Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Kirill
The moment Milana sees me step into the apartment, she makes a grab for a knife on the kitchen counter and points it straight at me. Her hand is shaking, but her eyes are wide with fear. Real fear.
It breaks something in me.
She shouldn’t be scared of me. I would never hurt her. But right now, she doesn’t know that. And I don’t blame her. After what she’s found out, she has every reason to think I’m the monster in the room.
“Stay back,” she says, voice trembling but determined. “Don’t come any closer.”
The goon beside me shifts, confused. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Shut up,” I snap at him, keeping my eyes on Milana.
I take a slow step forward, hands raised. “Milana, calm down. I can explain. Just put the knife down and let’s talk.”
She shakes her head, gripping the knife tighter.
“Explain? You’ve been lying to me this whole time.
You made me believe you were Ilya. You lied to my family.
Meanwhile, you had the real Ilya chained up in the basement like an animal.
How could you? What is your end game? What do you want from me?
From my family? Are you working with Michael? Who the hell are you?”
The goon swears under his breath. “What the fuck? She knows everything?”
He starts reaching for his gun. “We have to take her to Michael. Change of plans. We’re taking her now.”
“No,” I growl. “We are not taking her to Michael. That is not the plan.”
“Just so you know, the police are already on their way,” she shouts, her voice trembling.
Fuck, baby. You shouldn’t have said that. Now you’ve given this idiot an idea.
The goon’s eyes are wild. “She knows too much. She called the fucking police. We have to get rid of her.”
“No, we're not doing that!”
He doesn’t listen. Instead, he raises his gun, disengages the safety, and aims it at Milana.
Time slows.
I move without thinking, slamming my hand into his arm and knocking the gun off target.
The shot cracks through the apartment. Instead of hitting Milana, the bullet tears into the real Ilya, who’s still slumped against the kitchen counter.
He cries out as he crumples to the floor. The bastard swings the gun back toward Milana, intent on finishing the job.
I don’t give him the chance. I draw my own weapon and fire twice. He drops to the floor, the gun slipping from his hand.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I turn to Milana. She’s fine. Unharmed. Relief floods through me so strongly it almost knocks me off my feet. I rush toward her.
“Don’t come any closer,” she says, voice shaking as she steps back, knife still raised.
I stop dead in my tracks.
The betrayal, fear, and hurt in her eyes gut me more thoroughly than any bullet ever could.
She’s rattled, terrified. And it breaks something in me. I would never hurt her. But right now, she doesn’t know that.
“Baby, I’m not going to hurt you.”
A wounded groan comes from the floor. Milana rushes to Ilya’s side, dropping to her knees and pressing a kitchen towel against the gunshot wound.
Her hands shake so badly she can barely keep pressure on it. I need to know she’s okay.
“Stay away from me!” she screams when I take a step closer. “Don’t come any closer!”
I stop where I am, hands raised, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. “Milana, I’m not going to hurt you. Just… let me help.”
She keeps pressure on Ilya’s wound, tears streaming down her face. “You lied to me. Who the hell are you?”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
I’ve never apologized to anyone in my life. But for Milana, I’d say those words a thousand times over. I’d spend this lifetime, and the next, trying to earn her forgiveness if it meant I’d never have to see that look on her face again.
She looks up at me, disbelief and hurt etched across her face.
“I wasn’t bluffing when I said the police are on their way,” she says, her voice shaking. “If you have any sense, you’ll leave before they get here. Otherwise they’re going to arrest you.”
Despite everything, she’s still trying to protect me. Christ. Even now.
I shake my head. “I’m not leaving you.”
She lets out a bitter laugh, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“Don’t.” She shakes her head. “Don’t pretend you care.”
“I do care,” I say, voice low.
“You don't! Because if you did, then you wouldn't have lied to me.”
I have a lot of explaining to do, but now isn’t the time. If she really called the police like she said she did, I need to make sure we’re on the same page before they get here.
“Milana.” I take a cautious step toward her. “I know you’re hurt. I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be. I have so much to explain, but now isn’t the time. If the police are really on their way, we need to get our story straight before they get here.”
She keeps her hand pressed firmly against Ilya’s wound, refusing to look at me.
Then she laughs again, humorless this time. “The nerve,” she mutters. “The absolute nerve.”
Finally, she lifts her eyes to mine. “You lied to me. You lied to my brothers. You kidnapped an innocent man and kept him chained in a basement.” Her voice cracks. “And now you expect me to help you? After sleeping with me while pretending to be someone else?
“If you don’t leave,” she continues, “I’m telling the police everything. Every single thing. You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison.”
“You can do that,” I say evenly. “But it won’t help you.”
She stares at me.
“It won’t help your brothers either.”
Her brow furrows.
“Michael isn’t finished. This was never about you. You’re leverage. Your brothers are the real target.”
She says nothing.
“I’m the only person on the inside who knows how Michael thinks. The only one who can help stop him before he comes after your family again.” I hold her gaze. “I can’t do that if I’m sitting in a jail cell.”
She looks away.
“I know you don’t believe a word I say right now. I don’t blame you. But if you want your brothers to have a chance of winning this war, you need me.”
Silence stretches between us.
Ilya groans weakly beneath her hands. Finally, she speaks. “…Fine.”
The word is barely audible.
“What’s the story?”
I release a slow breath.
“When the police arrive, we tell them we both heard noises coming from the basement. We went down to investigate and found Ilya chained there. We brought him upstairs, and while you were trying to call 911…” I nod toward the dead gunman. “…he came after us shooting.”
Her eyes flick to the body.
“We tell them I had no choice. I returned fire. We tell them he was the one holding Ilya captive.”
She lets out another bitter laugh. “That’s a good one. How long did it take you to come up with that? Or did you just make it up on the spot?”
The jab lands. I deserve it. Instead of answering, I ask, “Do you understand?”
She doesn’t respond immediately.
Then she gives a single, reluctant nod.
“I understand.”
Just then, the wail of sirens cuts through the silence. They’re here.
Before I can think better of it, I cross the space between us. I cup her face, searching her eyes for one last second, then pull her gently to her feet. My mouth finds hers.
She freezes beneath my lips, her body going completely still.
For a heartbeat, I think she’s going to push me away. Then she lets out a shaky breath and slowly kisses me back.
The kiss is slow, lingering, an apology wrapped in everything I don’t know how to say. Regret. Relief. Fear. Hope. Every emotion I’ve spent my life burying pours into those few stolen seconds.
When I finally pull away, we’re both staring at each other, equally stunned by what just happened.
“I’ll let them in,” I murmur hoarsely.
I force myself to step back before I lose whatever resolve I have left, then cross the apartment and buzz the emergency responders into the building.
The first to arrive are the paramedics. Two of them rush straight to Ilya while another kneels beside Milana.
“Are you hurt?” the woman asks, her eyes scanning the blood covering Milana’s hands and clothes.
Milana shakes her head. “No. It’s not my blood.”
The paramedic checks her anyway, running practiced hands over her arms and shoulders.
“No visible injuries,” she says to her partner before turning back to Milana. “We’ll still need you to come with us so a doctor can examine you.”
“I’m fine.”
“We’re going to make sure.”
Behind them, another team carefully lifts a groaning Ilya onto a stretcher.
Only then do I notice the police officers entering the apartment.
Two uniforms secure the scene while a taller woman in a charcoal suit steps inside, her dark hair pulled into a severe bun. She has the kind of face that rarely smiles and eyes that miss nothing.
She introduces herself as Detective Ramirez. I watch as she studies the apartment.
The body. The blood. Me. Finally, her gaze settles on Milana.
“What happened here?”
For one agonizing second, I expect Milana to look at me and tell her everything.
Instead, she closes her eyes briefly before opening them again. Then she repeats exactly what we’d discussed. Every word.
“We'll need you both to come to the station for more questioning,” Detective Ramirez, says.
An hour later, we’re sitting in separate interview rooms at the precinct.
I have no idea what’s happening on the other side of the wall.
No idea whether Milana is still standing by the story or whether she’s finally decided to tell them who I really am.
The interview room door opens and detective Ramirez walks in carrying a thin file and a paper cup of coffee.
She sets both on the table before taking the seat across from me.
For several seconds, she says nothing. Just watches me. Trying to make me uncomfortable. I’ve spent years across tables from people much scarier than her. Silence doesn’t bother me.
Eventually, she speaks. “Walk me through it again.”
I repeat the story exactly as Milana had told her earlier.
She leans forward, eyes narrowed. “So, you expect me to believe someone who isn’t a resident of your building had access to the basement, was holding a man captive for who knows how long, and the building management had no idea?”
I meet her gaze evenly. “I don’t know what the building management knew,” I say calmly. “All I know is we heard noises sometimes when we were on our way to the gym. We finally decided to check today.
“We found him chained up. Brought him upstairs. My girlfriend called 911.”
“And while waiting for emergency services, another man burst into the apartment shooting.”
I nod. “That’s right.”
She studies me for another long beat. “You said you're a software programmer.”
“I am.”
She stares at me for a long moment. “How does a programmer just happen to be carrying a licensed firearm?”
“The firearm is legally registered to me. I have a valid concealed carry permit.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I took it with me because we were going down to the basement. I didn’t know what we’d find.”
“You shot the intruder twice.”
“I fired until the threat stopped.”
Again, silence.
She doesn’t look convinced, but she eventually nods.
“You’re free to go for now. But don’t leave town. We’re still investigating.”
I stand up. “What about my girlfriend?”
“She’s still being questioned.”
My pulse spikes. “Why?”
“We’re verifying a few things.”
“What things?”
“The routine kind.” She studies me for a moment before continuing. “Our records show she had prior contact with law enforcement in England.”
I frown. “You’re talking about the bar fight.”
“You know about it?”
“Yes.”
“We’re confirming the circumstances and making sure there are no outstanding warrants or pending matters overseas.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh.
“That’s absurd. She isn’t a fugitive.”
“I didn’t say she was.”
“What happened was a bar fight. She was questioned and released.”
“And if that’s all it was,” Ramirez replies calmly, “she’ll be released too.”
She starts toward the door. “You can head home.”
“Not without her.”
She pauses. “Suit yourself.”
I step out of the room, my mind racing. Everything is out in the open now. This is not how I wanted it to go.
Michael is going to start wondering why his goon hasn’t come back with the real Ilya. I need to act fast before this gets worse than it already is.
The fact that Milana stood by me tonight…
The fact that she repeated our account instead of exposing me… it has to mean something. I owe her the truth.
I wait in the hallway for what feels like hours until Milana finally emerges. She looks exhausted, eyes red from crying, but she walks straight past me without a word.
I follow her outside. “Hey.”
She turns to look at me, and the ice in her eyes stops me dead. For a moment, I forget what I was going to say.
“You had me worried,” I say, forcing a weak smile. “I was starting to think they’d decided to keep you overnight.”
Nothing. Not even the ghost of a smile. She just looks at me like she doesn’t recognize the man standing in front of her.
“I'm tired,” she says quietly. “Please just take me home.”
The exhaustion in her voice guts me. I step out to the curb and raise a hand. A yellow cab pulls over almost immediately.
I open the rear door for her, and when I reach out to steady her as she gets in, she recoils.
“I’m fine.” The words are clipped.
I deserve every bit of them. I let my hand fall.
I slide in beside her, leaving as much space between us as the seat allows.
The drive back to the penthouse is quiet.
I keep stealing glances at her, but she won't look at me, just stares out the window, arms wrapped around herself.
Whatever existed between us before tonight is gone.
If there’s any chance of getting even a fraction of it back, there’s only one thing left to do. Tell her everything.