Chapter Four
Dmitri
Something’s wrong.
The feeling starts as a flicker at the base of my spine and grows until it’s a pounding in my chest I can’t ignore. Mireille should’ve been back by now. Anya told me she went to the bathroom about fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago, but still hasn’t returned.
I set down my drink and scan the parlor. Viktor is checking his watch—we need to leave soon if we’re going to make Anya’s curtain call. Anya herself stepped out to take a call from the opera house. Sergei is nowhere to be found.
“Have you seen Mireille?” I ask Viktor.
He shakes his head. “Not since before we met with Alexei.”
The unease in my gut sharpens into something colder.
Alexei emerges from the hallway, frowning. “We need to leave in ten minutes, or Anya will have our heads.”
“Mireille’s been gone too long,” I say. “Something’s not right.”
His expression shifts, the social mask dropping. “How long?”
“Twenty minutes. Maybe more.”
I search the guest bathroom first, but it's empty, just like all the other bathrooms in the house.
Cold dread slides through me.
I check the kitchen and terrace. Still nothing.
Viktor appears at my side. “Any luck finding Mireille?”
“She’s not here…anywhere.”
He straightens, his easy expression vanishing. “She’s missing?”
“I’ve searched everywhere…all the bathrooms. That’s where Anya says she went.”
Alexei joins us then, already reading the tension in my face. “Sergei?” he asks.
“Don’t know where he is either.”
That gets his full attention. He turns toward Viktor. “Check the garage. See if his car’s still here?”
Viktor disappears and returns seconds later, shaking his head. “No. Gone.”
Alexei’s eyes harden. “Get my laptop.”
Within moments, we’re back in his office, the air thick with unspoken tension. Alexei pulls up the internal tracking system, a private network that pings the company phones of everyone who works for him.
“Every employee gets one,” he says absently, fingers flying over the keyboard. “They don’t know about the tracker.”
The map lights up, a web of red dots across the city. Alexei zooms in, filters out everyone but Sergei.
“There,” he says, pointing to the blinking dot. “That’s Sergei’s phone.”
Viktor leans closer. “That’s…wait. That’s Westchester.”
Alexei’s expression tightens. “Not just Westchester. Look.”
He magnifies the view, and the address appears on screen.
It’s Agent Turner’s residence.
For a second, none of us speaks. Then Viktor exhales a low curse.
“Son of a bitch.”
My blood runs hot. “Do you think he went there with her?”
Alexei nods once. “Seems our dear Sergei’s been busier than we thought.” He opens the location history. “He’s been there before. Repeatedly.”
Viktor paces. “He’s been meeting Turner.”
“Likely working with him,” Alexei corrects, voice clipped. “But for how long? What has he revealed?”
I can barely process the words. Mireille. Agent Turner. Sergei. The betrayal twists like a knife.
Alexei brings up another file, a list of recent stops in Sergei’s history. “He’s been to Martin Nowak’s estate, too. Several times.”
“Nowak?” Viktor mutters. “That Polish bastard who’s been trying to take over our docks?”
Alexei nods grimly. “The same. He’s been circling for years, trying to push into our territory. But he doesn’t have the power or the balls to take us on directly. Not without help.”
Viktor runs a hand through his hair. “And now he’s got it. Sergei’s got to be feeding him intel. Turner’s giving him access. They’ve been building something behind our backs.”
I stare at the map, the small blinking light that marks the Turner house. “And Mireille’s in the middle of it.”
Alexei closes the laptop with a decisive snap. “We don’t know what they’re planning. What if you meeting Mireille was a setup—”
“Stop! It wasn’t. But we don’t have time to debate this. I need to go now.”
“Of course, you do,” Alexei says. “But you’re not going alone.” He grabs his coat and nods to Viktor. “Get the car. We’ll deal with Sergei first and Turner if we have to.”
Viktor hesitates. “You think Mireille’s safe?”
I don’t answer—because I don’t know.
All I know is that if Sergei—or anyone—hurts her, there won’t be a corner of this city dark enough for them to hide.
The drive to Westchester is a blur of headlights and the rage simmering inside of me. I barely hear Alexei’s voice over the roar in my head.
Mireille.
Her name pulses through me like a heartbeat. Her laugh. Her blush. The way she bites her lip when she's nervous. The way she looked at me, like I was someone worth believing in.
I've spent my whole life keeping people at arm's length. Control has always been my armor—calculating every move, anticipating every outcome. But somewhere between that first chess game and now, she slipped past every wall I'd built.
And I let her.
No—I wanted her to.
The realization hits me like a blow to the chest. This isn't just desire. It isn't possession or obsession or the thrill of something I shouldn't have. This is something I've spent thirty-four years avoiding. Something I watched destroy my father and swore would never touch me.
I love her.
I love her, and she's in danger because of me. Because I was too much of a coward to walk away when I should have, and too selfish to tell her the truth when I could have.
Viktor takes a corner too fast, and I grip the door handle, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. If Sergei has hurt her—if anyone has touched a single hair on her head—
“Dmitri.” Alexei's voice cuts through the haze. “Stay focused. We get her back first. You can fall apart later.”
I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. He knows. Of course, he knows. He's seen that same look in his own reflection—the desperate, wild terror of a man who's found the one thing he can't afford to lose.
“I won't fall apart,” I say, my voice cold and steady despite the chaos inside me. “But if she's hurt, there won't be a piece of Sergei left to bury.”
Alexei holds my gaze for a moment, then nods once.
The car speeds on through the night, and I make a silent promise to whatever god might be listening: Let her be safe. Give me the chance to tell her the truth—all of it. And I swear I'll spend the rest of my life deserving her.
By the time we reach the Turner house, my pulse feels like it’s going to break my ribs.
Viktor kills the lights a block away. “We go in quietly,” Alexei says, his tone all command, no hesitation. “Sergei’s unpredictable. Turner’s armed and trained.”
I nod once. “I’ll take the back.”
The house is dark except for the faint light coming from the dining room window. I can hear muffled shouting, angry, overlapping voices.
Alexei and I slip through the side gate, boots silent on the damp grass. The back door is locked, but not for long. Alexei picks it with practiced precision.
Inside, the air smells like tension and whiskey. I can hear them more clearly now.
“You never said she was your daughter, Bill!” Sergei roars.
“You never said you’d kidnap her!” Turner fires back.
Hearing her father’s voice confirms it—Mireille is here. Something loosens in my chest, even as everything else tightens.
Mireille.
I motion to Alexei and move closer, weapon drawn. We reach the doorway just as Sergei slams his hand down on the table.
“You were supposed to keep this quiet,” he snarls.
Turner squares his shoulders. “You’ve already made enough noise to bury both of us.”
They don’t see us until Alexei steps out of the shadows. “That may be the only honest thing you’ve said. Turner.”
Both men spin around, reaching for their guns, but we’re faster. Alexei’s aim is already leveled at Sergei’s chest. Mine’s locked on Turner.
Then I see her—Mireille, standing behind her father, pale and trembling, eyes wide with something between terror and hope. Relief hits me so hard it’s dizzying.
“Dima…” she whispers.
“Moya kukolka,” I breathe, never taking my aim off her father. “You okay?”
She nods shakily. “Please don’t…don’t shoot him.”
Turner snorts, lifting his weapon. “Touching.. Did you plant a tracker on her so you could follow her here?”
Alexei’s voice is calm, cold. “You're one to talk—your own man kidnapped your own daughter.”
Turner’s eyes flash. “My daughter is safe, thank you very much. She's been your brother’s pawn long enough.”
The words hit like a punch, and I see Mireille flinch.
“That’s what this was, wasn’t it?” Turner presses, shifting his glare to me. “You get close to my daughter to gather intel on me. She means nothing to you.”
“No,” I snap. “It’s not like that.”
He laughs bitterly. “Then tell me what it is.”
I finally look at Mireille. She’s staring at me, eyes full of questions I never wanted her to have to ask.
“I won’t lie to you,” I say quietly, directing my answer at her, not her father. “At first, yes—that was the plan. You were supposed to be a way in. A way to get close to him.”
Her breath catches.
“But the moment I met you, everything changed. I couldn’t use you. That’s why I kept stalling, why I didn’t want to meet your parents. Because I didn’t know how to tell you the truth without losing you. Because I knew the moment your father saw my face, he’d recognize me, and it would all be over.”
She shakes her head, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.
“I love you,” I say, the words ripping out of me. “You have to believe that.”
Turner sneers. “Then prove it.”
“What?”
“Put the gun down. Tell your brother to do the same.”
I glance at Alexei. His expression doesn’t change, but I know what he’s thinking. The Balshovs don’t lower their weapons for anyone.
“Dmitri,” Mireille whispers. “Please.”
The tremor in her voice breaks whatever resolve I have left. Slowly, I set the gun down on the table.
Alexei hesitates, just for a heartbeat, then follows suit, placing his weapon beside mine.
Sergei chuckles darkly. “Look at that. The mighty Balshovs brought to their knees over a girl.”
He steps closer, gun still in hand, eyes gleaming with something twisted. “You know, I used to think you three were untouchable. Royalty in suits. But you’re just men. Weak men, hiding behind your father’s name.”
Alexei’s voice drops, cold and lethal. “You should watch what you say.”
“Oh, I think I’ve earned the right,” Sergei sneers. “My mother never got that luxury, did she? You ever wonder what happened to her? The woman Yuri Balshov was with before he married your perfect mother?”
His words stop me cold. “What are you talking about?”
Sergei’s smirk widens, cruel and humorless. “She disappeared. Right before your father’s wedding. The great Yuri Balshov made her vanish like she never existed. But I remember her. I remember every story she told me. And I remember her saying Yuri promised to come back for her. For us.”
Alexei’s expression tightens, though he stays controlled. “You think our father killed her?”
“I know he did,” Sergei spits. “Or had her killed to keep his new bride happy. You three got the perfect life, the power, the name. And me? I got nothing but a ghost for a mother and a rumor for a father.”
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Mireille’s eyes dart between us, her expression a mixture of confusion and fear. Turner still has his gun raised, but his hand has started to shake.
Alexei’s voice is quiet but sharp as glass. “You’ve been plotting against us all this time. Because of something you believe happened over thirty years ago.”
“I don’t believe,” Sergei growls. “I know. And tonight, the Balshovs fall.” He raises his gun and begins to wave it around, his eyes wild, unfocused.
“I'm going to kill every one of you. No one's going to question the death of a bunch of criminals in the home of an FBI agent.
It's going to be ruled as a home invasion, and I get to walk free.”
Turner steps in front of him, his hands fisted in rage. “What the hell do you think you're doing? Put the damn gun down.”
“No.” Sergei shakes his head, swinging the gun from Alexei to Turner. “It's all over. There are too many loose ends.”
Turner lunges forward as if to snatch the gun out of Sergei’s hand.
Wrong move.
Sergei’s finger curls around the trigger. I see his intention even before he moves, the deadly resolve. Instinctively, I shove Turner out of the way, just in time to hear the gun go off.
The sound echoes through the room, pierced by a high pitched, terrified scream. A resounding silence follows.
And then I feel it—fire blooming in my gut, a terrible fatigue pulling at me. The darkness rushes up fast. As I sink to my knees, I mutter a prayer for the first time in my life;
“Lord, keep my little doll safe.”
Then, there is nothing.