Chapter 31
DMITRI
The ringing in my ears is nothing compared to the volcanic level of my rage. They both pulse with every pounding beat of my heart, a frantic metronome reminding me that I am still alive. That we are still alive. That Andrey’s plan failed.
I thought perhaps the messenger was a process server, one who delighted in finding me wherever I was, at any time of day.
It would not have been the first time. But it wouldn't have been sent through that delivery company.
And then the box. I still don't know what tipped me off, what set my reflexes on fire, save for the caution that has kept me alive all this time.
But then I'd heard the faint click as the messenger reached into his bag.
I moved on pure instinct, hoping I could throw it far enough away to mitigate the damage, at least to human life. But I hadn't been fast enough, I hadn't thrown it far enough. Andrey hasn't just escalated this into a war; he's taken an innocent life.
I'm sitting on the bench inside the back of an ambulance.
The space is sterile and bright, smelling faintly of rubbing alcohol and plastic, a stark contrast to the smoky air outside.
Clara is in another ambulance across from me.
I haven't taken my eyes off her as the EMT checks her vitals and patches the few cuts and scrapes she has.
The cold air seems to have followed her into the back of the ambulance. Even from here, I can see her shivering underneath the thin blanket they have draped over her shoulders while the paramedic fastens a blood pressure cuff around her arm.
The EMT in my ambulance is trying to do the same to me, struggling to fit the cuff over my large bicep.
As he reaches for a bigger cuff, I struggle to remain calm in a space that feels far too small for me as I try to keep myself from storming over to Clara and warning everyone away from her, like my irrational mind demands, even those who are trying to help her, because no one can be trusted right now.
But Clara needs to be checked out. I have to know—we have to know—that she and the baby are okay.
So I sit unnaturally still, my skin dusted with fine, gray residue, my suit torn in several places, a picture of chilled remoteness.
But from the way Clara looks at me, she can see the rigid set of my jaw and the almost imperceptible tremor in my hands.
“Your vitals are stable, ma’am,” the paramedic confirms, sliding the cuff off Clara’s arm. “I don't see any sign of concussion, and your blood pressure is good.”
My EMT says the same thing to me, but I barely process the words because I’m too focused on Clara. Her hand is resting over her abdomen, and I hear her ask, “The baby?” Her voice cracks, and I can see how deeply affected she is by what just happened.
The paramedic smiles gently. “We monitored you both. The baby's heartbeat is strong and steady. Just take it easy, shock can stress the system. You do need to see your OB/GYN as soon as possible. And go to the emergency room if you start having any strange symptoms, like cramping or bleeding.”
Clara nods, her eyes unfocused as though she’s somewhere far away.
I feel a blinding rage as my mind catalogs the facts. A package that somehow found me in a random place on a random night. What must have been a pressure-sensitive device meant to detonate immediately upon opening got dislodged by the delivery method.
It was an act designed not just to kill, but to send a message, a statement, a declaration of war and dominance. And all before tonight's bratva convocation.
“You're good to go, sir.”
I realize the paramedic is speaking to me.
“Pardon?”
“You're good to go.” The EMT begins packing up.
“Just some superficial wounds that needed patching up. If you start feeling strange, dizzy, headachy, or woozy, go to the ER immediately.” I give the young guy a nod of thanks before slipping off the bench and striding across the short distance between Clara and me, except I'm not the only one with her.
The ambulance door had hidden the arrival of Emily and Michael.
I have no idea how or why they're here, except perhaps Michael heard something on the radio again, or maybe Clara called them to let them know she was okay, in case they heard anything and they were close enough to come by.
That seems more likely, knowing how fiercely Clara protects those she loves and those she believes deserve protection.
Both Emily's and Michael's eyes follow me as I come to stand beside Clara, my hand finding hers, her skin warm and soft. She squeezes my hand, like I'm her anchor.
“I'm fine, Em, really. Just shaken up. The EMT just confirmed it. Dmitri was able to get us behind the wall in time to save our lives.”
Their gazes slide my way again, Emily's wide and red from tears, Michael's narrowed and thoughtful.
“Who was the package for?” he asks.
“It was addressed to me. The courier tracked me down here.”
“Sounds like it needed to get to you in a specific amount of time.”
Michael jumped right to the heart of the problem, and I wonder if he knows where I was headed after this.
“And you just happened to jump away just in time?”
Neither the question nor Michael’s suspicion irritates me, though Clara’s hand jerks with a spasm within mine.
“The messenger jostled the package when he pulled it out of his bag. It was oddly shaped, and I heard the noise. I threw it away before we dove for cover, and it is on me that I didn't throw it far enough.”
This time, Clara squeezes my hand, and when I look down at her, tears shimmer in her eyes. She can hear my remorse and my frustration. This war is between Andrey and me; I did not want that innocent messenger to die doing his job.
Michael must hear the remorse, too, because his suspicion eases, and so does his stance.
“The local agencies are going to be tied up in this mess. Bomb techs, the fire marshal, local PD—it's a jurisdictional nightmare. What they'll see is a high-profile target and a PR crisis. But I see an escalation.”
I don't react, giving the federal agent a chance to finish what he's going to say before I decide whether to trust him.
“The Bureau has no active investigation into the Smirnov Corporation or any of your interests, Dmitri,” Michael continues.
“I'm doing this as a favor to Emily and Clara, off the books. I have resources that can track that package, the origin, the shipping manifest, and the materials used faster than the local agencies, who will bury it in bureaucracy and pissing contests. I can help you figure out who tried to kill you and your family.”
Your family.
Michael's choice of words is strategic, hitting me where I'm most vulnerable.
My eyes flick to Clara, resting briefly on the place where our child sleeps, before snapping back to Michael.
“A favor,” I repeat, my words edged with carefully honed steel, a warning but not a threat. “And what do you want in return for this favor, Agent Hunt?”
“Nothing but the safety of the two women I care about,” Michael says simply. “I want this war stopped before it gets worse. It's an easy trade for me. You get the name of the sender, I get to sleep at night knowing Clara and Emily are safe.”
Michael pulls out a business card and hands it to me.
I accept it, holding it loosely between two fingers before I reach into my jacket's inner pocket and produce my own card—thick, heavy stock, embossed with the Smirnov Global Corporation’s simple, elegant logo.
We exchange a brief nod, sealing a pact between two men who fundamentally despise everything that the other stands for, all for the sake of the women sitting between us and the city we live in and love.
The irony is not lost on me.
“I need to make a call,” I say, turning away abruptly and ending the conversation. I give Clara’s hand one more squeeze before stepping to the side of the ambulance, where it's quieter and darker.
My first attempt at reaching Pavel fails. So does my second.
The fact that Pavel is silent in this moment of crisis is a problem of astronomical scale.
It's not just an inconvenience; it feels like an absence in the very structure of my carefully built defense.
I place the phone back into my pocket, my thin veneer of control shattering for a moment, replaced by a deep, terrifying fury.
From my vantage point, I can see Clara, who is surrounded by Emily, Michael, and the EMT.
I should be thinking about the bratva meeting tonight, a crucial night that could spell disaster for me if I take one wrong step, but all I can think about right now is retribution.
Retribution for the fact that someone has not only made an attempt on my life, but on Clara’s and our child’s for the third time.
That someone is using her life to send a very pointed message to me and to everyone else on the bratva council.
The ringing in my ears is slowly beginning to fade, giving way to radios, the scrape of boots on concrete, and hoarse commands from the uniformed bodies around us. I look at Clara, her face pale but resolute, and then at Michael, who's focused on a phone call.
I know I'm going to war tonight, whatever the outcome of the convocation. But not before I see Clara safe and untouchable, no matter how she feels about it. Because I will do whatever it takes to protect her and our child.