Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
T he sound of Mikhail’s gun rings in the enclosed space of the ironworks.
My ears are instantly full of a high, sharp whine, the yellow halogen lamp overhead flickering as concrete dust rains down from the ceiling. I’m on my hands and knees on the cold, gritty floor, the scent of sulfur and old grease burning my throat.
"Stay down!" Mikhail roars. His voice is a rough, violent command as he steps over me, his broad shoulders completely blocking my view of the table.
Before I can answer, the double doors at the far end of the warehouse blast inward with a deafening boom .
The metal hinges tear out of the brickwork, and the air is suddenly full of tactical lights, smoke, and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of automatic gunfire.
Konstantin’s men are in, their black gear turning them into shadows moving through the haze.
"Sergei!" Boris screams from somewhere behind the table. "Get the boy out!"
My head snaps toward the rear of the room.
Through the smoke, I see Sergei’s hand tightening on Oleg’s hoodie, dragging the boy toward the heavy iron door.
Oleg is stumbling, his small sneakers sliding on the wet concrete, his face twisted in a look of pure, unadulterated terror.
He’s not crying. He looks too scared to cry.
No. Not again. You are not taking him from me again.
"Irina, no!" Mikhail shouts, reaching for my arm, but I’m already moving.
I push off the concrete, my shoes finding purchase on the slick floor. I sprint toward the rear door, my eyes fixed entirely on my son.
A bullet hits the concrete three feet to my left, spraying sharp stone chips against my cheek. I don't stop. I don't even flinch.
"Sergei!" I scream, my voice a ragged, desperate screech that tears at my throat. "Let go of him!"
Sergei looks up, his eyes wide as he sees me coming.
He reaches into his jacket, his hand moving toward his gun, but before he can pull it, the glass window of the office above us shatters in a rain of glittering shards.
A burst of gunfire from one of Konstantin’s men hits the wall behind Sergei, the brick turning to red powder.
Sergei flinches, dropping his grip on Oleg to shield his head from the falling glass.
I don't hesitate. I dive forward, my body leaving the ground, and I tackle Oleg.
We hit the concrete hard. I wrap my arms around his small torso, pulling him tight against my chest as we roll behind the heavy metal base of an old iron press. The impact jars my shoulder, a sharp pain radiating down my arm, but I don't care. I’ve got him.
I pull him into the hollow space beneath the machinery, my back pressed against the cold cast iron, my body completely shielding his from the room.
He’s shaking. He’s vibrating so violently I can feel his bones rattling against my ribs.
I reach up, my hands framing his small face, my fingers tangling in his golden-brown hair.
He smells like cheap lavender soap, damp wool, and fear.
He’s so small. So incredibly small. For seven years, he’s been a ghost in my head, a photo in a file, but right now, he is warm, solid, and breathing.
"Oleg," I sob, my tears dripping onto his pale cheek. "Oleg, look at me. Look at my face, baby."
The boy stares at me, his blue eyes wide and dark with a panic that makes my chest feel like it’s being ripped open. "W-Who... who are you? Please don’t hurt me…”
"I'm your mom," I say, the words coming out in a broken, wet gasp. I’ve waited so long to say those words, and saying them now, while the air is full of lead and concrete dust, feels like the only real thing in the world. "I'm your mom, Oleg. I’ve been looking for you for so long. I’ve got you. I’m not letting anyone touch you. "
"My mom died," he stammers, his small hand clutching my black sweater. "My father said she died in a car."
"He lied to you, baby," I say, pulling him closer until his face is buried in my neck. I can feel his small breaths, fast and hot, against my skin. "I'm right here. I’m never leaving you again. Just hold onto me. Please.”
A shadow falls over the gap in the machinery.
I freeze, my hand instinctively reaching for the heavy iron wrench lying on the floor beside the press. I pull Oleg behind my back, my jaw set, ready to fight with my bare teeth if I have to.
Mikhail slides down beside us.
He looks like a demon. His suit jacket is torn at the shoulder, his face splattered with soot and another man's blood, his blue eyes wild and burning. He’s holding his gun, his chest heaving under his black shirt.
"Are you hit?" he growls, his gaze scanning my body, then dropping to the boy.
"We’re fine," I pant, my hand still clutching Oleg’s blue sweater.
Mikhail looks at the boy. Oleg looks back at him, his small fingers tightening in my sweater. Mikhail reaches out, his large, scarred hand coming down to rest on the boy's head for a brief, heavy second.
"Keep him down," Mikhail says, his voice dropping into a rough, protective register. "The room is almost clear, but Boris is trying to slip out the side. I’m going after him."
He stands up, stepping out from behind the press, and fires two shots over the metal barrier to suppress a guard who was trying to flank our position. The guard drops, and Mikhail sprints toward the side exit where my father’s gray overcoat just disappeared into the dark hallway.
"Oleg," I say, turning back to the boy. "Listen to me. You stay right here. Under this metal. Don't move, don't look, and don't make a sound. Do you understand me?"
"Where are you going?" he asks, his voice trembling.
"I have to help him," I say, kissing his forehead. "I'll be right back. I promise you."
"Don't leave," he whispers.
"I'm not leaving you," I say, my voice turning hard. "Just stay down, okay? I’ll be back."
I crawl out from under the press, keeping low.
The main room of the ironworks is a graveyard now.
Three of Boris’s guards are down on the concrete, while two more are being held at gunpoint by Konstantin’s men.
The smell of gun smoke is thick as fog, the blue-gray haze drifting under the halogen lamp.
I sprint toward the side hallway, silently.
The hallway is dark, smelling of rot and wet brick. I can hear the sound of a struggle from the storage room at the far end—the heavy, wet thud of fists against flesh and the sharp clink of metal against concrete.
I reach the doorway and freeze.
Mikhail and Boris are on the floor. My father has lost his silver-headed cane, his gray overcoat torn and covered in dust, but he’s fighting with the desperation of a cornered rat. He has his hands wrapped around Mikhail’s throat, his thumbs digging in, trying to choke the life out of him.
Mikhail is grunting, his face turning a dark, dangerous red, his bruised ribs clearly making it hard for him to find his leverage. But he’s not done. He brings his knee up, slamming it into Boris’s side with a force that makes my father let out a sharp, wet gasp.
Boris’s grip loosens, and Mikhail yanks his head back, slamming his forehead directly into Boris’s nose.
The sound of bone breaking is loud in the small room. Boris screams, blood spraying from his nose as he rolls away, his hands flying to his face. Mikhail scrambles to his knees, spitting blood onto the concrete, his chest rising and falling in ragged, painful drafts.
"You... you bastard," Boris gasps, rolling onto his side, his hand reaching toward the dark corner of the floor where a black revolver is lying in the dust. "You think you've won? The boy is just a piece of paper I own! You think the Bratva will accept a bastard? She’s a ruined whore, Mikhail! She’s a mistake that should have stayed buried! "
"Shut your mouth," Mikhail growls, stepping toward him, his boot coming down hard on Boris’s wrist before he can reach the gun.
The bone in Boris’s wrist snaps with a dull crack . He screams, his head thudding back against the concrete, but with his good hand, he pulls a small, silver-plated derringer from his boot. He doesn't aim at Mikhail. He aims toward the door.
He aims at me.
"Irina!" Mikhail roars.
I don't think. I don't hesitate. I lunge into the room, my body hitting my father’s shoulder with all the weight I have. We hit the concrete together, the small gun firing with a sharp, high-pitched pop that sends a bullet into the brick wall above my head.
I grab his wrist, my nails digging into his skin, trying to twist the weapon out of his hand. He’s old, but he’s strong, his fingers clenching around the grip with a desperate, dying strength. He looks at me, his eyes dark with a pure, unadulterated hatred that I’ve seen my whole life.
"You ruined everything," he spits, his blood staining his teeth. "You spoiled asset."
"I'm not your asset, Papa," I hiss, my jaw set, my hands locking around his. "I’m your daughter. And I’m the one who’s putting you down."
I yank his wrist back, pinning his hand to the concrete. It’s the split second Mikhail needs.
Mikhail steps over us, his large boot coming down on Boris’s throat, pinning him to the floor. He aims his gun directly down at my father's chest.
"Mikhail, wait!" a voice rasps from the doorway.
I look up. Vladimir Morozov is standing there. He looks weak, his hand shaking as he aims a silver automatic at Mikhail’s back. "Don't do it, Mikhail. If you kill him, the Petrovs will turn on us. We need the alliance. We need the name."
Mikhail doesn't look back. He keeps his gun aimed at Boris’s heart. "The alliance is dead, Father. And so are you."
A single shot echoes through the hallway from behind him.
Vladimir freezes. His eyes go wide, a small, dark red circle blooming on the front of his gray coat. He looks down at his chest, then turns his head slowly to look at the man standing in the smoky doorway.
Artyom is standing there, his head still bandaged, his face pale and completely unreadable. He’s holding his gun, the barrel still smoking in the cool air of the hall.
"You retired, Father," Artyom says, his voice a quiet, flat rasp that carries the cold finality of the Pakhan. "You should have stayed in the country."
Vladimir lets out a wet sigh and collapses forward, hitting the concrete with a heavy thud. He doesn't move.
Mikhail looks at Artyom, then looks back down at Boris. My father is staring up at the gun, his breathing shallow, his face a pale mask of fear. He knows it’s over. He has no more tricks, no more leverage, no more daughters to trade.
"Mikhail," I say quietly, my hand releasing Boris's wrist. I stand up, stepping back, leaving him completely to my husband. "Do it."
Mikhail pulls the trigger.
The shot is loud, a final, heavy punctuation mark on seven years of silence. Boris’s body jerks once, then goes completely still, his eyes staring blankly at the dark ceiling of the ironworks.
I let out a long, shaky breath, the air leaving my lungs in a rattle that sounds like relief. He’s gone. The man who owned my childhood, the man who stole my son, the man who made me a ghost... he’s just a pile of wet gray wool on a dirty concrete floor.
Mikhail turns to me. He’s covered in blood, his face bruised, his chest heaving, but the 'Madman' in his eyes is gone. There is only a quiet, deep warmth as he looks at me. He reaches out, his hand wrapping around mine, his grip solid and hot.
"Let's go get our boy," he says.