26. Roman
ROMAN
The first man comes at me low, aiming for my legs. I sidestep and drive my elbow into the back of his neck. He goes down hard, but the second is already swinging. I catch his fist on my forearm, pain lancing up to my shoulder, and return with a hook that snaps his head back.
The third man hangs back, circling. Smart. He’s assessing, looking for an opening.
I don’t give him one.
The second attacker recovers faster than I expect, lunging forward with a grunt. I pivot, using his momentum against him, and slam him face-first into the wall. The drywall cracks. He slumps, unconscious or dead; I don’t care which.
I reach for my gun and let off two shots just in case. If they weren’t dead before, they are now. Crimson blood spreads across the hardwood floor.
Two down. More in the hallway.
I can hear them coordinating, their footsteps spreading out. They’re trying to flank me, to cut off any escape route. They don’t know about the panic room, or Vera hidden behind steel walls.
That’s the only thing keeping me focused.
The smart one, the one who was circling, makes his move. He’s got a knife now, its blade catching the light as he lunges. I twist away, feel the kiss of steel across my ribs. It’s shallow, more warning than wound even as I feel the sting.
I slam my palm into his nose. Cartilage crunches. Blood sprays. He staggers back, and I finish him with a shot to the chest.
The report echoes through the penthouse, loud enough that Vera must hear it. I try not to think about what she’s feeling right now, trapped in that room and listening to gunshots and fighting and not knowing if I’m still standing.
Focus.
I move into the hallway. The remaining four are positioned at either end, pinning me in the middle. It’s a standard tactic. It would work against someone less motivated.
I charge the pair to my left.
The element of surprise is on my side; they expected me to hunker down and wait for them to come to me.
Instead I’m on them before they can adjust, close enough that their guns become liabilities.
The first one tries to bring his weapon around; I grab his wrist and redirect, putting a bullet in his partner’s throat instead. He gurgles and drops.
The first one breaks free. I block his swing, take the hit on my shoulder, and drive my knee into his gut. When he doubles over, I put two in his chest.
Two left.
I hear them behind me, their footsteps careful now. They’ve realized this isn’t going to be as easy as they thought.
“Volkonsky.” The voice comes from the living room. Are they trying to negotiate? Cute. “This doesn’t have to end in blood. Hand over the woman and we walk away.”
I don’t bother responding. Instead I duck into the kitchen, using the island as cover. My ribs are screaming where the knife caught me, blood seeping through my shirt. I need to end this fast.
The first one rounds the corner and I’m ready. I grab him by the arm and use his own momentum to slam him into the granite countertop. He hits hard enough to crack the stone. Before he can recover, I snap his neck.
The last one is smarter. He’s positioned himself behind the couch, using it as cover. I can see the top of his head and the barrel of his gun.
“Last chance,” he calls out. “You’re bleeding out, Volkonsky. How long do you think you can keep this up?”
Long enough.
I grab the dead man’s gun, a compact Glock, lighter than mine, and roll across the open floor. He fires, misses. I come up shooting and catch him twice in the chest.
He drops.
Silence.
I stand there for a moment, breathing hard, my ears ringing from the gunfire. The penthouse is destroyed and there’s blood pooling on the hardwood floors. I know without checking that they are all Anton’s men.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out with bloodstained fingers.
Lev. Safe house secured. Waiting for you.
I type back: On our way.
Then I walk to the panic room door and punch in the code.
Twenty minutes later, we’re on the road to the safe house, leaving the bloodshed behind us.
Vera hasn’t spoken since I pulled her out of the panic room. She looks at me, at the blood on my clothes, and her face goes pale. She doesn’t scream. Instead, she follows me out to the car, her hand gripping mine so tightly I think she might break my fingers.
She sits in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the dark countryside passing by. I keep my eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console between us.
She hasn’t asked if I’m okay. I think she already knows the answer.
The safe house appears on the horizon after forty minutes of driving. It’s a huge fortress-like estate hidden behind rolling hills and dense forest. It was my grandfather’s hunting lodge, once. Now it’s been retrofitted with enough security to withstand a siege.
Lev is waiting at the gate when we pull up. His eyes move over the car, then over me, cataloging the damage.
“Inside,” he says. “Medic’s already set up.”
I nod and park the car. Vera climbs out on unsteady legs, and I resist the urge to reach for her. She needs space right now. I understand that.
The interior of the safe house is warm, lit by low lamps and a fire crackling in the massive stone fireplace. My security team is spread throughout the main room, their weapons close at hand. They watch us enter, their expressions grim.
This is what we’ve come to. Armed guards in a fortress, waiting for the next attack.
“Sit down,” I tell Vera, guiding her toward the couch. “The medic will look at you in a minute.”
“I’m fine,” she says, though she looks very far away. “You’re the one who’s bleeding.”
“I’ve had worse.”
She looks at me then, though she doesn’t hold my gaze for long. “That’s not comforting,” she says, and her voice drips with sarcasm.
Before I can reply, the medic appears at my elbow. She’s a stocky woman with gray-streaked hair and steady hands. I’ve known Yelena for fifteen years. She’s patched me up more times than I can count.
“Sit,” she says, pointing to a chair. “Shirt off.”
I do as she says, stripping off my ruined shirt and dropping it on the floor. Vera’s sharp intake of breath tells me the wound looks worse than it feels.
Yelena probes the gash on my ribs, her fingers efficient and impersonal. “Shallow,” she pronounces. “Needs cleaning and butterfly strips, not stitches. You got lucky.”
“I usually do.”
She snorts and reaches for her supplies. As she works, cleaning the wound and taping it closed, I turn my attention to Vera.
“Tell me what you heard,” I say.
She blinks. “What?”
“In the panic room. You were in there for a while, and there are speakers connected to the hallway. Tell me what you heard.”
Her jaw tightens. “You want me to recount how you killed seven men?”
“I want to know if they said anything. Names or locations. Anything that might tell us more about who sent them.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her eyes drifting to the fire. Then, “I think they mentioned Anton.”
My blood runs cold. “You think?”
“I’m not sure. They were speaking Russian, and I couldn’t understand most of it. But I heard his name. At least I think it was his name.”
“What exactly did you hear?”
She closes her eyes for a second, trying to remember. “One of them said something about Anton wanting it done tonight. That there wouldn’t be another chance.”
Yelena finishes with my ribs and moves to the smaller cuts on my face and hands. I barely notice her working.
“Anything else?”
She hesitates. “I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to think when you’re panicking.”
“You’re safe, that’s the main thing.”
She shakes her head. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“They weren’t just there for you,” I say. “They were there to eliminate witnesses. Clean up loose ends.”
Vera’s face goes pale again. “They were going to kill us both.”
“Yes.” I don’t sugarcoat it. There’s no point. “Anton doesn’t leave survivors.”
Yelena finishes with the last bandage and steps back. “You’ll live,” she says. “Try not to get into any more fights tonight.”
I nod my thanks and reach for a clean shirt that Lev must have left out. As I pull it on, I catch Vera watching me. Her eyes are still wide, but there’s something else there now. Something harder.
“What happens now?” she asks.
I meet her gaze. “Now we go to war.”
Vera doesn’t flinch.
“Anton made his move,” I continue. “He sent men into my home, tried to take you by force. That’s not a political maneuver. That’s an act of war.”
“Konstantin?” she asks. “Is he involved?”
“I don’t know.” It’s the honest answer. “My father plays a long game. He might be using Anton as a proxy, or he might be just as surprised by this as we are. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Anton needs to be dealt with.”
“Dealt with how?”
I don’t answer, but I don’t need to. Vera’s smart. She knows what I’m saying.
She stands abruptly, crossing to the window. Her back is to me, her shoulders rigid. “I used to think Dmitri was the worst thing that could happen to me,” she says quietly. “Now I’m married to another man who speaks of killing like it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” I stand too, moving toward her. “It’s necessary for our own safety. There’s a difference between senseless violence and defending your life.”
“Is there?”
I stop a few feet behind her. “Anton will keep coming, Vera. He’s already proven that. He won’t stop until he has what he wants, and he won’t hesitate to kill anyone who stands in his way. Including me. Including our child.”
Our child. The words feel strange in my mouth, but right too. Vera’s hand drifts to her stomach. “So what do we do?” she asks.
“We do what’s necessary.” I step closer, close enough to see the tension in her shoulders and the way she’s holding herself rigid. “I’m going to find Anton, and I’m going to end this. Once and for all.”
She turns then, and her eyes are dry but fierce. “What do I do while you’re off playing soldier?”
“You stay here, and stay safe.”
“So I’m a princess locked in a tower?”
“This isn’t up for discussion.” My voice is harder than I intend, but I don’t soften it. “I nearly lost you once tonight. I’m not going to lose you again.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nods.
“Fine. For tonight.”
I pull her into my arms, holding her tight against my chest. She’s still rigid at first, but after a moment she relaxes into me. Her face presses against my shoulder.
“I was so scared,” she whispers. “In that room, not knowing if you were alive or dead. I’ve never been that scared.”
“I know.” I press my lips to her hair. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
We stand there for a long moment, the fire crackling in the hearth. Outside, the night sky is dark.
Here in this room, with Vera in my arms, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Purpose.