They’re tight, but not tight enough.
Every second I waste is another second she’s at risk. She’s here somewhere. I know she is.
The ropes fall away.
I push off the chair, rising to my feet. The shift sends a violent shockwave of pain through my ribs, the bruises blooming deeper, sharper with the movement. My skull pounds, the ache spreading down my spine, but I shove it aside.
The door looms ahead, a single obstacle between me and the hunt. Outside, I can hear the steady shuffle of a guard’s boots, his weight shifting lazily from foot to foot. His posture is too relaxed, his focus fixed on his cellphone, watching a soccer match, headphones in.
My arm snaps around his throat, wrenching him backward into the room. His body collides with mine, a sharp jolt of surprise rippling through him as he tries to react. But I don’t give him the chance.
My forearm tightens.
One brutal twist.
The crack of his neck echoes in the silence.
His body goes limp, the fight snuffed out instantly. I lower him to the ground, careful to keep the noise to a minimum, stripping him of his gun, knife, and spare ammo. The weight of the weapons settles into my grip like an old friend.
Better.
I step over the corpse and slip into the hall. The air is damp, thick with the scent of oil and rust.
I move like a shadow, slipping between pools of darkness, my steps silent. There are voices up ahead, low murmurs, a lazy conversation between two guards who have no idea death is coming for them. I hug the wall, the cold steel pressing against my back as I wait, my breathing steady, controlled.
The moment one of them turns his back, I move.
The knife glides through the air, buries deep in the base of his skull. The second man barely has time to react before I yank the blade free and slam it into his throat. A gurgle, a choked breath, and then silence.
I catch his body before it hits the ground.
One by one, I move through the warehouse, my path marked by silent kills, quick, efficient strikes. A man near the loading bay —a bullet to the head, a quiet death. Another by the stairwell—a blade between the ribs, the body lowered gently to the ground.
Every kill is another step closer.
By the time I reach the warehouse’s heart, I don’t know how many bodies I’ve left behind. It doesn’t matter. The guns I’ve taken have been reloaded, the knives cleaned on the fabric of the dead. I am ready.
Cora.
I can feel it, the pull in my chest, the undeniable weight of her presence somewhere in this building. She’s close.
How is that possible? I’m being paranoid. She’s at the penthouse, perfectly safe. I should find Darren, kill him, then get the fuck out of here before my luck runs out.
I press myself into the shadows, stilling my breath as a large group of men moves past, searching. Their footsteps echo against the cold concrete, their movements sharp with tension.
Searching for me.
Idiots.
I watch them pass, counting heads, tracking their weapons, gauging the time I have before they double back. Too many to take head-on, not without risking an alarm. I need another way through.
My gaze sweeps the corridor, locking onto a door slightly ajar just a few feet ahead. A side room. A temporary hiding spot. I slip inside without a sound, pressing the door shut behind me, turning straight into a nightmare.
I freeze.
A table. A figure.
A woman.
My breath catches, chest tightening like a vice.
Then—
"Ivan."
The voice is weak, breathless.
Cora.
For a split second, I can’t move. My body locks up, my mind struggling to reconcile the sight before me.
She’s tied down.
Her arms strapped to the table, her wrists red and raw from struggling. Her shirt is torn, her skin littered with bruises, deep and ugly against her too-pale complexion.
She’s hurt. Again.
Rage ignites inside me, sudden and violent, consuming every rational thought.
They touched her.
They hurt her.
I will kill them all.
But then—she looks at me.
And what I see in her eyes stops my heart.
Fear.
Not of me.
Of something else. Something worse.
Her lips tremble, her breathing shallow as she struggles to say the words. I move forward immediately, my hands already reaching for the knots at her wrists, my focus shifting from murder to escape.
“What is it?” I ask as I work the ropes free. “How bad is it?”
“Ivan,” she whispers. “Not me.”
I still. “What?”
She swallows hard, her body trembling beneath me.
"The baby.” She lets out a sob. “What if they hurt the baby?”
“What baby?”
She stares deep into my soul. “I’m pregnant, Ivan."
My body forgets how to move.
Pregnant.
She’s carrying my child.
Everything shatters and realigns. The priority isn’t killing them anymore. That can wait. First, I need to get her and my child to safety.
My hands tremble as I move again, undoing the ropes faster, more desperately. The bindings fall away one by one, my fingers clumsy with urgency, with the knowledge that everything has changed.
She sags forward the moment her wrists are free, her body curling into me. Without thinking, I catch her, my arms closing around her, pulling her in, holding her close.
Her fingers clutch at my shirt. Her breath is shaky against my neck, her body trembling in my arms.
She clings to me for only a second before pulling back, her breath uneven against my neck. I cup the back of her head, pressing my lips to her hair, taking the briefest moment to revel in the fact that she’s alive.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm tearing through my veins.
She nods, but then she lifts her chin, something fierce flashing in her expression. “Give me a gun.”
I immediately scowl, my body locking up. “No.”
Her glare sharpens. “Ivan, I can help. Let me help.”
I step between her and the door, blocking her completely, every inch of me ready to keep her shielded, keep her out of this fight. “Stay behind me,” I order, my voice low, absolute. “I’ll handle this.”
She grabs my wrist, her grip iron-tight, her nails pressing into my skin. “Ivan,” she snaps, her voice sharp as a gunshot. “Have faith in me. Please.”
Something in my chest twists violently.
I know she isn’t weak. She’s fought her whole life, survived battles she never should have, and she’s standing here now, still breathing. But the idea of her in this fight, the idea of her carrying my child in the middle of a goddamn war zone— it puts a fear in me so deep, so visceral, that it chokes me.
I exhale sharply, jaw clenched tight as I press a gun into her hands. “Just don’t shoot me.”
Cora’s lips twitch, just slightly. “No promises.”
Then—the door bursts open and a gun’s pointing straight at me. I barely have time to register it before Cora fires.
The gunshot tears through the room, deafening in the confined space. The bullet slams through his skull, tearing flesh and bone, and he collapses in the doorway, blood splattering against the walls.
A second man lunges inside, knife in his hand, his mouth opening in a curse.
Too slow.
I’m already moving.
I slam forward, using his knife to slice across his throat in one brutal, efficient motion. The blade cuts deep, severing arteries, sending a spray of crimson across the concrete. He gurgles, hands clawing at his ruined neck, but I shove him aside, stepping over his body.
Another figure moves in the hall, gun raised, finger tightening on the trigger.
Cora doesn’t hesitate.
She pivots beside me, aims, fires. The shot lands square in the chest, the impact sending the man sprawling backward.
Her movements are sharp, controlled, precise. She doesn’t flinch.
She’s deadly.
And fuck, I think I might be falling in love with her.
A man rushes from the left—Cora takes the shot, eliminating him before he even lifts his weapon.
Another steps into view from the right—I lunge forward, knife in one hand, gun in the other. I fire at one, while my blade plunges deep into the second’s ribs, twisting up, ripping through organs.
“Behind you,” she shouts.
I pivot instantly, raising my arm just in time to block a blow. A fist slams into my ribs, pain rocketing through my side, but it doesn’t slow me.
I grab the attacker by the throat and slam him into the nearest crate, driving my knee up into his gut before planting a bullet between his eyes.
Cora moves in tandem with me, her breathing even, her gaze sharp, reading me, anticipating every shift. When my gun clicks empty, I barely need to speak before she’s passing me another.
Two more men appear down the hall, guns raised. We drop together, using the shadows. She takes out the one on the left. I take the one on the right.
The bodies hit the ground, blood pooling at our feet.
She looks at me.
I look at her.
The warehouse is filled with the thick, metallic scent of blood and gunpowder. The air is humid with death, with sweat, with something close to madness.
The bodies are piled up behind us.
The wail of alarms splits the air, a shrieking signal that reinforcements are closing in. It’s chaos now.
I grab Cora’s wrist, yanking her toward the nearest exit, every instinct screaming at me to move faster. She stumbles slightly but keeps up, her breaths sharp and ragged as we sprint through the corridors of this death trap.
Ahead, the exit looms—freedom just beyond it. We’re close. So close.
A bullet whizzes past my shoulder, too close, too fast. I shove Cora behind a stack of crates, shielding her as I twist and fire back over my shoulder, taking down the shooter. Another man lunges from the side—I fire twice, one shot ripping through his throat, the second finishing him before he can collapse.
Cora leans around the crate, returning fire at another set of guards pushing in from the opposite direction. Her bullets find their marks, her stance solid despite the exhaustion.
We’re almost clear?—
Then—a voice.
"Ivan!"
The sound cuts through the gunfire, through the pounding in my skull, through the chaos.
I freeze, my body going rigid.
I know that voice.
I turn, my breath slow and heavy, my grip tightening around my gun before I even fully face him.
Darren.
He stands near the far end of the warehouse, flanked by a handful of men, but he’s not hiding. He’s not running.
He’s waiting.
And the bastard is smirking. “Give me the flash drive and I’ll let you both live.”
The words land like a match to gasoline.
Rage ignites inside me, violent and absolute.
I see only him.
I raise my gun, aiming for the head. My finger tightens on the trigger.
One shot. One kill. Then this is all over.
I fire.
But Darren moves at the last second, just enough. The bullet grazes his ear, splattering blood against the collar of his coat. He staggers back slightly, his smirk faltering for just a moment.
Then—he laughs.
The sound is low, amused, taunting.
"See you real soon, Ivan,” he calls as he ducks out of sight.
I shoot, emptying my pistol but all he does is laugh from his hiding place. My body lunges forward, my instincts demanding blood, demanding I end this now. But before I can take another step, a hand grips my arm, tight and unyielding.
“Ivan,” Cora gasps, pulling at me with all her strength. “Not now. There are too many and we’re out of bullets.”
Her presence pulls me back from the edge. His men are running at us, shooting as they come.
I grit my teeth, my entire body vibrating with the need to kill him, to rip him apart, to finish this here. “Trust me,” she says, dragging me toward the exit. “We’ll get him next time.”