25. Daniil
Daniil
Mikhail stares up at me, expression blank as he sits over our father’s body. Blood covers every inch of him, coating his hands and shirt, splattered across his face and arms. He looks like he bathed in it.
Walking into the stairwell, I close the door behind me and gape down at him and the scene in front of me. The entire street outside is lit up in red and blue through the broken window, sirens wailing, the buildings bathed in emergency lights instead of their normal colors.
He killed Roman. Our plan just went to hell. This is bad. This is so fucking bad.
Blood pours from his stomach. Did Roman stab him?
My gaze jerks to Roman’s mutilated body. His suit hangs in shreds, cut apart by the blade over and over. The wounds are brutal, deep enough that I can see the damage underneath. Torn flesh exposes the curve of ribs and the dark mess of organs spilling out.
“I told you I was going to snap one da—”
“Are you okay? Did he stab you?” I cut him off, dropping to my knees next to him.
I pull him against me, clutching him tight as a sob breaks from my chest. The blood soaks through my pants instantly, warm against my knees, and spreads further the longer I kneel there.
Pulling back just enough to look at him, I see my hands covered in red, his shirt completely drenched. The puddle beneath us keeps growing.
He stares at me like he’s trying to process what just happened. “This wasn’t our plan. What happened out there?”
“I don’t know, but we need to get out of here. We need to get you help. Right now.” My hands hover over his wounds, not sure where to touch without hurting him more. “There’s gunfire on both floors and explosions going off. Our guards tried to drag me out, but I got loose and came for you.”
Another explosion rocks somewhere in the distance, and we duck our heads instinctively, debris raining down from the ceiling above us.
“Hurry,” I say, taking his arm and pulling him up carefully.
Getting him to safety is all that matters, and having someone to look at those stab wounds, making sure he survives this.
He seems steady right now, alert and breathing, but steady doesn’t mean safe.
I need him checked, stitched up, and stable before I can breathe again.
He rises slowly, one hand pressed against his stomach where the blood is still flowing. His other hand braces against the wall for support.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
“I think so,” he says, but his voice is strained.
We make our way through the doors and slowly glance out into the VIP floor.
The entire space is empty now, completely abandoned. Some bodies lay scattered around the room, blood pooling beneath them in dark circles, but otherwise it’s clear. Gunshots echo across the entire building from somewhere below us, followed by more screaming.
“I think there are hostages downstairs,” I say, my throat tight.
“There’s an entrance over there.” He nods toward the far wall, his breathing labored. “The door is locked to the public, but we can go there because there’s another exit.”
We move across the floor as quickly as we can, weaving between overturned tables, bodies, and broken glass.
Mikhail pulls a black card from his pocket, and more blood drips from his wound onto the floor.
My nostrils flare at the sight of it. The door beeps and unlocks, swinging open to reveal an empty hallway lit only by emergency lights.
My hands stay firmly on his arm and I push him faster, trying to get us out of here before anyone finds us, or before anyone realizes what he did.
“I didn’t know, Teo! I just told you everything I know,” Yulian’s voice echoes across the hallway, and we stop, looking at each other.
“I told you not to call me that,” someone mutters back, flat.
“Make me,” Yulian says. There’s a pause. “We need to get you out of here before someone shoots at you again and I have to carry your dramatic ass out of here.”
“Can you be serious for once?” the voice says, before sighing heavily.
“I’m always serious,” Yulian insists.
“You don’t even know what that word means. We need to keep this from getting out if what you say is true.”
“Trust me, it’s true, and no one knows. Come on, let’s go before someone sees you,” Yulian says.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Then move faster.”
“I am moving. Stop trying to grab me.”
There’s a scuffle of movement, fabric rustling, a grunt.
“Yulian, I swear to god, if you don’t stop, I’m going to murder you.”
“You’ve been threatening to kill me for years, and yet here I am, alive and well. I think you like having me around.”
We follow the sound, and when I glance to the left, Yulian is talking with someone I don’t recognize at first. His black hair is medium length, curling just past his ears, and his hazel eyes lock directly onto Yulian with a pissed-off expression, his hands are wrapped around Yulian’s elbow, gripping tight.
He’s wearing a white shirt under a black bulletproof vest, tactical gear strapped across his chest.
The skin down his neck looks warped and melted, shiny in places where it healed over in thick patches. His hands are covered in similar scarring, the kind that can only come from fire. Those are definitely burn wounds. Severe ones from the look of it.
He suddenly looks over at us, and his gun snaps up, aimed directly at my head. Yulian goes pale, all the color draining from his face, and he opens his mouth and closes it, unable to form words.
I’ve seen him before in photographs our father kept. That’s Mateo Nozares. The oldest son of Santiago Nozares, our biggest enemy.
Mateo walks toward me, and Mikhail yanks my hand, trying to shove me behind him. Mateo shakes his head and aims the gun at him.
Mikhail raises his arms and backs away, too weak from the stab wounds to do anything else. Blood still seeps through his shirt. Yulian stares at us, frozen, mouth open but no words coming out. Why isn’t he doing anything?
Mateo brings his gun up under my chin, and the barrel is cold against my skin.
He forces my head back so I have to look at him.
He tilts his head, eyes locked on mine, just staring.
The seconds drag, and his expression stays unreadable, calculating, like he’s studying every detail of my face. Then something shifts.
His eyes narrow slightly, and this look crosses his face, something between curiosity and recognition.
“So it’s true.” He frowns, brows drawing together.
He keeps studying my face, that weird look still there, unsettling and intense.
Then he releases me and steps back, laughing.
The sound comes out wrong, unhinged, borderline manic.
He drags both hands down his face. “Fuck.” His gaze cuts to Yulian, and he lifts his hands over his head, gun dangling from his fingers, shaking his head slowly. “I can’t believe this.”
“Leave while you still can,” Yulian says from behind him.
“What a mess,” Mateo grits out.
Confusion crashes through me like a wave.
What are they talking about?
Mateo shakes his head, then drags his bloody thumb across his lip, eyes locked on me with an expression I can’t decipher.
“When I was a kid, I had a front-row seat watching the Avrorins tear this city from my father’s hands piece by piece.
I watched Roman Avrorin personally execute every single man my father had.
Everyone who stood in his way. Everyone who refused to bend the knee to him. ”
He tilts his head and takes another step toward me. “I had a younger brother. Adrian Nozares. My father’s bastard son from some whore he knocked up and kept hidden from everyone. But I knew about him. Knew I had a baby brother out there somewhere.”
Why does that name sound familiar?
His jaw tightens visibly. “Then Roman Avrorin found them. Killed her. Slaughtered her entire family. We received photographs. A dead toddler. Proof Adrian was dead and gone.” He’s directly in front of me now, completely invading my space.
“So, you can imagine my shock when I discovered my brother survived. Not just survived—the Avrorins took him in. Raised him as their own son.”
“That’s not true,” Mikhail says sharply.
Mateo raises his eyebrows. “It is.”
What? That’s not true. No way. This can’t be real.
Brother.
He’s my brother.
Mateo turns around and locks his eyes on Yulian. “What made the Avrorins take a Nozares baby and raise him as their own?”
I’m a Nozares.
He closes the distance between them, stepping into Yulian’s space until there’s barely any room left. “We need to set something up so we can find time to figure all of this out. We could arrange peacetime through a hostage exchange.”
Peacetime?
“Leave while you still can, Teo.” Yulian’s voice cracks on the nickname. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know until a few hours ago. We can’t talk about this here. Just go, please.”
Mateo shakes his head. “This is bad.” He backs up, hands going over his head. His burn scars down his neck gleam from the light above us.
“You have to go. Right now,” Yulian begs.
Mateo curses and turns to me. “If I’d known what they were doing to you back then, I would’ve stopped it. But I was just a kid. I’m only four years older than you… I couldn’t—”
What is he talking about?
He stares at me with an expression I can’t read and struggles to continue.
“What they did to you… Jesus. You were just a baby. So small.” He drags his hand over his jaw.
“Adrian, I’m sorry. I wish things were different.
That we’d met some other way, in some other life.
I would’ve liked knowing you. Our families have bad blood, I know that, but I—”
Yulian cuts him off. “Don’t say anything else.”
Mateo turns on him fast, bringing the gun up to press against Yulian’s forehead. “You don’t get it—”
Voices suddenly echo down the hall, loud and urgent, and Mateo’s eyes go wide.