Chapter Five
Natalia drifted through darkness that refused to settle into sleep. Every breath scraped against her ribs as though someone had filled her lungs with broken glass.
Her shoulder throbbed in dull waves, the ache pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Somewhere nearby, leather creaked. Footsteps crossed polished wood, and glass clinked against glass. She then heard the unknown voices.
Natalia froze, and her instincts exploded awake. She mustn’t move, or breathe differently. Don't let them know.
Years of conditioning overrode the panic clawing at her chest before it could take hold. Her pulse wanted to race, but she forced it slower. Every assassin learned the trick eventually. To breathe evenly, keep your muscles loose, and let whoever stood over you believe you remained unconscious.
She needed information first. Once she had that, she could plan her escape. Her survival was her priority. Natalia stayed perfectly still beneath what felt like expensive linen sheets. She inhaled deeply, sensing clean soap, wood smoke, leather and coffee.
She wasn’t in a hospital then. Besides, the bed she lay on felt too comfy, the sheets silky against her body. A house, but whose? Who had taken her here?
“I can't believe this,” came an angry male voice.
"Only you would bring your assassin home, brother,” said another exasperated male voice. This one let out a snort.
Wait, did he say home? Your assassin? Her mind immediately cataloged the words. Multiple men in the room with her, two at least, and they could both be potentially armed. It never hurt to assume the worst, in Natalia’s opinion.
The mattress shifted ever so slightly, as though someone had leaned against the foot of the bed. A third voice then spoke.
"She saved my life twice.”
That voice was low and controlled, and frustratingly familiar. Natalia's pulse skipped despite herself. She knew this third man, even though the voice was a little different, more mature. A man’s voice instead of a boy’s.
The memory came like lightning splitting open a storm.
Alexei Volkov.
The man she'd tried to kill, the very same boy who had carried her through a bloody massacre after her entire world crumbled. Alexei, he’s alive. The realization echoed through the fog clouding her thoughts.
The voices blurred again. Someone muttered something about insanity, while another laughed quietly.
A door opened, then closed. Silence returned, but Natalia remained motionless. She should have been planning. Counting exits, measuring distances, waiting until nightfall, or something remotely useful.
Instead, her exhausted mind slipped beyond her control and took her back ten years.
Sunlight spilled across polished wooden floors, and the old Morozov estate buzzed with activity.
Servants hurried through hallways carrying silver trays and crystal decanters. Guards stood at every entrance, expressions carved from stone. Somewhere downstairs, a piano played softly before someone shut the lid with a sharp thud.
Thirteen-year-old Natalia crouched outside her father's office. She balanced on the balls of her feet, pressing one ear against the heavy oak door. Inside, important voices murmured. Bratva business.
Her father always said children weren't meant to hear such things. Naturally, that made her desperately want to. She smiled to herself as she strained harder.
"...shipment arrives Tuesday..."
"...Moscow..."
"...traitor..."
Most of the conversation blurred together. Adults had an extraordinary talent for making exciting things sound impossibly boring. Still, Natalia stayed, because eventually someone might say something interesting.
"Psst."
Natalia jumped and spun around. A skinny boy peeked around the corner. He had dark hair and bright eyes dancing with amusement. Alexei.
He couldn't have been more than fourteen, though he already carried himself with the confidence of someone twice his age.
He wore expensive clothes, as usual, but his sleeves were rolled up anyway. His hair looked like he'd already been in three fights before breakfast. He crooked one finger at her, and Natalia narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
“What do you want?” Natalia said in the most haughty voice she could muster.
He pointed toward the office. "You'll get caught."
"I won’t,” she said.
"You definitely will."
"I definitely won't."
He grinned. “I give you another thirty seconds."
"I've lasted ten minutes,” she told him.
"Then your luck's about to expire."
She crossed her arms. "You always think you're right."
"I usually am,” he informed her.
She rolled her eyes so dramatically they almost hurt. "I dislike you."
"No, you don’t,” he said with a laugh.
"I really do."
"Liar."
His grin widened. "Come steal pie with me."
Her expression brightened instantly. "...Pie?"
"I knew that would convince you,” he said.
She glanced toward the office one last time. The meeting still droned on, and nothing interesting was going on. With one final sigh, she abandoned her spying mission. Alexei held out a dramatic bow as she approached him.
"My lady,” he said in his stuffiest voice.
She shoved his shoulder as she walked past. "You're ridiculous.”
“So I've been told,” he said.
The two slipped through the enormous house like practiced thieves. They knew exactly which servants looked the other way, and which corridors creaked. More importantly, she knew where the cooks cooled fresh pastries before dinner.
The kitchen smelled heavenly. Natalia’s nose detected butter, fresh bread, cinnamon, and roasted meat. One of the cooks had disappeared into the pantry, which another argued with a delivery boy near the back entrance.
This was their best opportunity. Alexei flashed her a conspiratorial look.
“You ready?” he whispered.
“Not really,” she murmured, having second thoughts.
He darted forward anyway, and Natalia had no choice but to follow. They snatched two steaming meat pies from a cooling rack.
Someone shouted.
“Hey!" Someone shouted, but they were running by then.
Both of them laughed so hard neither could breathe. They didn't stop until they reached one of the estate's gardens overlooking the river. Both collapsed onto the grass.
Alexei tore his pie cleanly in half. Without hesitation, he handed Natalia the larger piece. She frowned at him.
"You gave me the bigger half,” she pointed out.
"I know."
"You'll be hungry. Boys eat more than girls,” she said.
"I'll survive."
She accepted it anyway. "Thank you."
He shrugged as though it were nothing. "You eat too slowly,” he said after finishing his half.
"I enjoy food, unlike some impatient boys.”
He scoffed at her answer.
"I appreciate flavor,” she told him.
“Oh yeah? Let’s see, what was it you said last time? Oh hmm, this pastry has subtle notes of onion,” he said, mimicking her.
She burst into laughter. "I've never sounded like that."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You absolutely...”
She shoved him, and he shoved her back. Soon they were wrestling across perfectly trimmed grass while trying not to drop their pies. Eventually both surrendered, breathless with laughter. Alexei flopped onto his back.
"You know,” he began, giving her a thoughtful look.
“What?”
"My father says one day we'll probably end up married,” he told her.
Natalia made a face. “I’m not sure how I feel being married to you. It sounds exhausting.”
"It probably would be,” he said, pretending to look solemn.
The memory shifted sharply, like shattered glass. Natalia now heard screams, then gunfire. The first explosion rattled the entire house. Windows burst inward, and someone shouted.
"Traitor!"
Then chaos swallowed everything. Natalia remembered running into the hallway. Some members of the staff were screaming, and even now, she could see the fresh blood on the marble floors.
Guards fired wildly down corridors filling with smoke. And God, the smell. Even now, she could recall burning wood, gunpowder, and the coppery smell of blood.
Someone grabbed her arm, and she twisted free.
“No, I need to save papa!"
She ran toward his office. The massive doors hung open, revealing overturned furniture. The room looked like a battlefield. Her father's motionless body lay sprawled beside the desk. His eyes were open and a crimson stain spread beneath him. She froze.
“No, no, no,” she whispered.
A familiar lieutenant stood nearby, his pistol still smoking. He looked directly at her, and recognition flashed across his face.
“Little Natalia,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t have come in here.”
Natalia didn’t think. She ran, not stopping. If she did, she’d end up like her father. The house she'd known all her life became a maze of fire. Flames climbed curtains, beams cracked overhead. People she recognized collapsed around her.
Everything blurred through tears. She stumbled down the front steps. Someone fired behind her, and stone exploded inches from her head. She kept running, although each breath she drew from her lungs was excruciating.
She had to reach the gardens to access the gate there, which would lead her to the woods. Beyond that, she didn’t know what to do. Her foot caught on broken masonry. She pitched forward. Pain exploded through both knees, and she cried out.
She couldn't get up. Her legs simply refused to work. Footsteps thundered closer. She squeezed her eyes shut, thinking this was it. Her end, but instead, someone with strong arms scooped her off the ground.
“Natalia, thank God!” It was Alexei, and he was breathing hard.
Soot blackened one side of his face, and his shirt had blood across one sleeve. She noticed a gun was tucked in the waistband of his pants. He couldn't have weighed much more than she did, but somehow he lifted her anyway.
"I've got you,” he kept telling her.
He ran, and she clung around his neck. Behind them, the estate burned like a funeral pyre against the darkening sky. Gunfire echoed everywhere. She buried her face against his shoulder.
“Alexei, I'm scared,” she whispered. "They killed Papa.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
He kept running. His breathing grew heavier, and yet he never slowed. Eventually they reached a convoy of black vehicles hidden near the tree line. Volkov men rushed around them, and someone shouted orders.
Alexei lowered her into the back seat of one of the armored cars. She grabbed his wrist before he could step away.
“No, don’t leave me,” she said desperately.
His expression softened. "I have to. Don’t worry, I won’t be long.”
Tears spilled freely now. “Please, Alexei!”
He looked back toward the burning estate. People still screamed, and smoke climbed endlessly into the evening sky.
"I have to help,” he told her, and the determination in his eyes caught her briefly off guard.
"They'll kill you,” she said, thinking of her father’s body.
"They won't."
"They'll kill you!” Natalia repeated, not caring how crazy she sounded.
He knelt beside the open car door. His clear and steady eyes met hers. “Natalia, listen carefully. I’ll come back to you.”
"You promise?"
"I promise."
She held his hand tighter. "You swear?"
"I swear,” he said, letting her hand go gently. "Stay here, okay?”
"I don't want to be alone,” she said, subjecting him to her pleading puppy-dog eyes. It usually worked, but not this time.
"You won't be, because I’ll return to you,” he said, then smiled, just enough to reassure her.
Then he stood, turned, and ran back toward the inferno, to the burning home disappearing beneath collapsing flames. Her home. Natalia watched until he vanished. She waited, counting the seconds, minutes, and hours. She didn’t know how long she waited, but Alexei never returned.
Eventually another man opened the vehicle door, and it wasn’t one of Alexei’s men, or anyone she recognized. It was an older stranger with cold eyes the color of dirty eyes. She jerked away, and her back hit the seats. Natalia had nowhere to go.
He looked down at her, and he looked gigantic to her.
“So." His voice carried no warmth whatsoever. "You're the last Morozov."
Natalia shrank backward.
"Who are you? What do you want?” she whispered.
He smiled, and it wasn't a kind smile. "I've come to save you."
She believed him because, at thirteen, she didn't know monsters rarely announced themselves. The assassin lifted her from the vehicle.
Behind them, the Volkov convoy had already departed, leaving nothing behind except ashes. He carried her away from everything she'd ever known. Over the following years, he broke her apart piece by piece.
He taught her that trust was weakness, mercy was failure, and attachment was fatal. He sharpened grief into obedience, loneliness into discipline, and pain into precision. Eventually, the girl who laughed and enjoyed Alexei’s teasing no longer existed. Only the assassin remained.