Chapter Five
Mireille
My head echoes with the sound of the gunshot.
Too loud.
I stare in horrified shock at Dmitri’s body on the floor, the blood soaking through his shirt.
My legs start to move even before my brain can completely process what's happened. I drop to my knees beside him, my heart hammering so hard I can barely breathe.
“Dmitri!” My hands press over the spreading red on his shirt, blood slicking my trembling fingers. “No, no, no—stay with me. Please…”
He gasps, his eyes finding mine. “Mireille…”
Another shot cracks through the air, echoing in my ears.
This one comes from behind Sergei. His body jerks, the gun clatters to the floor, and he drops heavily to his knees before collapsing.
Viktor stands behind him, arm extended, smoke curling from the barrel of his gun.
His expression is blank, composed—the kind of calm that only comes from years of knowing how to survive.
Everything is still for a heartbeat. Then my father raises his gun, aiming it straight at Viktor.
“Put it down,” Viktor warns quietly.
“Dad, don’t,” I choke out, still pressing my hands against Dmitri’s wound. “Please, don’t!”
My father’s eyes flick from Viktor to Dmitri to me. His jaw works, torn between fury and something that looks like shame.
“Dad, he literally just saved your life,” I whisper, my lower lip quivering from the shock. “Please just help him. Help me.”
For a moment, I think he won’t.
Then he lets out a rough exhale and lowers the gun.
“Call an ambulance,” Alexei orders. His voice is sharp, controlled, but I can see the fear in his eyes when he looks at his brother.
My father is already pulling out his phone. “I’ll call it in. I can control how this goes if it comes from me.”
I stay with Dmitri as Alexei speaks quietly into his phone, giving an address.
My father does the same a few feet away—I catch fragments: “FBI Special Agent Turner…shots fired at my residence…one deceased, one critical…need a bus immediately.” He disappears for a moment, returning with towels, pressing one against Dmitri’s side.
The sirens come fast, too fast, but not fast enough.
Dmitri’s breathing grows shallow, each breath a battle. I lean close, brushing my hand against his face. “Hey,” I whisper, trying to fight back the tears already streaming down my cheeks. “Look at me. I believe you. I believe everything you said.”
His eyes struggle to focus. “Mireille…”
“I love you,” I tell him. My voice breaks. “Do you hear me? I love you.”
He tries to smile, but it’s faint, slipping away as his eyes roll back and his body goes slack.
“No!” I press closer, cupping his face, then shaking him gently. “Stay with me, Dmitri—please.”
Hands pull me back as the paramedics rush in. They work fast, their voices clipped and professional as they stabilize Dmitri and load him onto a stretcher.
I cannot lose him.
Someone guides me toward the corner of the room. I realize it’s Viktor, his hand firm on my shoulder, his voice low. “He’ll fight. He always does.”
Outside, the flashing lights of the ambulance and police cars paint the street in blue and red. The neighbors have gathered on the sidewalk, whispering, staring. Somewhere behind us, Sergei's body lies covered by a sheet—I can't bring myself to look.
My father stands near the police, his voice steady as he recounts the perfect lie, “We were having dinner when Sergei broke in. He opened fire. Viktor shot him in self-defense.” He flashes his badge, and I watch the officers' postures shift—deferential now, one law enforcement officer to another.
The officer nods, jotting down notes.
Another officer approaches Viktor, but my father intercepts. “He’s the one who stopped the shooter. He’s in shock—I’ll bring him in for a formal statement tomorrow.” The officer hesitates, glances at Viktor’s expensive suit and calm demeanor, then nods.
As they load Dmitri into the ambulance, I try to follow, but an EMT blocks my way. “You can’t come with him, miss.”
“He’s hurt—he needs me.”
“We’ll take care of him,” she promises gently before climbing in and shutting the doors.
My father appears at my side. “Go with Alexei. I’ll handle things here and meet you at the hospital.” His voice drops. “The story is simple—home invasion, self-defense. Stick to that if anyone asks.”
The siren wails as it pulls away, and I stand frozen in the street, watching until the sound of the siren fades into the distance and the street begins to clear out.
Alexei’s car idles at the curb. He steps toward me, his expression carved from stone, but his eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them. “We’ll follow the ambulance,” he says quietly, holding open the backseat door for me.
I nod numbly and step into the car. He closes the door gently and goes around to the passenger's side while Viktor slides into the driver’s seat.
As we drive, I press my palm to the faint smear of Dmitri’s blood on my dress and whisper a prayer to whatever god cares to listen.
“Please, save him.”
***
Aside from the pungent smell of antiseptic, hospitals have a sound—that low, constant hum of machines, voices, and footsteps that wears on the mind, magnifying anxiety and distress.
I hate hospitals so much. But here I am, in the waiting room of the hospital, my clothes stained with the blood of the man I love.
Anya sits beside me, her hands clasped tightly around mine. She hasn’t let go since she got here. I'm grateful for her presence since it's the only thing anchoring me to sanity.
Through the waiting room window, I can see the hallway leading to the surgical wing. A red sign glows above the double doors: SURGERY IN PROGRESS.
The paramedics who brought Dmitri in gave us a rough overview of his condition.
She said it was bad. A bullet to the abdomen.
Massive blood loss. One of the doctors came out briefly and told us they're not sure if he’ll make it.
The words keep replaying in my head, over and over, until they stop meaning anything at all.
The tears on my face have already dried up, and all I can do is hope and pray.
Anya squeezes my hand. “He’s strong,” she whispers. “Dmitri’s always been strong. He’ll fight his way back.”
I nod, but it’s automatic. My throat feels too tight to speak.
I don’t know what to believe.
When Alexei reappears from speaking with the nurses, I feel the shift before I even see him. The weight of his presence. His control. His barely concealed grief. Anya rises immediately, rushing into his arms. He holds her close, his features like stone, but the hand in her hair trembles.
I see how much Dmitri means to them.
Seeing them together sends a sharp ache through my chest. The way she fits against him, the unspoken bond between them—it’s everything I want with Dmitri and suddenly everything I’m terrified of losing. Because I don’t know if he’s ever going to wake up.
I press my hand to my mouth, swallowing back a sob. Anya notices, steps toward me, and pulls me into her arms. I cling to her like I might fall apart otherwise.
“He’ll come back to you,” she murmurs against my hair. “He loves you too much not to.”
Before I can answer, a familiar voice cuts through the air.
“Mireille.”
I turn, and there’s my father standing in the doorway, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen him. He’s still in the same clothes, his shirt wrinkled, his face pale. Guilt flickers across his features when he looks at me.
I stand slowly. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He sighs. “I had to come.”
“Why? To explain how everything you’ve ever done was a lie?” My voice trembles, but the anger is steady underneath. “Because I don’t want to hear excuses.”
He flinches. “I don’t have excuses, Mireille. Just…mistakes.”
Anya looks between us, then gently tugs on Alexei’s arm. “We’ll give you two a minute.”
They step out into the hallway, the door closing behind them.
The room feels smaller now, the air heavier. My father sinks into one of the chairs, rubbing a hand over his face. “You have every right to hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” I say. “I just don’t recognize you.”
He exhales shakily. “It started small. I thought if I could use one criminal to stop another, it would make a difference. It did, at first. The FBI got results. I got recognition. But it never stopped there. Someone always wanted more. Sergei. Nowak. Every time I tried to pull away, they’d remind me how deep I was in. ”
I cross my arms, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “So you sold out everything you stood for.”
He nods once. “And I almost lost the only thing that matters because of it.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rings.
“I’ll forgive you,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “But only if you do something about it.”
He looks up, surprised. “What do you mean?”
“You’re going to tell the FBI everything. Convince them to drop the investigation into the Balshovs. Then you’re going to retire. For good.”
“Mireille…”
“No.” I shake my head. “You’ve done enough damage, Dad. Dmitri is my future. I love him. And if you want to be in my life, you’re going to have to accept that.”
He stares at me for a long time, something shifting in his expression, pride, regret, maybe both. Then he nods slowly. “You have your mother’s will.”
“Promise me,” I say quietly.
He nods again. “I promise. And…I owe him. He saved my life. Yours too.” His voice cracks. “If he makes it, I’ll thank him myself.”
I look back toward the window, toward that glowing red sign, blinking against the tears burning in my eyes. “He will make it.”
My father stands, rests a hand on my shoulder, hesitant, as though unsure if he’s allowed. “I’ll go speak to the Bureau in the morning.”
“Good.”
He squeezes my shoulder once, then turns toward the door. I don’t stop him.
Watching him go, I feel the weight of everything pressing down at once. Guilt, relief, and exhaustion. But beneath it all, there’s clarity.