Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Elena
The blade Igor had given me was tiny, almost weightless in my palm. But it was our only way out.
My hand shook, but I forced myself to steady it. The rope was thick and digging into my skin. I pressed the blade to the fibers and began to work, inch by inch. Slow. Careful. Quiet. I couldn't let the two men watching me notice.
I watched Igor holding Stella's small hand—Stella trusting him, clinging to him.
The first strand snapped. I kept cutting. Salvatore growled at Igor to get on with it. My heart hit my throat; time was running out. I didn't stop. The second strand gave.
"Watching your man die for you—how does that feel?" Natasha's voice hissed in my ear. I jumped, nearly dropping the blade. I clamped my fingers around it and hid it in my palm.
"You not talking?" Natasha leaned so close her red lips brushed my cheek. "Or are you too scared to say anything?"
I drew a breath and forced myself to meet her eyes. "What do you want me to say? Beg?"
"Begging won't save you," she smiled. "I am going to kill you. Slowly. Painfully. I am going to make Igor watch you die. He'd lose it. He'd go mad."
"You'll never have him," I said, calm, still slicing at the rope. "Because he never loved you."
Her smile froze.
"I don't get it," Natasha said, her voice suddenly almost sincere, confused. "How am I inferior to you? I'm prettier. I can do more. I'm the right Bratva queen. Tell me—what's wrong with me?"
The third strand snapped. One thin thread left.
"You want to know?" I said. "Then lean in."
She leaned—close enough to see the fine hairs on her face. At that moment, the last strand broke. My hands were free. I didn't hesitate. I grabbed her collar with everything I had, yanked her toward me, and drove my knee hard into her stomach.
"Ah!" she folded over; a gun slipped from her hand and clattered on the deck.
Before she could recover, I had her by the hair with one hand and the blade pressed to her throat with the other.
"Don't move!" I snapped.
Natasha went rigid. She could feel the steel; that thin sliver would cut with the smallest pressure. The two men guarding me raised their weapons instantly, cold barrels aimed.
"Drop her!" one shouted.
"You drop your guns first!" I pulled Natasha in front of me like a shield, pressing the blade harder into her pale neck.
She tried to struggle, then hissed and looked down—there was a fine line of blood seeping under the blade.
"No!" Her voice trembled. "I-I'm not moving."
She shook like a leaf. That arrogant, furious woman finally felt fear.
"Tell them to drop their guns," I ordered.
She did, but the men hesitated, guns still leveled.
"I said drop them!" Natasha screamed, fear sharpening her voice into something thin and ugly. "You idiots! She'll kill me!"
The deck froze for a beat. Salvatore turned and saw me holding Natasha; his face went ashen. My eyes slid past him to Igor. He watched me, pride bright in his gaze. Then, with a small smile at one corner of his mouth, he made a downward sweep with his hand.
Casual—but it detonated everything.
Gunfire exploded from every direction—off the sides of the boat, from the dark sea, from places I couldn't even see.
Red laser dots flared on Salvatore's men, and bullets rained down.
The two men guarding me didn't even get a chance to turn. Both heads blew open at once. There was no time to scream. I clung to Natasha, using her body to shield whatever flying metal might reach me.
Black-clad men rappelled from the upper deck, clambered over the rail, even surfaced from the water, and hauled themselves aboard. They moved like professionals—silent, lethal, synchronized.
A few of Salvatore's men tried to return fire, but they fell before they could pull triggers. Some sprinted for the cabin and were cut down in two steps, bullets in the back.
"Get off me!" Natasha shrieked in my arms, thrashing. "Fuck! You'll all die! Every one of you!"
I didn't listen. I kept the blade pressed to her artery.
Igor moved like a predator. He pounced on the nearest thug, stripped the gun from his hand, twisted a wrist until there was a sick crack. He spun the weapon and fired—three shots, three men down.
His movements were clean and lethal. He wasted nothing. The battle continued, but the tide had turned.
Salvatore stood in the center of the deck, watching his men fall, his face the color of concrete. He knew he was losing. He wasn't going to surrender. He fumbled for a silver pistol at his waist and aimed it at Igor's back.
Igor was wrestling another man and hadn't seen it.
"Careful!" I yelled.
He whirled. A bullet tore across his shoulder, ripping the fabric of his black suit, but he barely flinched.
He lunged at Salvatore. They collided with brutal force; the gun flew from Salvatore's hand and skittered across the deck. It wasn't a choreographed movie fight—no flashy moves, no flips—just raw, vicious brawling. Every punch aimed to end it.
Salvatore, old but vicious, landed a blow to Igor's ribs. Igor grunted—my chest tightened—but his eyes stayed hard, focused. Salvatore swung for his face; Igor leaned, avoided it, and snapped an elbow into his nose.
Crack. The sound of bone breaking made my stomach drop.
Salvatore staggered, clutching his nose as blood spouted between his fingers.
He didn't fall. He snarled and charged. Igor met him, twisted, locked an arm, and heaved him over in a perfect shoulder throw.
Salvatore flew in a brutal arc and slammed down on the deck.
The impact reverberated through the boards.
His skull hit hard. He was dazed; getting up wasn't happening.
Igor straddled him and rained punches until Salvatore stopped moving—his face a bloody ruin—then finally pulled back.
His chest heaved. There was still wildness in his eyes, but when he looked at me, it softened into something almost tender.
The gunfire tapered to nothing. Around us, the enemy lay broken and silent. Igor's men controlled the deck, guns sweeping the scene.
We had won.
"Mom!" Stella's voice cut through the haze. She was still in the cage, tiny hands gripping the bars, her face drained of color.
"Stella!" I wanted to run, but Natasha was still in my grip.
"You won't always win," Natasha hissed suddenly. "You think next time, when something like this happens, Igor will always save you like he did now?"
"Shut up!" I pressed the blade deeper and left another red line across her neck.
Igor strode over, blood spattered on his face, his suit torn and ragged.
"Tie her up," he ordered the two men at his side.
Two black-clad men hauled Natasha from me. They slammed her down and bound her wrists and ankles with rough rope.
"No, let me go!" she screamed, but they treated her like cargo and dragged her aside.
They'd secured Salvatore, too. He was out cold, his face swollen beyond recognition.
Only then did I realize what it meant—we were safe. My blade slipped from my numb fingers and tumbled to the deck.
Igor wrapped me in his arms. His hold was warm and impossibly solid. I couldn't stop the tears. The fear and adrenaline and exhaustion crashed over me. I cried until my shoulders shook and my tears wet his suit.
"It's over," he whispered into my hair, his big hand smoothing my head. "You were so brave, Elena. You did great."
"I was so scared," I sobbed. "I thought—I thought we—"
He kissed my forehead. "We're alive. You saved all of us."
"Stella—" I pushed him away, and he didn't resist.
"I know," he said, gentle.
We rushed to the cage together. Igor's men were already prying at the lock, tools clinking against metal. Igor couldn't wait. He picked up a pistol that had fallen on the deck, aimed at the padlock.
"Stand back!" he barked.
He fired. The lock blew apart, metal shards scattering.
The gate swung open. Stella lunged into my arms.
"Mom! Mom!" she sobbed, breathless, clutching my shirt like her life depended on it.
"It's okay, baby. It's okay," I held her until she stopped shaking.
Igor wrapped both of us from behind, his chin resting on my head, warm breath on my hair. The three of us huddled under the moon, the deck around us smeared with blood and bodies. But we were alive. We were together.
"We're going home," Igor said, his voice low and rough.
He lifted Stella, and she scrambled onto his shoulder, burying her face in his neck.
"Dad," she whispered, so small. "I miss you so much."
"I missed you, too, little princess," Igor murmured, kissing her hair. "Sorry I scared you."
"I wasn't that scared," Stella said, looking up with solemn little bravery. "Because I knew Mom and Dad would save me."
Igor's eyes glistened. The man who hadn't flinched under a rain of bullets had tears in his eyes because of a child's simple truth. He reached for my hand. I took it, feeling the warmth and strength in his palm.
Together, the three of us walked over the ruined battlefield, stepping around the fallen, toward the speedboat waiting not far off.
Moonlight glittered on the water. The breeze cut through the smell of blood and gunpowder. For the first time in a long while, we could go home.