24. Damien
24
DAMIEN
The sun’s starting to dip low, bleeding gold across the estate. I’m in my study going through the updates with Oleg and Roman.
Roman leans one arm against the window frame, sipping from a chipped mug that belongs in the trash but somehow survived ten years of loyal service in my house. He’s watching something below, a little too amused for my liking.
“I see your two women are getting along well,” he says.
I lift my head from the reports Oleg dropped on my desk and walk over, peering out over the estate grounds through the wide glass window that spans half the wall.
There they are—my mother and Sasha—walking side by side in the garden, just beyond the trimmed hedges, down the gravel path that winds beneath the flowering trees. My mother’s gesturing animatedly, and Sasha—wearing one of my hoodies like she owns the place—is laughing. Actually laughing. That light, careless kind she rarely lets loose.
My mother’s face is bright. Relaxed.
I can’t remember the last time she looked so content.
And it punches something in my chest I wasn’t expecting.
“Thought they might claw each other’s eyes out when you first brought her here,” Roman adds. “Considering how protective Ekaterina is of you.”
“Sasha’s not the clawing type,” I mutter.
“She’s the sneaking-around-in-your-bed type,” he says, tone too casual.
I glare at him.
“Relax.” He shrugs. “I like her. And your mother clearly loves her. Look at that—Ekaterina hasn’t smiled like that since before the fire at the vineyard.”
I grunt, unsure what to do with the knot forming in my stomach. Something tight and unfamiliar.
“How long’s she staying?” Roman asks, straightening. “You planning to tell her she lives here now, or…?”
I say nothing.
Because I don’t know the answer.
And I should.
I should’ve known the moment I brought her here two weeks ago, the moment I started making her sleep in my bed, touched her like I wasn’t dragging her into something dark and heavy and not meant for someone like her.
Oleg clears his throat, mercifully derailing the conversation. “We should brief her properly about Lev. Not just a name and a vague warning—she needs to understand the risk.”
“I already told her,” I say.
Both men look at me.
“She stays out of it,” I add.
Roman whistles low. “You didn’t even try to get her involved?”
I shoot him a look.
“What? I’m just surprised. Usually, by now, people in your orbit either have a gun, a false passport, or a list of burner numbers. But she’s just…” He gestures vaguely toward the window. “Picking roses with your mother.”
“She’s not part of this,” I say quietly.
Roman hums. “She’s in your bed, Damien. She’s already part of it whether you like it or not.”
He’s right. She’s in this now.
And the longer she stays here, the more visible she becomes.
I exhale through my nose, watching Sasha pluck something from one of the hedges and hand it to my mother. My mother beams. My chest tightens.
I want her here.
But I can’t keep her here forever.
The moment they round the hedge and disappear from view, I finally look away from the window.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” Roman says beside me, his voice lower now. Calmer. Less teasing.
I glance at him.
He’s leaning back against the table, one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded across his chest. He’s been with me longer than anyone outside my family.
We’ve bled together, fought side by side, covered each other’s sins in places too dark to name. I’ve trusted him with my life more times than I can count.
He knows when to speak and when to wait. And right now, he’s waiting.
I set the cup down and rub the back of my neck, feeling the tension coiled there. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“With her?”
“With all of it.”
Roman doesn’t laugh or scoff like Oleg would. He nods like he understands.
And he does.
He’s seen what I’ve buried to get here. The things I’ve done.
“You care about her,” he says simply. “That’s obvious.”
“That’s the problem.”
Roman’s quiet for a second, then shrugs. “It’s not like you planned it. She just showed up one day, all smart mouth and coffee breath, and boom—you’re screwed.”
My lips twitch. “You’re a poet.”
I run a hand over my face. “I brought her here to protect her,” I say, “but the longer she stays, the more vulnerable she becomes. And I…” I trail off.
“You don’t want to let her go,” Roman finishes for me.
It’s not a question.
I don’t answer.
Roman sighs, pushing off the table and clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve done harder things than this.”
Yeah, but not like this.
He squeezes my shoulder once before stepping away. “Whatever you decide, I’ve got your back. You know that, right?”
I nod slowly, throat tight.
Yeah. I know.
* * *
The smell hits me first. Smoke.
Not cigar smoke, the kind curling off Roman’s lazy mouth during late-night briefings. No—this is acrid, bitter, the kind that clings to your skin and sinks into the lining of your suit jacket.
Oleg and I step out of the SUV before it’s even fully stopped.
The warehouse ahead of us is still smoldering, half the roof collapsed in, steel beams glowing faintly red beneath the char.
Two of our trucks are nothing but twisted, blackened husks. A third is missing entirely.
“Where’s the damn security footage?” I bark.
Maksim—young, jumpy, still trying to prove he belongs—rushes up, wide-eyed and pale under the grime smeared across his cheeks. “Gone, boss. The system’s fried. It was targeted.”
Of course it was.
Oleg lets out a sharp string of curses in Russian, already dialing on his phone to reroute backup to the southern lot.
I walk through the debris, stepping over shattered glass and scorched concrete, the soles of my shoes crunching with every step. This was no warning. No message.
This was precision. This was war.
“Casualties?” I ask without turning.
“One of our drivers didn’t make it out.” Maksim’s voice is quiet now. “Anton. He…he was supposed to finish his shift early. He stayed back to load the last batch.”
My jaw clenches so tight my molars hurt.
“I’ll go scope out the boundary,” Roman says, taking his gun out.
“Stay here with Damien, I’ll go,” Oleg offers.
“No, you stay,” Roman insists. “I’ll track.”
“Go,” I say.
I stop in front of what used to be the freight office. There’s nothing left but bent rebar and the melted remains of a coffee machine. On the charred wall, right above where the safe used to be, is a mark.
A spray of paint.
A symbol.
Three black slashes.
Lev’s calling card.
He’s not just sending messages now. He’s drawing blood.
And he’s doing it while I’m distracted.
My mind flashes to Sasha. The soft sound of her laughter in the garden. Her legs tucked under her on my office couch. The way she looked at me the night I told her who I really was.
I feel something cold coil in my stomach.
He’s escalating.
And I’ve been standing still.
I need to end this before he attacks.
Oleg appears at my side. “We lost everything here. Inventory, routing plans, the fallback shipment details. It’s a damn sweep.”
“Double security at the estate. No exceptions. No off hours. I want eyes on Sasha twenty-four seven,” I say.
“Time to go home, boss,” Oleg says. “There’s nothing we can do here anymore.”
“Where the hell is Roman?” I say, looking around.
The moment I turn toward the car, I hear it.
A voice from the shadows. Cool. Controlled. Familiar.
“Still cleaning up my messes, Dima?”
My blood goes ice-cold.
Oleg freezes beside me, hand already drifting toward his jacket.
I pivot slowly, eyes scanning the burned-out husk of the warehouse. Smoke curls lazily upward, and then—like he stepped straight out of hell—Lev emerges from behind a crumpled support beam.
His hair is longer now. The scars on his neck have faded but not disappeared. He wears a suit—dark, unbothered by ash and soot—like he came here just to gloat.
“Long time,” I say, voice low.
Lev grins. “Thought you’d never show up. I even left you a little art installation.” He gestures to the slashes on the wall behind us. “Too much?”
“Just the right amount of pathetic,” Oleg snaps, stepping forward.
Lev’s smile doesn’t move, but his eyes flick—shark-like—toward Oleg. “Still dragging your watchdog around, I see. Loyal, huh? Shame.”
“I don’t think you even know the meaning of that word,” Oleg spits out.
I take my gun out, pointing at Lev.
“Easy now,” Lev says, pointing his gun back at me. “You don’t want to know how this ends.”
Oleg lunges forward before I can stop him.
“Oleg,” I shout. “Stay back.”
But I’m too late. Lev smiles as he nocks the gun into his side.
“You won’t get away, I won’t let you,” Oleg swears.
There’s a flash, and a glint of something metal. Before I can intervene, Lev stabs Oleg in the abdomen. Lev stumbles back, blood smudging his face, a maniacal glint on his face.
“ Oleg, fuck !” I shout as I run over to him, assessing his wound.
Blood is soaking through his shirt, and he gasps, clutching at the wound, eyes wide in pain.
Lev darts forward again, but this time I’m ready.
I let Oleg drop gently to the ground and slam into Lev, fists flying. He grunts as I drive a punch into his ribs, but he’s fast, landing a brutal hook to my side.
We crash into the charred remnants of a metal table, both of us going down in a tangle of ash and steel.
“I warned you,” Lev snarls, grappling for the knife again. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”
“I still can,” I growl, shoving him back with everything I’ve got.
We break apart for half a second. Just long enough for me to see the flash of something in his eyes. Not rage. Not even hatred.
Obsession.
He wants me to suffer.
This isn’t about revenge anymore. This is about breaking me.
And he’s going to keep trying until I put him in the ground.
Oleg groans behind me, coughing up blood.
I whip around, shouting for Maksim, for anyone still standing, but Lev’s gone. Vanished back into the smoke like he was never there.
“Stay with me,” I mutter, dropping to Oleg’s side, pressing down on the wound as best I can.
“I’m—fine,” he lies, teeth gritted, face gray. “Didn’t think—he’d actually show…”
“He did,” I say grimly. “And this time, I’m ending it.”