Chapter 27
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Julia
Four days drag by in tense silence. No whispers about the assault on Filip’s villa. The only ripple came from Ivan himself, a dismissive scoff overheard by one of the maids. "Probably didn’t check his gas lines again. Cheap bastard. No surprise."
The official story held firm: a tragic gas leak. An unfortunate explosion at the oligarch's mansion. Everyone inside, gone.
Conveniently, no one dug deeper. Apparently, Semenov had almost blown himself up six years prior over some deferred inspection.
Vlad and Andrea are together now, tucked away safely at his estate outside the city. That's where Akim and I are heading today. Max is gone—some urgent mission in Sweden he had to “finish", leaving a void beside me that feels tangible.
Sometimes I wonder if Max ever actually sleeps. Then again, knowing him, he wouldn’t know what to do with free time. He seems to thrive in the controlled chaos of these "missions," the violence a familiar, perhaps necessary, part of his existence.
"You’re quiet today," Akim observes from the driver's seat, his voice pulling me from my thoughts. I turn to face him.
"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow, forcing a lightness I don't feel. "Were you missing my incredibly insightful commentary on the latest futbol team facing relegation?"
A sound escapes him, halfway between a snort and a chuckle.
He shakes his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
"God forbid we get into that debate again," he says, and I smirk, remembering the time I almost pulled my machine gun on him for daring to claim Russian futbol held more weight than Mexican fútbol.
A stupid argument, but a welcome distraction.
I wish it could always be like this—easy banter about meaningless things, a brief respite from the darkness that constantly surrounds us.
But the lightness evaporates, choked by the grim reality that crashed down this morning.
Just today, two children arrived, plucked from some state orphanage.
Scheduled for transport tomorrow. Destination: some sick fuck, a known pedophile, in Finland.
And we can't touch them. Ivan deployed his top retrieval team, brutal, efficient, loyal only to him.
These guys don't mess around. Max managed to gather intel before he left: they implement total lockdown on transport routes, sweeping ahead, ensuring no civilian traffic, no interference, gets anywhere near them. It’s airtight.
Too risky. Suicide. The helplessness claws at my insides.
Pulling up to Vlad's imposing gates, we're met by his security team. The pat down is thorough, professional. Of course, we're armed; going unarmed in this world is unthinkable. It takes me practically spitting threats—seven of them, I counted, each more menacing than the last—before their captain grudgingly allows us to keep our sidearms. I’m never going anywhere completely unarmed again. Leaving the machine gun locked in the car’s trunk feels fundamentally wrong, like leaving a vital part of myself behind, exposed and vulnerable.
Diosito, what have I become? Calling a weapon a part of myself. But it is. An extension of my will. My shield. My security in a world consumed by monsters.
"Julia!" Andrea’s bright voice rings out, startlingly clear, as we step into the grand foyer.
Beside me, I feel Akim go unnaturally still, his shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly. He won't admit it, not even to himself probably, but he’s definitely drawn to Andrea. There's a protective energy simmering beneath his usual calm whenever she's near.
And judging by the warm, appreciative look she sends his way now, a soft smile touching her lips, the feeling might just be mutual.
"Julia," Vlad calls out, his voice carrying from his study down the hall, amusement clear in his tone. "You're going to threaten all my men into early retirement if you keep this up."
I can't help but chuckle, the tension easing slightly. "Someone's got to keep them on their toes, right?"
He emerges from the study doorway, shaking his head with a sigh, a gesture so achingly reminiscent of Max that a sharp pang hits my chest, stealing my breath. Diosito, I miss him. The physical distance feels like a raw wound.
Next time, he's not going alone. The thought is fierce, absolute. But Akim had needed potential tech backup for this meeting, coordinating the complex transfer of resources Vlad promised, and I had to stay. It’s ridiculous, really—Akim can map the human circulatory system with lethal precision, knows exactly where to slide a blade to draw precisely ten milliliters of blood, yet hand him a complex keyboard or encryption sequence, and he's utterly lost.
Akim wraps up his discussion with Vlad by finalizing details, transferring funds through layers of shell corporations that hopefully won't trace back to us anytime soon. Then, we head out, the purpose of our visit accomplished.
?
Dusk is painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and orange by the time we get back to the house.
No sooner are we inside than Ivan's lieutenant appears, curt and efficient, summoning Akim immediately to the port due to some critical shipment holdup, no explanation given. Trouble, always brewing.
Before Akim leaves, pulled back into the grim machinations of Ivan's world, he turns back to me, his expression tight with frustration.
"Can you check on Zoya for me?" he asks, his voice low. “I promised her we’d watch a movie tonight, but with this mess at the docks…I won’t make it back in time. I know she was looking forward to it."
"Sure," I agree easily, though Zoya's odd behavior earlier still prickles at the back of my mind.
But first, a shower to wash away the grime of the day and the lingering tension. And I need to call Maksim.
I pull out my encrypted phone, needing to hear his voice, hating the miles stretching between us. There's this odd, unsettling pressure building in my chest, a nameless anxiety I can't shake, tightening its coils.
He answers on the first ring, his voice rough, immediate, instantly grounding.
"Julia? You okay?"
A smile instinctively touches my lips. Of course, his first thought is that something’s wrong, that I’m hurt. It’s always his first thought.
"Miss you," I whisper into the phone, curling into myself, pulling my knees to my chest in the vast emptiness of the bed. The silence of the room suddenly feels too much.
I used his shower gel, wanting to cloak myself in the sharp, clean scent of rosemary, wanting to feel him closer somehow. But it’s not quite right. It lacks the underlying musk, the uniquely him scent that clings to his skin. It’s a pale imitation, and the frustration prickles.
For a tense second, I think maybe he didn’t hear me, my vulnerability hanging raw in the air. Then his voice comes through the line, low and definite, sending a jolt straight through me.
"I’m almost home, baby. Thirty minutes."
I don’t answer right away, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs, doubling its rhythm at the prospect of seeing him so soon, feeling the solid warmth of him beside me again.
"Okay," is all I manage, the word barely a breath.
I hang up the phone after telling him how the meeting went, and then I remember Akim’s request regarding Zoya.
Pulling on a pair of worn boots over my leggings, I head out toward their smaller cottage, nestled about 150 yards from the main house.
Even on this short walk across familiar ground, my senses remain hyperalert, scanning every shadow, analyzing every rustle of leaves.
In this place, you never know what monster might lurk just out of sight.
Even though most of the guards keep their distance now, wary after Maksim’s brutal displays of dominance, there are still plenty who willingly participate in the horrors inflicted here, their souls as corrupted as Ivan's.
A glance at my watch confirms it’s late, nearly 11 p.m. A strange urgency quickens my steps. More than ever, I need to see Zoya, make sure she's okay. There’s something heavy in the air tonight, something rotten and unsettling that feels like it’s clinging to my skin, raising the hairs on my arms.
The cottage is dark, no lights visible through the windows. Just as I reach the door, hand raised to knock, the distinct sound of shattering glass erupts from within. Instinct takes over. My hand immediately goes to the pistol holstered securely at the small of my back.
Easing the door open silently, I strain my ears, trying to recall the cottage layout, anticipating blind corners, potential threats.
A faint, flickering light, like candlelight, spills from a room farther down the short hallway.
Pistol raised, held steady in a two-handed grip, I move toward it, each footstep measured, silent on the worn floorboards.
"Leave me alone!" A ragged voice, strained and unfamiliar, rips through the silence. What the hell is going on?
As the room comes into focus, the scene unfolding before me registers with sickening clarity. It takes exactly three seconds, three heartbeats, to assess, decide, and act. My finger tightens on the trigger.
The shot cracks through the stillness. Zoya cries out, stumbling back, clutching her arm where the bullet grazed flesh, superficial, intended only to disable, not kill, before collapsing off the small form beneath her.
A young boy, maybe seven or eight, gasps for air, raw red marks already blooming on his neck where her hands had been clamped just moments before.
Zoya glares at me, her eyes wild, unhinged, feral in the flickering candlelight. The sweet, shy girl I know is gone, replaced by this…stranger. "I'll kill you," she snarls, the voice guttural, unrecognizable.
My mind struggles to reconcile this image—this savage creature—with the Zoya I know. Where is the girl with the colorful dresses who pouted when her pudding recipe failed? The timid young woman who ducked her head shyly at compliments?
"Zoya," I command, trying to keep my voice steady, authoritative, despite the tremor running through me. "Stay down. Don't move."
But the uncertainty is there, a fatal crack in my composure. And it's all the opening she needs. With a guttural cry, she launches herself at me.
My head connects hard with the floor as we crash down, stars exploding behind my eyes. But even through the disorientation, one thought remains paramount: Don't hurt her badly . Akim would be destroyed if something happened to her even though, right now, I'm the one in immediate danger.
Her fist slams into the top of my head, and for a terrifying moment, everything goes black. But I won't let her win. Not like this.
She wants a fight? Fine. She’ll get one.