Chapter 30 – Timofey
We hit Moscow under the cover of night.
The city looks the same at a glance—lights, movement, life continuing like nothing is wrong—but I know better. I feel it the moment we cross into the operational perimeter.
Something is already burning.
My phone buzzes once as the convoy slows near the outer routes of the Petrov estate. I don’t need to open it to know what it says. The sound of distant explosions answers it for me.
Then the second hit lands.
A flash of light blooms ahead—too bright, too close—followed by the deep, rolling shockwave of an explosion tearing through the estate grounds.
“Contact!” Misha shouts from the front vehicle. “Multiple entry points—unknown units already inside the perimeter! The Petrov estate is already under attack!”
I’m already moving before he finishes.
Door open. Weapon up.
“Move,” I snap.
The convoy breaks formation instantly. No hesitation. No waiting for confirmation. This is no longer an operation—it’s a breach in progress.
We hit the edge of the estate, and everything collapses into war.
Gunfire cuts through the night air in sharp bursts. Return fire answers from the walls, from the trees, from positions that weren’t there hours ago. The gardens—once structured, controlled, pristine—are now torn apart by movement and fire.
Explosions ripple through hedges and stone paths. Decorative structures collapse into smoke and debris. The ground itself feels unstable, like the estate is being erased piece by piece.
I don’t slow down. I don’t assess. Not fully. Not anymore.
I push forward with my men.
“Left flank compromised!” someone yells.
“Roofline—snipers!” Lukyan’s voice cuts through the comms.
We move like one unit through the chaos—breaching, clearing, advancing. Every step forward costs something. Every second is resistance.
But I don’t stop.
I can’t.
Not when she’s inside this.
Anton obviously has too many enemies, and I don’t give a fuck about him. I have to make sure I get Valeria out of this mess. Alive.
A guard rushes at me from the side—I don’t even fully register him before he goes down. Another fires from behind cover; I return fire instantly, controlled, efficient. No wasted motion.
The estate is alive with violence now.
I push forward harder, forcing my way through collapsing defenses and panicked resistance.
“Find her!” I shout. “I don’t care what it takes—find her!”
The night answers with more gunfire.
And I move straight into it.
The mansion swallows me the moment I breach it.
Inside is worse.
Noise dampened but tighter. Gunfire echoing differently now, ricocheting through marble corridors and vaulted ceilings. Sound that turns every direction into a threat.
I don’t know this place. Not really. Not like they do. But I don’t need to. I move on instinct, on pressure, on one thing alone pulling me forward.
Valeria. I have to find her.
I take the stairs two at a time, gun raised, clearing corners as I go. Two men appear at the landing—gone before they can react. No pause. No delay.
Then I break through the top level.
And I see her.
She’s standing in the grand hall, a gun in her hand, two dead men at her feet. For half a second, everything in me stops.
Not because of doubt.
Because of relief so sharp it almost knocks the breath out of me.
Then I move.
Fast.
I cross the distance between us in seconds and pull her into me. No hesitation. No control left to filter it through.
My arms wrap around her tightly, anchoring her against my chest like I’m checking she’s real.
She doesn’t resist. She melts into me immediately, the tension leaving her body in a way I feel more than I see.
My hand moves to the back of her head instinctively, holding her there. Protecting her. Blocking everything else out for one second longer than I should be allowed.
“I’ve got you,” I breathe out, voice lower now. Rough. Controlled—but barely.
Around us, the estate still burns with chaos.
“I was so scared,” I murmur against her hair, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Then I pull back. Just enough to see her face. Just enough to ground myself again.
“Talk to me,” I say immediately, scanning her, checking for injuries, for anything I might’ve missed in the rush. “What’s happening here?”
Valeria doesn’t hesitate. Not even a second.
“These are my father’s old allies,” she says.
My brows tighten slightly.
“They heard Anton brought me back to Moscow,” she continues, voice steady now—stronger than it has any right to be in the middle of this chaos. “They regrouped…and attacked. To save me.”
There’s something in her tone I don’t miss.
Pride.
Awe.
Like something she thought was gone is suddenly standing back up.
She looks at me then—really looks at me—and a faint smile touches her lips despite everything burning around us.
“The battle isn’t over, Timofey,” she says quietly. “Let’s fight together.”
A beat.
Then I nod.
“Stay close,” I say.
She doesn’t argue.
We turn together and move.
Back into the war.
The moment we hit the stairs, everything becomes motion again. Sound crashes back in—gunfire snapping through marble halls, boots pounding somewhere below, orders shouted and lost in smoke.
“Left corridor!” Misha’s voice cuts through the comms. “Multiple hostiles pushing east wing!”
Valeria stays tight at my side. We descend fast.
First contact hits halfway down the stairs.
Two men rush up.
I fire once. Clean. Controlled. One drops instantly. The second turns toward Valeria—
She shoots before I even shift.
Headshot.
He falls down the steps without a sound.
We hit the lower landing, and the corridor opens into chaos. Smoke hanging low. Broken glass everywhere. Gunfire echoing off the walls.
Three more men ahead.
I move first.
Left angle. Close distance. I take the first out before he fully registers me. The second raises his weapon—too slow. I disarm him mid-motion, twist, and drop him hard against the wall.
Valeria handles the third. Two shots. Precise. No wasted movement.
We don’t slow down.
We push forward together into the next corridor, where movement is heavier now—organized resistance meeting the counterattack from her father’s allies outside.
A man steps out from cover.
I fire. He drops.
Another tries to flank—Valeria catches him before I even turn.
We catch movement up ahead and whip our heads at the same time. Anton.
Running. Not wounded. Not cornered.
“Anton!” I snap.
I don’t think. I move.
We chase immediately, boots pounding the corridor, gunfire fading behind us as we break away from the main engagement. The hall opens toward the rear exits—glass doors shattered outward, night air pouring in like a warning.
He’s heading for the forest.
I push forward fast, locking onto the rhythm of his movement, tuning everything else out until there’s only distance and pursuit. The ground shifts underfoot as we hit the exterior path, gravel snapping beneath every step.
Halfway into the unfamiliar terrain of the forest, silence. Sudden silence. I slow for half a second, instincts tightening—
Something hits me from behind.
Hard.
Pain flashes white through my skull. My ears ring instantly, the world tilting for a fraction of a second as I stagger forward.
I twist just in time to see him.
Anton. Holding a thick branch in his hands, raised again. His expression is calm in a way that’s almost worse than rage. Controlled violence.
I lift my forearms just before the second strike lands. The impact drives through bone and muscle, but I hold. I don’t go down. Not yet.
“Still chasing shadows?” he snaps.
I don’t answer.
I move.
I close the distance fast, taking the advantage back before he can reset. My elbow drives into his guard, forcing space. He swings again—too wide this time. I catch his wrist mid-motion and twist hard. The branch drops.
We collide fully now.
No distance. No weapons left between us. Just force.
He’s strong. Experienced.
But I’m stronger.
I take a hit to the ribs. Pain spikes, but I ignore it and drive forward, forcing him back step by step. My grip locks onto his jacket, and I slam him into a nearby structure—wood cracking under impact.
He tries to recover—too slow.
I strike again. Controlled. Heavy. Clean.
He staggers. Just for a second.
That’s all I need.
I hook his arm, rotate, and drive him down hard onto the ground. The impact knocks the air out of him. Before he can roll away, I’m on him again, pinning him fully.
His breath is sharp now. Less controlled.
And I hit him once more—final, decisive—enough to break his momentum completely and send him flat to the ground.
He doesn’t get up immediately.
I whip out my gun and train it on him. My arm steady, my breathing hard but controlled. Everything narrowed down to a single point.
Anton lets out a short laugh from the ground.
“Kill me already,” he says.
“Try again,” I answer coldly. “You’re not mine to kill.” My eyes don’t leave him. “Valeria will do the honors.”
“And I’ll do it gladly.”
Valeria steps into the clearing.
For a second, everything else fades. Smoke. Forest. Noise. Even Anton. My focus locks onto her instantly—checking her, confirming she’s real, that she’s here, that she’s not injured.
She smiles at me like we’re not standing in the middle of a war.
“You run really fast,” she says lightly. “I’m too pregnant to compete.”
A breath leaves me that almost turns into a laugh. Almost.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter.
Her gaze shifts then. The smile fades as she locks on Anton, who’s sprawled on the dirty ground.
She steps forward. Past me.
The gun rises in her hand. Anton shifts slightly, eyes tracking her now.
Valeria shakes her head slowly.
“You know,” she says, voice calm, almost conversational, “anytime I used to imagine killing you…I always thought I’d make it slow. Painful. Gruesome.” Her eyes sharpen. “I wanted you to feel what you made me feel.”
She tilts her head slightly, studying him like something she’s already decided isn’t worth the effort.
“But now….” A faint, cold smile touches her lips. “…looking at you like this?” She exhales. “You don’t matter that much.”
Anton’s jaw tightens. Anger flickers across his face—quick, sharp, almost involuntary. The mask slipping for the first time.
Valeria notices. And she laughs.
Soft. Almost disappointed.
“You’ve never been able to measure up to me,” she says. “And this is just more proof.”
Her finger settles on the trigger. Steady. Certain.
“Maybe in your next life,” she adds quietly, “you’ll be something. But in this one….” Her gaze hardens, final, absolute. “…you’ve lost.”
The gun fires.
The sound cracks through the forest like a final sentence.
Anton jerks—sharp, immediate—his body collapsing back into the ground as silence rushes in to replace the shot. No dramatic movement after. No rise. No recovery. Just stillness.
The clearing holds its breath.
Smoke drifts faintly between the trees.
Leaves tremble from the echo of the gunfire.
And then there’s only quiet.
I step closer, the tension still humming under my skin, and wrap my arm around her waist. My hand settles protectively over her stomach without thinking—an instinct that has become second nature.
For a moment, I just breathe.
She’s here. She’s safe. The storm didn’t take her.
“What now?” I ask quietly.
She hums softly, like she’s tasting the question.
Then she exhales.
“It’s time,” she says, “to reclaim my place.”