CHAPTER 24
NIKOLAI P.O.V.
The room smelled like expensive glass cleaner and the lingering, heavy scent of sex. A distinct, musky cocktail that hung in the stagnant air of the suite, reminding me that the truce we’d brokered an hour ago was built on sweat and friction, not trust.
I stood by the massive bay window, looking out over the manicured grounds of the estate.
It was too quiet. The kind of silence that usually precedes a car crash or a bullet leaving a chamber.
The darkness outside was total, swallowing the perimeter wall, but my reflection in the glass stared back—hard, scarred, and agitated.
I looked back at the bed. Scarlett was out cold. The silk sheet had slipped down, exposing one bare shoulder. I could see the faint, red diamond pattern impressed into her pale skin from the texture of the expensive bedding. She looked small like this. Harmless. But I knew better.
She’d stopped fighting. That was the thing that was gnawing at the back of my skull. During the act, she’d surrendered, but it wasn’t the submission of a broken animal. It was strategic. A pivot. She’d realized that fighting me was useless, so she’d decided to consume me instead.
I walked over to the bed, the plush carpet silencing my footsteps. I reached out, tracing that diamond mark on her skin with a rough fingertip. She didn't stir.
"I hate that I need your defiance more than your obedience," I muttered to the empty room.
It was a weakness. A crack in the armor. If I was smart, I’d put a bullet in her head and be done with the debt. But the thought made my stomach turn over with a sick, violent rejection. I wanted her breathing. I wanted her hating me. I wanted her underneath me.
THUD.
The sound wasn't a noise; it was a pressure wave. A deep, subterranean vibration that rattled the crystal whiskey tumblers on the dresser. They danced for a second, chiming against each other.
I didn't think. I didn't breathe. I moved.
My hand snatched the silenced Glock from the nightstand before the vibration stopped. I was a coiled snake snapping forward.
Scarlett bolted upright, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her eyes were wide, blown pupils swallowing the hazel, her heart hammering so hard I could almost see it beating against her ribs.
"What was that?" Her voice was thick with sleep and panic. "A tremor?"
"Stay low, Scarlett. Don't move."
I grabbed the security tablet from the console.
The screen flickered. The feed from the north entrance was dead black.
Not static—black. Someone had cut the hardline.
I swiped to the perimeter cameras. Nothing.
Just thermal blurs moving fast through the garden, breaching the wall like water through a sieve.
I tapped the comms icon for Hassan. Dead air.
"Motherfucker." I slammed the tablet down on the mahogany surface. The screen cracked, a spiderweb fracture splitting the display.
"Nikolai?" Scarlett’s voice pitched up.
"Hassan isn't answering. We're on our own." I looked at her, letting the cold reality settle on her face. "They took out the sensors first. This isn't a raid. It’s a hit."
The smell of burnt wiring began to drift from the ventilation shafts. Acrid. Chemical.
"Get your fucking boots on. Now."
I moved to the wall safe behind the painting.
I didn't bother with the keypad; I used the biometric override.
The heavy steel door swung open. This wasn't the time for the pistol.
I pulled the heavy tactical vest, the one with the ceramic plates, and strapped it over my dress shirt.
The velcro tore through the silence of the room.
Scarlett was frozen, watching me. She smoothed her hair down, a nervous, useless tic.
"Scarlett!" I barked, grabbing a spare magazine and shoving it into the vest pouch. "This isn't a snatch and grab. This is a scorched-earth campaign. If you want to live, you move."
She scrambled out of bed, grabbing her discarded clothes. Her hands were shaking, fumbling with zippers.
I grabbed the sub-compact Sig Sauer from the bottom shelf. I racked the slide, checking the chamber—brass glinted back at me. I walked over to her, grabbed her chin, and forced her to look at me. Her skin was cold, clammy with shock.
"Look at me, collateral."
"Who are they?" she whispered.
I shoved the gun into her hand. It was heavy, cold steel against her palm. She gripped it like it was a live snake.
"This is your father’s final payment," I said, my voice low and gravelly. "He sent them for the body, Scarlett. Not the reunion. You use it or you bleed."
Her eyes widened. The horror of it—the absolute betrayal—hit her harder than a fist.
"He... he wouldn't."
"He cleared the ledger," I snarled, leaning in until our noses almost touched. "Kill them first, Scarlett. Ask questions later."
I didn't wait for her to process the trauma. We didn't have time for therapy. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the door.
We exited the suite into the upper hallway. The opulence of the estate felt like a tomb now. The air was already thickening, gray tendrils of smoke curling around the crown molding. The smell of ozone and sulfur was stronger here.
Below us, the sound of automatic gunfire erupted. It was a rhythmic, tearing sound, like canvas being ripped apart by a giant. It echoed up the marble staircase, deafening in the enclosed space.
"Stay low and move fast," I commanded, keeping my back to the wall. My boots were silent on the Persian runner. Scarlett was trying, but she stepped on a piece of shattered glass from a wall sconce that had blown out during the initial surge.
Crunch.
She flinched violently.
"They're bypassing the first floor entirely," I hissed, scanning the landing. "They know exactly where we are."
We reached the balcony overlooking the grand foyer. I kept Scarlett pressed against the wall and leaned over the railing. Three men in full tactical gear were moving in a wedge formation below, sweeping the room. Professional. Expensive.
I didn't hesitate. I lined up the sights and squeezed.
Phut-phut.
The first man dropped, his chest blowing out.
Phut-phut.
The second man took one in the throat before he could turn. The third scrambled for cover behind a marble pillar, spraying blind fire up at the balcony. Plaster exploded around us, dusting my suit in white powder.
I grabbed Scarlett and shoved her toward the alcove.
"Three down. Reloading," I grunted, ejecting the mag and slapping a fresh one in.
"Bastard!" Scarlett whispered, her voice trembling with rage and fear. "He's killing his own men to get to me!"
"He's killing witnesses," I corrected. "There's a difference."
The air was getting hazy. I could taste the dust and the copper tang of blood. I moved to check the flank, stepping out from the cover of the pillar.
"Behind you, shit!" Scarlett screamed.
I spun. A mercenary had come up the service stairs, silent as a ghost. He had a rifle raised. Scarlett fired.
BANG.
She missed by a mile, the bullet shattering a vase down the hall, but the noise made the man flinch. That split second was all I needed. I closed the distance, drew the combat knife from my belt, and drove it into the soft spot under his jaw. He gurgled, blood spraying over my hand, and went limp.
I shoved the body away and looked at Scarlett. She was staring at the gun in her hand, her ears ringing, her chest heaving.
"Good distraction, Scarlett. Now keep moving!"
"I... I missed."
"I told you to aim, not scream, cunt," I snapped, wiping the blood from my hand onto my pants. "Next time, hit the target."
But inside, a savage spike of pride twisted in my gut. She hadn't curled into a ball. She’d tried to kill for me.
"Grand staircase," I ordered. "We need to get underground."
We moved to the main stairs. The heat coming up from the foyer was a physical wall now. The fires were spreading fast, eating the drapes and the expensive rugs.
As we started down, a groan of metal echoed above.
"Move!" I shouted, grabbing the back of her jacket.
We slid down the marble banister just as the massive crystal chandelier sheared off its mount. It fell in slow motion, thousands of crystals catching the firelight before smashing into the foyer floor with the sound of the world ending.
Glass shrapnel flew everywhere. A wave of heat rolled over us. The foyer was an inferno.
"My whole life—burning down," Scarlett choked out, staring at the wreckage. "I watched my father buy this light fixture!"
"Focus!" I dragged her toward the dining hall. "We need to get to the service corridor."
I shoved her through the double doors. The dining hall was still intact, but the temperature was climbing. Through the windows, I saw flashes of light. Incendiary grenades.
"He's destroying everything!" Scarlett yelled over the roar of the fire. "The records, the house, me!"
"It's cleaner for him this way," I said, flipping a heavy oak table onto its side to create a barricade. "No body, no liability. He’s scrubbing the books, Scarlett."
She looked at me, her face streaked with soot and sweat. Her eyes were wide with horror, processing the absolute cruelty of efficiency.
"It’s just math to him," she whispered.
"Get behind the table."
I took up a position, scanning the main doors. Bullets started chewing up the wood of the table, sending splinters flying. I returned fire, methodical and angry.
"Your father is a fucking coward, Scarlett. Trading his own blood for a clean ledger."
"I know, Nikolai," she said, her voice hardening. She racked the slide on her Sig again, her hands shaking less now. "I hope he burns harder than this room will."
The gunfire intensified. We were pinned.
"Service corridor, Scarlett! Move! Stay low, harder!" I shouted, laying down a suppressing spray.
She didn't argue. She vaulted over a broken chair, her ruined silk slip snagging, and sprinted for the narrow door at the back of the room.
"I'm going! Cover me, Nikolai! Don't you dare die!"