Chapter 7 #3
“What if she lost control after the first hundred punches?”
His expression tightened.
“What if every strike after that point wasn’t about killing Amy — but about surviving the situation?”
I took another step closer.
“What if she kept hitting because she was drowning in fear? In panic? In pressure from a criminal forcing her to choose between two lives?”
My voice dropped lower.
“Or worse — what if she kept hitting because she hated herself for what she’d already done?”
His eyes darkened.
“What if those final punches weren’t cruelty?”
I pointed at him.
The pool lights flickered across his face.
He went completely still.
Completely.
The only movement in the space was the slow ripple of water brushing against the stone edge and the faint hiss of burning torches.
I watched him carefully.
Not for reaction. But for truth.
His gaze drifted — unfocused — like his mind had been dragged back to that night in Greece.
I saw it.
The subtle tremor in his good hand.
The way his throat moved as he swallowed.
The tightening around his eyes.
He was replaying it.
Re-examining it.
Not as a man convinced of guilt — but as someone forced to reconsider.
“Don’t let revenge blind you so completely that you refuse to see the possibility of error,” I said quietly.
My voice had lost its sharp edge.
It was steadier now.
More dangerous.
“Ask yourself something, Ruslan.”
I held his gaze.
“You knew Elena.”
The word “knew” lingered.
“You worked with her for years. You trusted her with operations. You allowed her close to your sister.”
I leaned slightly forward.
“Did she ever strike you as someone capable of cold-blooded murder for sport?”
Silence.
“Did she ever behave like a woman who would slice open a pregnant woman just to watch her die?”
My eyes locked onto his.
“Be honest with yourself.”
My voice lowered further.
“For once.”
The torches flickered.
The pool reflected fractured light across both of us — like the shattered truth hanging between accusation and reality.
Ruslan didn’t answer immediately.
His gaze lowered slowly to the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his leg — then drifted to the darker stains seeping through the fabric on his torso.
Pain marked him.
But it didn’t break him.
His eyes lifted again and met mine.
For the first time since I had known Ruslan Baranov — the ruthless, calculating man who controlled everything around him — he looked uncertain.
Not defeated.
Not apologetic.
Uncertain.
That small shift unsettled me more than his threats ever had.
“Take me to my sister,” I said, seizing the silence before it could stretch too long. “I want to be with her until she’s stable. Until I know she’s going to live.”
His jaw tightened.
He exhaled slowly — a long, controlled breath that betrayed the discomfort radiating through his body.
Then he leaned his head back against the chaise cushion.
“You shot me twice,” he said dryly. “How exactly do you expect me to drive you anywhere right now?”
“Then tell your men to take me.”
His eyes flicked toward mine.
“I can’t.”
The words were quiet.
Almost tired.
“Give me a few hours,” he continued. “Let the painkillers kick in. Let the bleeding slow. We’ll go together.”
He shifted slightly — adjusting his weight to relieve pressure on his wounded leg — and settled deeper into the cushions.
His breathing was shallow but controlled.
Like a man trained to endure pain without letting it control him.
“And Elena...”
My name from his lips sounded heavier now.
Different.
“Stop threatening me with that gun.”
His gaze sharpened.
“You don’t actually want to kill Yannis’s father, do you?”
The mention of his son snapped through me like cold water.
“What would you tell him afterward?” Ruslan asked quietly. “That you shot the man who raised him because you were angry?”
The words landed.
Not as manipulation.
But as a calculated strike aimed at my weakest point.
My throat tightened.
Images flashed in my mind — Yannis looking up at me with confusion... asking questions I wouldn’t know how to answer.
My fingers twitched around the grip of the gun.
Then, without another word, I tucked the Glock back into its holster at the small of my back.
The tension between us didn’t disappear.
It just shifted.
I turned away.
Every muscle in my body felt drained now that adrenaline was wearing off.
I walked back toward the house.
My legs were unsteady.
Exhaustion hit harder than the fight had.
As soon as I crossed the threshold into the quiet interior, I pulled out my burner phone.
My hands were still shaking slightly as I dialed Roman.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Elena. You okay?”
His voice was immediate. Alert. Concerned.
“We have a problem,” I replied, lowering my tone.
“He caught you?”
There was no surprise in his question — only concern layered with calculation.
I exhaled slowly.
“Our boss — the one who sent us on this operation — Vincent.”
Silence.
“He’s on Ruslan’s payroll.”
The line went dead quiet.
“High-level,” I continued, pacing slowly through the hallway. “Ruslan’s known everything from the beginning. He knew we were being sent to California. He knew I was Bureau the moment he stepped into that club when that old man slapped me.”
My jaw tightened at the memory.
“He’s had eyes on me the entire time. Training. Graduation. Assignments. Everything.”
A long stunned silence followed.
“What the hell...” Roman breathed.
The shock in his voice was real.
It meant he hadn’t suspected this either.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Should I come get you out?” he asked immediately.
The instinct behind the offer made something painful tighten in my chest.
“Too late.”
I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes for half a second — forcing myself to breathe through the chaos.
“I need you to get out of California. Now.”
“Not happening.”
“Roman—”
“Not happening,” he repeated firmly. “You don’t get to order me to abandon you.”
His tone shifted — steel cutting through concern.
“Head back to New York,” I insisted. “Fast. Write everything up. Send it to any field office outside Vincent’s chain of command. Any agent you trust. But get gone.”
I lowered my voice.
“I don’t trust that Ruslan won’t come for you next. He’s got reach I didn’t understand until tonight.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then —
“You think I’m leaving you here alone?”
His voice hardened.
The softness replaced by something protective.
“Roman—”
“If I’m leaving,” he cut in, “I’m leaving with you.”
His words weren’t romantic.
They were tactical.
Loyal. Dangerous.
I swallowed.
Part of me wanted exactly that.
To grab him. To disappear. To erase this entire mess and rebuild somewhere far away.
But my sister was in a hospital right now.
Her body fighting to recover from torture.
I couldn’t abandon her.
Not after seeing her like that.
“Roman...”
“I’m not abandoning you,” he repeated.
There was frustration now — but not at me.
“At least let me work,” he continued. “I’m still digging through the CCTV footage. The system is layered deeper than we thought. Whoever built it tried to mask access logs — but they didn’t erase everything.”
Hope flickered through me.
“If I can’t crack it within thirty-six hours,” he said, “I’m escalating it to New York directly. They’ll force a review. Get eyes on the feeds. Audit the chain of command.”
His voice lowered slightly.
“But I’m not walking away from this.”
His resolve steadied me.
“Good,” I replied quietly.
“Because if Vincent sold us out — he’s not the only one who needs to fall.”
There was understanding on the other end of the line.
“I’ll call you when I have something,” Roman said.
“Be careful.”
“You too.”
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone slowly.
For a moment — just one moment — I allowed myself to feel the weight of everything collapsing around me.
A corrupted boss.
A mafia king who knew my secrets.
A sister fighting for survival.
And a father figure who might not survive betrayal once exposed.
Nothing about my life was simple anymore.
But one thing was clear:
The war had expanded.
And now it wasn’t just personal —
It was institutional.
I swallowed hard.
Honestly, if Ruslan hadn’t spoken up outside — if he hadn’t claimed he didn’t do it to her — I would’ve pulled the trigger without hesitation.
I would’ve shot him in the head.
No second thoughts.
No negotiation. No doubt.
But now?
Now uncertainty twisted inside me.
Not trust. Never trust. But doubt.
He had denied responsibility for her condition.
He had admitted hatred — admitted punishment — but not direct torture.
And that small distinction complicated everything.
I sat in his living room.
Gun still warm against my spine.
Waiting for the man I wanted dead to recover enough strength to take me to my sister.
The irony made bile rise in my throat.
I hated every second that I needed him alive.
The mansion remained unnervingly quiet.
Too quiet.
Only the faint hum of the pool filtration system vibrated through the walls.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to force the tears back.
But they slipped through anyway.
Hot.
Uncontrolled.
I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees, head falling into my hands.
“Come on, Elena,” I whispered under my breath.
Her name echoed in my skull like a desperate prayer.
“Stay alive.”
My fingers curled tightly against my scalp. “Just stay alive.”
I inhaled slowly — forcing air into lungs that felt compressed by fear.