Chapter 2 Dimitri
DIMITRI
The church burns behind us, flames licking at the night sky like the tongues of demons. I can hear the sirens now—police, fire, ambulances—all racing toward the carnage. Too late. Always too late.
I sit in the back of the SUV, my phone pressed to my ear, coordinating with my men. Alexei's voice is steady despite the chaos, reporting casualties and securing the perimeter. Fifteen dead, maybe more. Three of my best soldiers among them. And Sergei.
My nephew. The boy I raised after my brother died. Gone.
I push the thought away. There will be time for grief later. Right now, there's only survival. And strategy.
“Take us the long way,” I order my driver. I don’t want to allow any chance of whoever was behind the attack following us.
Beside me, Alina sits in stunned silence, her wedding dress torn and stained with blood and soot. She's stopped shaking, which worries me more than the trembling did. Shock can be dangerous. It makes people unpredictable.
I end the call with Alexei and study her in the dim light of the passing streetlamps. Red hair wild around her pale face, green eyes staring at nothing. She's beautiful, even covered in ash and blood. Sergei had good taste, at least.
The alliance this marriage was supposed to secure is now in jeopardy.
Viktor Popov's daughter was meant to bind our families together, to create a partnership that would strengthen both our positions in the Bratva hierarchy.
Now Sergei is dead, and this girl is a loose end, a vulnerability that my enemies will exploit or eliminate.
But she's also valuable.
"Where are you taking me?" Her voice is hoarse from smoke and screaming.
"Somewhere safe."
"I want to go home. I want to see my family."
I've already had this conversation with her once. My answer hasn't changed. "That's not possible right now."
"Why not?" She turns to face me, and I see the fear giving way to anger. Good. Anger is better than shock. Anger keeps you alive.
"Because whoever attacked that church wanted everyone inside dead. Until I know who and why, you're staying with me."
"You can't just kidnap me!"
"I just did."
Her eyes flash with fury, and she lunges for the door handle. The child locks are engaged, of course, but she doesn't know that yet. She yanks at the handle desperately, her breath coming in short gasps.
"Let me out! Let me out right now!"
I don't respond. I've learned that sometimes silence is more effective than argument. She pounds on the window, screaming for help, but we're already in the exclusive neighborhood where my estate is located. High walls, private security, people who know better than to interfere in Bratva business.
When she realizes the door won't open, she rounds on me, her hands curled into fists. For a moment, I think she might actually try to hit me. Part of me almost wants her to, just to see if she has the courage.
"You have no right to do this," she says, her voice shaking with rage. "My father will—"
"Your father will what?" I interrupt, my tone cold. "Start a war? He might. But first, he'll want to know you're alive. And safe."
"Safe?" She laughs bitterly. "I'm trapped in a car with a man I don't know, being taken to God knows where. That's not safe. That's kidnapping."
"Call it what you want. You're under my protection now."
"I don't want your protection!"
The SUV slows as we approach the gates of my estate.
The property sits on five acres in an exclusive neighborhood, surrounded by high walls and state-of-the-art security.
The main house is a modern masterpiece of glass and stone, all clean lines and expensive taste.
I've lived here for ten years, and it's never felt like home.
Just another fortress. Another place to defend.
The gates swing open, and we drive through. Alina presses her face to the window, taking in the manicured grounds, the fountain, the house itself. I see her calculating, looking for escape routes. Smart girl.
"This is your prison?" she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"This is your sanctuary. Whether you see it that way or not."
The SUV stops in front of the main entrance. My men are already positioned around the property. I can see them in the shadows, weapons ready. Alexei stands at the door, his face grim. He made it back before us since we took the long route home.
I open my door and step out, then move to Alina's side. When I open her door, she doesn't move.
"Get out," I say.
"No."
I don't have time for this. I reach in and grab her arm, pulling her from the vehicle. She fights me immediately—clawing at my hands, trying to twist away. Her nails rake across my wrist, drawing blood.
"Let go of me!" she screams. "Help! Someone help me!"
No one comes. My men know better. And even if they didn't, they wouldn't interfere. This is Bratva business. My business.
She's stronger than she looks, I'll give her that. She manages to land a kick to my shin that actually hurts. But I've been in more fights than I can count, against men twice her size and three times as vicious. A frightened girl in a wedding dress is hardly a challenge.
I lift her into my arms, ignoring her protests and the fists pounding against my chest. She's light, despite her height. Too light. When was the last time she ate?
"Put me down! Put me down right now!"
I carry her up the steps and through the front door. Alexei follows, closing the door behind us. The entrance hall is all marble and modern art, cold and impersonal. Like everything else in this house.
"Dimitri," Alexei says quietly. "We need to talk."
"Later. Get the doctor here. I want her checked for injuries."
"I don't need a doctor!" Alina shouts, still struggling in my arms. "I need you to let me go!"
I ignore her and head for the stairs. She's getting heavier—not because of her weight, but because she's fighting so hard. Her wedding dress catches on the banister, and I hear fabric tear. She doesn't seem to notice or care.
The guest bedroom is on the second floor, at the end of the east wing.
It's one of the nicest rooms in the house with large windows overlooking the gardens, a king-sized bed with expensive linens, and an en-suite bathroom with a soaking tub.
I've never had a guest use it before. I don't have guests.
I push open the door with my shoulder and carry her inside, setting her down on the bed. She immediately scrambles away from me, pressing herself against the headboard like a cornered animal.
"Stay away from me," she warns, her voice shaking.
I step back, giving her space. "The bathroom is through that door. There are clothes in the closet that should fit you. A maid will bring food shortly."
"I don't want food. I want to leave."
"That's not an option."
"You can't keep me here!"
I meet her eyes, letting her see the truth in mine. "I can. And I will. For your own protection."
"Protection?" She laughs, a harsh sound that has nothing to do with humor. "You're a monster. Everyone says so. Dimitri Morozov, the ruthless Pakhan who kills anyone who crosses him. And you expect me to believe you're protecting me?"
Her words should sting, but they don't. I've been called worse. I've done worse.
"Believe what you want," I say, turning toward the door. "But you're staying here until I figure out who attacked that church and why. If you try to leave, my men will stop you. If you try to hurt yourself, the doctor will sedate you. Make this easy on yourself, Alina. Accept the situation."
I'm almost to the door when I hear the distinctive click of a gun being cocked.
I turn slowly, and my blood runs cold.
Alina stands beside the bed, her ruined wedding dress pooling around her feet, her red hair wild around her face. And in her hands, steady despite everything, is a small pistol—a ladies' gun, probably a .22, but deadly enough at this range.
She must have had it in her handbag, the ivory and lace clutch I saw her carrying at the church. I'd been so focused on getting her out of the building, on protecting her from external threats, that I hadn't thought to check for weapons.
Rookie mistake. One that might cost me my life.
The gun is pointed directly at my chest. At my heart.
"Now," Alina says, her voice steady and cold, "you're going to let me leave. Or I'm going to shoot you."