Chapter 39 Victoria
VICTORIA
Sound.
Everything is sound.
My phone rings somewhere in the office below. Shrill. Insistent. The ringtone I chose because it's impossible to ignore, now mocking me from where I dropped my purse. Each ring drills into my skull, too loud in the aftermath of adrenaline and terror.
Ramiz pounds against the door. Each impact vibrates through the floor, through the tile, through my bones. Fist or shoulder, I can't tell. Just the relentless rhythm of someone determined to break through.
My pulse hammers in my ears. Too fast. Too loud. Drowning out rational thought, reducing everything to the animal instinct of prey.
I'm crouched beneath the vanity, knees pulled to chest, arms wrapped tight around my shins. The marble presses against my spine, cold through the thin silk of my dress. My bare feet are numb on the tile floor, dirty from running through the restaurant.
I focus on my breathing.
In. Count to four.
Out. Count to four.
The technique doesn't work. My chest won't expand properly. Lungs refuse to cooperate, locked tight around the panic. Each breath comes shallow, sharp, tasting of lemon cleaner and the faint metallic tang of copper underneath.
Blood.
Jelena's blood.
Now is not the time to panic.
I need to think. Need to calculate a way out of this the way I've calculated escapes for dozens of other women.
The pounding stops.
Silence rushes in, somehow worse than the noise. My ears ring in the absence. I strain to hear movement, footsteps, anything that tells me where he is. What he's planning. Whether he's gone or simply waiting.
My phone rings again. Four rings. Five. Then silence.
Someone is trying to reach me.
The thought splinters through the panic like light through cracks. Someone knows I'm missing. Someone is looking.
But my phone is far away, and I'm locked behind a door that won't hold forever.
I push to my feet, legs trembling. Three steps to the wall-mounted phone. The receiver is cream-colored plastic, old-fashioned, connected by a coiled cord to a box near the mirror.
This bathroom was built to save women.
I never imagined I'd be the one trapped inside.
My hand shakes reaching for the phone. I grip the vanity edge with my other hand, steadying myself. Fingernails digging into marble.
The receiver is smooth against my palm. Cool. Real.
I lift it.
Dial tone. Steady and mechanical. The most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
My gaze catches on the poster beside the phone. Emergency instructions printed in English and other languages. At the bottom, a phone number in red.
Jelena's office number.
The number women were supposed to call when they needed help. When they needed a way out. When they needed someone to believe them.
Jelena.
The name hits like a blade between ribs. Sharp. Immediate. Twisting.
Jelena, who let Ramiz in. Who gave him access. Who handed me over like I was nothing.
I trusted her. Believed in her. And she—
How could she do this? How could someone who understood what we were fighting against turn around and make an alliance with the very person we swore to destroy?
The loss sits heavy. Not just for Jelena. For the belief that we could trust each other. That shared trauma created unbreakable bonds.
I was wrong.
A gunshot.
The sound explodes through the small space, deafening. My ears ring, high-pitched whine drowning everything else. I duck instinctively, free hand flying up to cover my head even though the gesture is useless.
The door holds.
Another shot. Wood splinters near the lock. Cracks spiderweb across the surface, white lines against dark paint.
He's not going to stop.
The realization is cold as ice. The door is resistant, not impervious. Enough bullets and it will fail.
I'm standing here with a phone in my hand and nowhere to run.
The receiver trembles against my ear. Dial tone buzzes, insect-like and meaningless.
Think.
My brain kicks into overdrive, that cold clarity that surfaces under pressure. The same focus I use when planning operations.
I need to call them.
They're at the opera. They must know I'm missing by now. They have to know. Maksim would notice within minutes. Zakhar would have tracked the timeline. Alexei would feel the wrongness in his bones.
My training kicks in. What I've preached to dozens of women over the years. Always memorize a phone number in case you need to ditch your mobile. Always have a backup plan. Always prepare for the worst-case scenario.
Ramiz has stopped shooting.
I can hear him on the other side of the door. Breathing. Waiting. Planning his next move like this is a game and I'm the prize.
I dial the number I know by heart.
The line rings.
Please.
"Speak." Zakhar's clipped voice.
Another gunshot. The door shudders in its frame. Wood groans.
"Zakhar?" My voice doesn't sound like mine. Too raw. Too desperate.
"Victoria?" The shift is immediate. His voice rough with recognition and alarm. "Where are you?"
"I'm here." My voice cracks on the simple words. "Maison Lyra. Ladies bathroom. Ramiz is shooting at the door and I don't know how much longer it will hold."
"Victoria." His voice is different now. Stripped of its usual steady calm. The anchor I've learned to lean on without realizing it. The foundation I've come to trust.
His voice is shaking.
Zakhar doesn't shake.
Zakhar is the one who stays composed when the world burns. Zakhar is the steady hand, the calm voice, the unwavering presence that makes everyone else believe things will be okay.
But his voice is shaking now.
For me.
"We're coming. Do you hear me? We're coming for you right now."
The fracture in his voice breaks what's left of my composure.
He's scared. Zakhar, who never shows fear, is scared for me.
"Okay," I whisper.
The word is inadequate. Pathetic. But it's all I have.
"Hold tight." Background noise filters through. Engines. Shouting. Movement. Maksim's voice in the distance giving orders. Alexei cursing. The particular chaos of violence preparing to be unleashed. "We love you."
Three words. Simple. Direct. Impossible.
They love me.
My throat closes. Vision blurs and I press harder against the wall to stay upright. My free hand grips the vanity so tight my fingers ache.
I'm not alone anymore.
The thought is terrifying and freeing in equal measure.
I've spent years building walls. Making sure no one could get close enough to hurt me again.
But these men dismantled those walls piece by piece. Made me want things I swore I'd never want. Made me believe in safety I was certain didn't exist. Made me need them in ways that terrify me.
And now they're coming.
For me.
Another gunshot. Louder. Closer. The lock explodes inward. Metal shrieks. Wood splinters scatter across tile.
"Victoria?" Zakhar's voice sharpens. Command mixed with barely controlled panic. "Talk to me."
"I'm here." I force the words out past the tightness in my throat. "I'm still here."
"Good." His voice intimate despite the chaos. Despite the distance between us. "Stay on the line."
The door shudders again. Wood splits near the hinges. I can see faint light through the cracks now. Can see the shadow of Ramiz's body moving on the other side.
I press my back against the wall. Phone cord stretched tight. My free hand grips the vanity edge hard enough that my knuckles go white.
"They're coming," I whisper.
To myself. To the empty bathroom. To the universe that's never listened before but might be listening now.
They're coming.
Another impact. The door frame cracks. Screws pull loose from the wall. The reinforced steel groans but holds.
For now.
"Zakhar—" My voice breaks on his name.
"I know." His voice softens. Gentle in a way Zakhar rarely allows himself. "I know, solntse. Hold on. Just hold on for us."
The door splinters. Cracks. The top hinge gives way with a shriek of metal.
I close my eyes.
Count my heartbeats.
And wait.