10. Ruslan
10
RUSLAN
The phone vibrates against my thigh as I step out of the production meeting. I check the caller ID. It's my head of security, Artyom.
"What is it?" My voice carries the residual tension from arguing with investors for the past two hours.
"Ruslan Vitalyevich..." Artyom's voice falters, and my spine stiffens. He never hesitates. "It's Lev."
"What about him?" The hallway suddenly feels too narrow, the air too thin.
"He's dead."
The words hit like a physical blow. I brace myself against the wall, my lungs forgetting how to function.
"How?" The question scrapes from my throat.
"Professional hit. His car was forced against the median on the 405. Then gunmen—" Artyom's voice drops. "They came out and finished the job. Everyone in the car is dead. Lev, Grisha, both bodyguards."
My mind flashes to Lev's warning hours ago. The jungle is about to tear itself down. It's going to rebuild into something different. Had he known? Had he sensed the wolves circling?
"Mikhail," I manage to say, my nephew's face flashing before me. My chest constricts with something beyond grief. "Is he safe?"
"We don't know yet. Someone needs to get to him before they do."
I'm already moving before Artyom finishes speaking. "I'll find him. The studio isn't too far from here"
"Be careful. Whoever did this?—"
"Is a dead man." I cut him off, punching the elevator button repeatedly.
Inside my car, I slam the door and squeeze the steering wheel. For a moment, I can't move, paralyzed by the knowledge that the last words I said to my brother were bitter ones.
I may be on the outside looking in, but don't think for a moment that I have ever stopped being Vitaly's son.
That's how we left it. No goodbye. No resolution. Just the ghost of our father driving a wedge between us, as always.
"Fuck!" I pound the steering wheel twice, a strangled sound escaping my throat as I scream.
Then I start the engine and peel out of the garage, thoughts racing faster than the speedometer.
Lev is dead. My brother is dead.
And I have to get to my nephew Mikhail before they can kill him too.
I'm breaking every speed limit between here and the studio when my phone rings. It's the production office. I answer it with one hand while swerving around a slow-moving truck.
"What is it? I'm on my way."
"Mr. Dragunov..." The production coordinator's voice shakes. "There's been an accident."
My blood turns to ice, freezing me from within.
No. No. No. No!
"What accident?"
"It's Mikhail."
The world around me blurs. My foot eases off the accelerator without conscious thought.
"What happened?" I grip the phone so tightly I hear the case crack.
"A prop gun." Her voice breaks. "The paramedics tried, but... he's gone, sir. Mikhail is dead."
Something shatters inside me. A sound escapes my throat that doesn't sound human.
"That's not possible." My voice doesn't sound like my own. "Those guns are checked. They're cleared. There are protocols?—"
"I don't know what happened."
"No one is to leave production until I arrive."
Before she can respond, I cut the call and slam my fist against the steering wheel, again and again until pain shoots up my arm. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.
Lev. Now Mikhail.
Both gone in the same day.
I bring up my phone and scroll to a name I never wanted to call.
Tamara.
For nineteen years I've maintained as much distance as possible from her. But there's more at stake than her obsession over me and my dislike for her.
The girls... I need to make sure they're safe.
She picks up on the first ring.
"Ruslan." Her breathy voice answers. "I've been waiting for your call."
Of course she has. Even in tragedy, she finds a way to make my skin crawl. "You know about Lev?"
"Yes." No hint of grief in her voice. No surprise. "The police called five minutes ago."
My jaw clenches so tight I feel my teeth might crack. "Mikhail is dead too."
For a moment, she's silent. Then, she asks, her voice tremoring slightly. "How?"
"An accident at the studio is what they've told me so far." The words burn my throat. "Where are the girls?"
"At school, of course." She says it like I'm stupid for asking. "St. Catherine's?—"
"Get them. Now." My voice drops dangerously low.
"I can't just?—"
"Get your daughters and bring them to the mansion." Every muscle in my body tenses. "This isn't a fucking request, Tamara. Until we know what the fuck is going on, they're in danger."
"You can't just tell me what to do, Ruslan." She attempts a silky tone that makes my stomach turn. "I'm not one of your?—"
" ETO MOI PRIKAZ! " I roar into the phone.
Tamara goes silent at those words. Words that only a pakhan can say. An order whose defiance could mean death.
"I'll get them now, Ruslan Vitalyevich, " she whispers. "I meant no offense."
I hang up without another word, and toss my phone onto the passenger seat. The weight of what I've just said settles on my shoulders.
Those three words have changed everything, even if I didn't mean for them to.
And now that they've been said, there's no going back now.
* * *
I blast through the studio doors like a winter storm. The hushed whispers and shocked faces tell me they know who I am, who I've always been beneath the veneer of a Hollywood producer.
Right now, I don't give a fuck what they see.
Let them witness a Dragunov in anger and grief.
"Where is he?" My voice echoes across the soundstage.
A trembling PA points toward a cordoned-off area where police and paramedics stand. I stride over, ignoring their attempts to stop me.
"I want everyone who touched a prop weapon today in front of me. Now." My voice doesn't rise, but it carries the weight of command that's bred into my bones.
The weapons master approaches. He's a balding man with nervous eyes who's worked with me on three previous productions.
"Mr. Dragunov, I don't understand what happened." His hands shake. "I checked everything myself this morning. All the blanks, all the guns?—"
"Who else handled the weapons other than you?" I cut him off.
He swallows hard. "Props department delivered them to set. Aurora Castellanos was the only other person to touch them."
My heart stutters at her name.
"Aurora?" I repeat, trying to keep my voice neutral. "Where is she now?"
The weapons master glances around. "I... I don't know. She was here when it happened, but?—"
I scan the set again, more carefully this time. No sign of her anywhere.
"Find her." My voice drops to a deadly whisper.
While they search, I approach where Mikhail lies. They've covered him with a sheet, but I can see the familiar outline of his body. Somehow, under this shroud, he looks small.
He was only eighteen, I remind myself. Still a boy .
I kneel beside him, ignoring the protests of the crime scene technicians. With gentle fingers, I pull back the edge of the sheet.
My throat tightens at the sight of his face. He looks peaceful, almost asleep, except for the small, dark hole in his chest where the bullet entered. The bullet that shouldn't have been there.
My fingers hover over the edge of the wound. Such a tiny little thing. Yet it changed so much in an instant.
"Who did this to you, Misha?" I whisper in Russian, fighting to keep the quiver from entering my voice. "Who took you from us?"
Slowly, I place the shroud back over Mikhail's face and stand up to look at the scene of the accident, hoping to find something—anything—that might help me understand just what the fuck happened.
That's when the small, jagged hole in the wall behind Mikhail's body catches my eye. I stride over, pushing past a security guard who tries to block my path.
"Mr. Dragunov, this is an active crime scene and the police will?—"
"Step aside." My voice silences him instantly.
I examine the bullet hole, running my finger along its edge. And then I see it, the small splattered form of the bullet lodged in the wall.
"I need to see the prop weapon. Now."
The weapons master hurries over, carrying the pistol in an evidence bag. I snatch it from his hands. One look, and I know this can't be the gun that killed Mikhail.
I've seen enough bullet holes to know the difference between a pistol round and a high-caliber one.
Instinctively, I turn around and scan the landscape beyond the set.
There!
A gentle slope rising about four hundred yards behind our location. Perfect elevation. Clear line of sight. No obstructions.
A sniper's dream position.
"This was a hit," I mutter to myself, feeling cold certainty settle over me.
My nephew was assassinated in broad daylight, surrounded by witnesses, in a way designed to look like a tragic Hollywood accident.
On the same day as my brother.
I stand up and face the weapons master again. "Where is Aurora Castellanos?"
He shrugs. "She was here when it happened, but?—"
"Nobody's seen her since," a PA finishes.
My eyes narrow as I scan the rest of the set. And that's when I notice a redhead shifting nervously near the edge of the crowd. She looks familiar, and it takes another second for me to remember that she was the same woman who was with Aurora at the production party.
But most importantly, her eyes keep darting toward a side door.
I hand the prop gun back and make my way through the crowd towards her. She startles when she sees me approaching.
"You." I keep my voice even. "What's your name?"
"Hannah," she supplies, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Where is Aurora Castellanos, Hannah?"
"I don't know," she stammers, but her eyes flick toward that door again.
"You're lying to me, Hannah." I step closer, towering over her. "I'll only ask this one more time: where is Aurora Castellanos?"
Hannah's fingers twist together. "She's probably in the bathroom. This was... traumatic for everyone."
The lie sits between us, pathetic and transparent. I feel my patience, already thin as cigarette paper, beginning to tear.
"Don't insult my intelligence." My voice drops lower, forcing her to lean in to hear me. "Aurora isn't in any bathroom. I need to speak with her, especially if she might've seen anything before Mikhail was shot."
"If you think she had anything to do with this, you're?—."
"I didn't say she did. But she was the last person to handle the prop gun." I lean in, dropping my voice so only she can hear me. "And she's the only one who might know something that the rest of you don't."
"Aurora wouldn't know anything," Hannah insists, her voice quivering slightly despite her attempt at confidence.
"You can't make that guarantee," I reply, my tone ice-cold. I'm in no mood for games. Not with Mikhail's body still lying under that sheet, not with my brother's death still a fresh wound. "What happened after Aurora handed the gun to the weapons master to check?"
Hannah shifts her weight, glancing over her shoulder toward that side door again.
"She went to do a once-over on Mikhail's costume," she finally admits. "Checking the fit, making sure the blood packets were in the right places. Standard stuff."
"So Aurora was standing next to Mikhail before the camera started rolling?" I press, my mind already mapping the scene.
Hannah nods reluctantly. "Yes."
"Show me."
She hesitates, but my expression leaves no room for argument. With a small sigh, she leads me across the set right next to where the bullet hole is.
"She was right here." Hannah points.
I step into the position and look back up to see that exact spot I'd already identified earlier.
The perfect sniper perch on the gentle slope beyond the set.
I turn back to Hannah. "It's possible Aurora saw something. So I will ask you again. Where is she?"
Hannah bites her lip, indecision playing across her features. For a moment, I think she might break.
"I understand your loyalty," I soften my tone slightly. "And under normal circumstances, I will even commend it. But this isn't a normal circumstance anymore. I have reasons to believe that Mikhail's death wasn't the result of a tragic accident on set. Which means if Aurora witnessed something—anything—then she's in danger."
Hannah hesitates, her fingers twitching as if she wants to reach for her phone. I can almost see the debate happening behind her eyes.
Just then, her phone chimes with a notification. Then another. And another.
I catch the flicker of panic in Hannah's eyes as her hand twitches to reach for the phone but stops.
"Aren't you going to look?" I ask, my voice deceptively casual.
"It's probably just spam texts."
"Bullshit." I step closer, looming over her. "Your friend was here when my nephew was killed. Now she's conveniently missing and your phone is blowing up? I told you to stop lying to me, Hannah."
Hannah's eyes dart toward the exit. "I'm not?—"
"Then show me the phone."
"No." Her voice firms up, finding its backbone.
I take a step back and point at Hannah. "Whoever hands her phone to me will receive full legal representation from Dragunov Productions for the duration of this investigation. No questions asked."
Hannah's eyes widen in horror. "You can't do that."
"Yes I can."
A burly key grip steps forward, his expression grim but determined. Without hesitation, he reaches around Hannah and snatches the phone from her back pocket while she struggles against him.
"I'm sorry," he mutters, not meeting her eyes as he hands the device to me.
"You can't do this!" She lunges for it, but I keep her at arm's reach easily enough.
"Hold her still," I tell the man, and he obeys.
I put the phone up to Hannah's face. The facial recognition kicks in, and the screen unlocks. When I look, I see the most recent slew of messages.
All of them from Aurora:
Aurora: Just got home.
Aurora: Packing now.
Aurora: Thank you.
Aurora: For everything.
I read them twice, feeling my chest tighten. Packing? She's running. But from what? Or from whom?
"Why is she packing?" I ask Hannah, turning the screen toward her.
Hannah works her lips as she stares at me. It's obvious that she knows something that I don't. Something about Aurora.
Slowly, she opens her mouth. "She didn't do anything wrong. I was just trying to protect my friend."
I nod at the key grip to release her and hand her phone back the moment he does.
"If you truly wanted to protect her, you would've told me the truth when I asked."
She clutches the phone to her chest like a shield. "You don't understand?—"
"What I understand is that Aurora is the only person who might've seen something. And based on everything that I've seen so far, I have every reason to believe that she's in danger."
Hannah's eyes widen with genuine terror. "What do you mean?"
"Mikhail's death is no accident. Someone wanted him dead. And whoever did that will want to eliminate witnesses and tie up loose ends." The words taste bitter on my tongue. "And unfortunately for Aurora, she's a loose end."
Hannah fumbles with her phone. "I need to warn her?—"
"No, you don't."
"Then what am I supposed to do?"
"Nothing. You're going to do absolutely nothing. You're going to cooperate with the investigation when they come. You will tell them exactly what you told me, and nothing more. Especially what I just told you."
I stride towards the exit, pausing only to address the production manager hovering nearby.
"Forward any police inquiries to my office," I instruct him, not waiting for his nod of agreement.
"Wait! Where are you going?" Hannah calls after me, her voice edged with desperation.
"To get Aurora." I turn back, meeting her gaze across the crowded room. "Before it's too late."