Chapter 7 #2
The engine roared louder.
Tires screeched as the vehicle pulled away — flashing red lights bleeding into the night, fading down the long driveway until they disappeared into darkness.
I stood there.
Frozen.
Breathing heavily.
My arms were empty.
The space where I had been holding her felt colder than the air around me.
How dare he do this to my sister — after sending me to prison and forcing me to lose my child? Wasn’t that punishment enough for her crimes?
What more did he want? How could he justify being this cruel?
My rage surged beyond control.
I turned sharply and stormed inside.
My boots slammed against the polished marble floors with every furious step.
The house that once symbolized power and authority now felt like a prison built from betrayal.
As I moved through it, memories collided with reality.
Every corridor blurred with red — not blood, but anger.
I tore through hallways.
Doors flew open under my force.
Guest suites — empty.
Storage rooms — vacant.
Stairwells — clear.
Alcoves — shadows only.
I searched every possible hiding place.
Looking for him. Looking for that monster.
“Where are you?” I muttered under my breath, voice shaking with contained fury.
“Show yourself, you coward.”
My grip on the gun tightened.
If Ruslan was still here — I would find him.
And this time... I would end him.
The mansion felt hollow — stripped of life, stripped of noise.
Only my ragged breathing filled the silence.
Only the faint ticking of a distant clock somewhere inside the walls reminded me that time was still moving.
My boots moved before I consciously decided where to go next.
I shoved open the French doors at the back of the house.
Cool night air rushed over me — sharp against my heated skin — like a slap trying to wake me from rage.
Ahead of me stretched the pool.
It was long, turquoise, illuminated from beneath by submerged lights that cast wavering reflections across the stone patio. Gas torches lined the perimeter, flames bending gently in the breeze, throwing golden light over water and shadow alike.
And there—
On a wide chaise lounge positioned just beyond the pool’s edge—
Ruslan.
He lay half-propped.
His shirt was gone, exposing bandages wrapped tightly around his torso. Fresh red had already begun seeping through the white layers, staining them dark.
His right leg was elevated on stacked pillows — thigh bandaged thickly.
His right arm rested across his chest, also wrapped, an IV line taped carefully into the inside of his elbow.
A doctor knelt beside him — older, silver-haired, focused — securing the final dressing with steady hands.
The scene looked almost controlled.
Almost calm.
As if this man hadn’t orchestrated the destruction of my sister.
The doctor glanced up first.
His eyes widened the moment he saw me.
Gun raised.
Face streaked with dried tears and burning fury.
He swallowed.
Quickly leaned toward Ruslan and whispered something urgent.
Ruslan’s eyes shifted.
He lifted his good hand — slow, deliberate — dismissing the doctor with a silent command.
One gesture.
Power without effort.
The doctor nodded once.
Gathered his medical kit.
And left without another word.
Coward.
I stepped forward.
My boots clicked sharply against the stone floor as I closed the distance between us.
Every step tightened the coil of rage inside my chest.
I stopped only when I stood directly over him.
Without hesitation, I lifted the Glock.
I cocked it.
The metallic sound rang loudly in the quiet night — loud enough to echo across the pool and bounce off the mansion walls.
I pressed the muzzle directly against his forehead.
Cold steel.
His skin.
One breath between life and death.
“I didn’t do that to your sister,” he said calmly.
As if we were discussing business.
As if a gun wasn’t pressed to his skull.
“Stop lying,” I snapped.
His gaze didn’t waver.
“Ruslan Baranov doesn’t lie.”
He shifted slightly — a movement that clearly cost him — and winced as pain pulled through his wounds. Still, he adjusted his position carefully, crossing his good leg over the injured one in a slow, controlled motion.
He continued, ‘In a desperate attempt to escape my relentless pursuit, she sought protection from a mafia boss in Italy — and he married her almost immediately. An impromptu ceremony. She thought that would shield her.’”
My jaw tightened.
“That Italian mafia boss had a first love — a woman he cherished above everything, even after marrying your sister.”
His expression darkened.
“And that woman resented her. She hated the fact that your sister came into his life. So when she found out your sister was on the run...”
My pulse slowed.
“She sold her out,” Ruslan said flatly. “Fed us the location. We extracted Elena. Brought her here last night.”
“What!” The word exploded from my throat.
Shock collided with disbelief.
“No. You’re lying. You tortured her. You did this to her.”
My finger curled tighter around the trigger, the gun pressed firmly to his head as rage surged through me.
“You can’t kill me.” His expression hardened.
“I already told you,” he continued quietly. “Snipers are zeroed on your hand. One twitch toward the trigger, and you’re down.”
My muscles locked.
Slowly — deliberately — I lowered the gun.
Not because I was afraid.
But because blind rage would get me killed before I achieved anything.
“Then explain this,” I demanded. “Why wasn’t she treated immediately? Why was she tied to a chair like an animal?”
His jaw clenched.
“Am I supposed to babysit the monster who killed my sister with one hundred and fifteen punches to the face?”
His voice dropped — dangerous now.
He pushed himself upright despite the clear agony it caused.
Bandages stretched.
Fresh blood seeped through.
His muscles tensed from pain — but he refused to show weakness.
“The same monster who sliced open my eight-month-pregnant wife?” he continued, rage now building. “Who cut her womb open with surgical precision? Murdered my unborn son? And then finished her while she bled out on the floor begging for her child?”
The words hit like gunfire.
“I watched security footage,” he said coldly. “I saw what she did.”
My chest tightened — but I refused to let guilt swallow me.
“That woman is lucky all I did was tie her to a chair and withhold medical treatment.”
His fingers tightened around the edge of the lounge.
“She’s lucky I didn’t give her the same death she gave them.”
Silence stretched between us.
“During the first forty-eight hours of our marriage five years ago,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the violent tremor beneath it, “you looked me in the eye and told me you believed I killed your pregnant wife.”
My fingers tightened around the gun but I kept it lowered.
“You didn’t question it,” I continued. “You didn’t investigate it properly. You didn’t search for proof. You decided I was guilty.”
Ruslan’s expression didn’t change.
He listened.
Cold. Calculated.
“Then,” I pressed, stepping closer, “you got a new lead. Evidence pointing to my sister. Which means one thing — you made a mistake.”
My jaw tightened.
“A catastrophic one.”
I inhaled slowly.
“And instead of correcting it... instead of admitting you were wrong... you doubled down. You sent me — an innocent woman — to prison because you convinced yourself I was secretly communicating with her. Feeding her information. Helping her hide.”
My throat burned.
“Another mistake.”
I leaned in slightly — close enough that I could smell the antiseptic from his wounds mixing with the chlorine scent drifting from the pool and the metallic copper tang of his blood.
“Two massive, life-destroying mistakes.”
His jaw flexed.
But he still didn’t interrupt.
That silence irritated me more than resistance.
“What in the world makes you so certain you’re not wrong about my sister this time?” I demanded.
My voice sharpened.
“I don’t care about your CCTV footage. I don’t care about intercepted calls. I don’t care about whatever so-called evidence your people collected.”
I pointed the gun loosely toward the ground — emphasizing my words, not threatening him.
“My sister wouldn’t murder a pregnant woman for no reason. She isn’t built that way.”
His eyes darkened.
“You know that,” I continued, holding his gaze. “Deep down, somewhere buried beneath your anger — you have to know it.”
Ruslan shifted on the chaise lounge.
The movement clearly pulled at the bullet wound in his thigh.
His teeth clenched.
A low hiss escaped him as pain shot through his body — fresh blood darkening through the white bandages.
He adjusted slowly before speaking.
“So what about my sister?” he countered.
His voice was lower now.
Rough. Raw.
“I was there, Elena. I watched her punch Amy.”
The name landed like a physical strike.
“One hundred and fifteen times,” he continued. “To the face.”
His gaze sharpened. “Until there was nothing left to recognize.”
My stomach twisted — but I didn’t look away.
I swallowed — forcing composure.
“You told me yourself,” I said carefully, “that Al Chapo forced her to choose.”
His eyes flickered at the name. “Your sister or our grandmother.”
I stepped closer. “She chose family.”
My voice softened — not in weakness, but in understanding.
“Anyone would have.”
Ruslan’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of the chaise.
“She didn’t have a real choice,” I continued. “Not one that didn’t end in blood.”
His jaw tightened — muscles working as if he wanted to interrupt but didn’t.
“And you know that,” I said. “You know she wouldn’t have wanted to kill her colleague.”
My chest rose and fell as emotion crept in.
“Not intentionally.”
“Never.”
For the first time, something shifted in his eyes.
Anger didn’t disappear — but doubt crept in around its edges.
“You’ve spent years painting her as a cold-blooded traitor,” I pressed. “As someone who betrayed you on purpose. But what if you were wrong?”
My words slowed.
Deliberate.