17. Aleksandr
ALEKSANDR
The moment they put their hands on her, something inside me goes absolutely feral.
It isn’t rage alone that propels me forward, it’s instinct. Something older than strategy, older than reason. A honed reflex that recognizes a single, unacceptable truth—that they are taking what is mine.
I don’t think as I run after them.
Officials begin shouting orders, security scrambling to herd guests back to their seats to get them under control like frightened sheep.
The press surges forward like vultures sensing fresh meat, their camera flashes exploding in rapid succession, blinding white strobes that turn the ballroom into a war zone of light and shadow.
Phones are already up, live streams flickering to life, captions already writing themselves.
Scandal at Military Gala—Decorated General’s Daughter Accuses Father of Corruption.
None of it matters.
My vision tunnels to the exact spot on stage where Katerina had been dragged off moments before by four uniformed officers who thought they could manhandle her like cargo.
I shove through bodies without apology, shoulder-checking a rear admiral who stumbles sideways with an indignant yelp, elbowing past a cluster of reporters who try to block my path.
“Clear a path,” I snarl into the comms. “Now.”
My guards respond instantly—the familiar, clipped cadence of men who’ve followed me through worse than this.
“Alpha team moving to stage left.”
“Bravo cutting through the east corridor.”
“Perimeter vehicles are at the service exit.”
Fuck, they’re leaving.
I take the stairs up to the stage two at a time, boots slamming against polished wood. I catch the flash of Ramil disappearing behind the heavy black curtain at the far right side, his posture rigid as he’s escorted away.
Hands seize me from behind, yanking on my jacket hard enough to wrench my shoulder.
Ramil’s men. I recognize the arrogance in their technique immediately. The assumption that this glittering, civilian-filled setting protects them from consequences, that I’ll restrain myself just because there are a hundred pairs of eyes around to witness, will always be their downfall.
The first man earns a shattered nose before he can finish lifting his hand to speak into the comms unit at his hip. Cartilage crunches under my knuckles, blood sprays in a bright arc across the stage floor.
He howls, staggering back, but I’m already moving again.
The second goes down with my elbow slammed into his throat, larynx collapsing under the blow as air whistles out in a strangled wheeze. He drops to his knees clutching his neck.
The third manages to land a glancing blow on the side of my face, but it’s nothing that knocks me back.
My enforcers storm the stage behind me like a black tide, tackling him to the ground before he can follow through with a second strike.
The impact of bodies hitting the floor reverberates through the boards beneath my boots.
I don’t stop to look.
I turn and sprint off stage, shoving through the heavy velvet curtain into the dim service corridor beyond.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the smell of industrial cleaner and old grease hangs in the air.
My footsteps pound as I follow the trail, the faint echo of men barking out orders up ahead.
I burst out of the venue’s rear service door right as a black SUV peels away from the curb, tires screaming against wet asphalt. Slush-like rain has started to come down, turning the alley into a wet mess.
Two of the venue’s security team have been left behind, turning toward the sound of the door slamming open behind them.
I’m in motion without hesitation.
My hand finds the grip of the Glock holstered at my hip. Muscle memory takes over as I draw, sight them both, and fire off two controlled double-taps. The first man jerks once, crimson blooming across his white dress shirt before he collapses onto the ground.
The second spins away, reaching for the weapon at his hip, but my second pair of bullets catches him dead center in the chest. He staggers back two steps before hitting the brick wall of the alleyway.
He slides down, leaving a dark smear behind him.
Blood pools beneath both bodies, mixing with rainwater, spreading in thin rivulets toward the storm drain.
The SUV’s taillights are already shrinking in the distance.
I don’t waste breath cursing.
I sprint toward the nearest vehicle—the other SUV left behind—and slide behind the wheel. The engine roars under my foot the second I push it into gear and drive.
Rain lashes the windshield as I tear down to the main road, my headlights cutting through the night.
My phone is already in my hand, hitting the direct line to my surveillance team.
I need eyes in the sky, traffic cams, every license plate reader pulled between here and wherever the hell she’s being taken.
If they hurt her, there will be no place on Earth that will protect those men, or Ramil Borchin, from me.
The streets blur as I push harder on the gas pedal, ignoring the horns and shouts and the very real risk of exposure. I don’t care about consequences at this point. Adrenaline drowns out everything else. Malyshko can punish me however he wants once this is all over and I have her back.
The city becomes a blur of lights and sharp turns as I follow the SUV, reckless speed eating up distance until I’m directly behind them.
Another vehicle cuts in hard from the side, forcing me to swerve to avoid hitting them, then another behind me.
Ramil’s men move with grim efficiency, boxing me in with practiced coordination.
Gunfire cracks through the night, shattering the back windows and ripping through my windshield.
I duck instinctively as another shot grazes the hood, sparks exploding as soon as it hits.
I jerk the wheel just in time to avoid being clipped, tires screaming as I fishtail across two lanes.
A second car rams into my rear quarter panel hard enough to nearly send me spinning.
For a split second, I feel the world tilt dangerously.
I force the tires back onto the road through sheer will, slamming the accelerator down and threading through traffic that has no idea death is about to unfold between stoplights.
Another volley of bullets erupts as a car pulls up right behind mine. This time, I can’t dodge fast enough. A round punches through the back window, showering the interior with glass. I taste blood in my mouth but I don’t care.
The car ahead takes a sharp turn that I can’t follow in time without plowing directly into oncoming traffic. I hesitate for half a heartbeat and that’s all it takes.
They vanish.
I slam on the brakes several blocks later, tires screaming in protest as the car skids to a halt.
My chest heaves, breath coming in and out of me in uneven pulls.
My hands are locked white-knuckled around the steering wheel, the engine ticking angrily beneath the hood, overheated metal snapping and cooling in the sudden stillness.
I stare out the windshield.
The car is gone. And with it, Katerina.
Something tightens in my chest, eclipsing even the fear I felt the second those men grabbed her. I’ve lost men before… I’ve lost territory through unavoidable disputes. I’ve buried both of my parents by the time I turned thirty-five.
This isn’t like that at all.
I’ve fought wars and dismantled enemies piece by piece. I’ve stared down men who believed themselves to be untouchable and proven them wrong at every turn.
But this… this is different.
This is my heart being ripped clean out of my chest.
By the time I pull up outside Sasha Sokolov’s home, the adrenaline pumping through me has finally burned itself out of my system, leaving only hollowed pain behind.
“Let me in,” I say to the guards down at the front gate.
Both of them frantically scramble to open it. I drive up the second they’re parted wide enough to fit the SUV through.
My hands are slick with blood, though I don’t know from where, by the time I park the car in front of the house.
It’s smeared across the steering wheel, streaked down the front of my shirt, dark and tacky against my hand when I lift it to my ribs.
The SUV looks like it drove straight through hellfire with how badly it’s been marred.
It mirrors me perfectly.
I get out and stumble on my feet. The blood loss has made me lightheaded, my limbs harder to coordinate to get me to the front doors. By the time I manage to make it to them, they’re being pulled open.
Sokolov freezes the moment he sees me. For a long moment, he just stares at me. Not at my face, but at the blood rapidly coloring my shirt.
“Jesus Christ. What the fuck happened?” is all I hear him say before everything around me goes dark.
When I come to again, the world returns in fragments.
The low hum of fluorescent lights overhead is what I notice first, then the sharp, metallic tang of blood and antiseptic on my tongue. My side throbs like someone has driven a railroad spike straight through my ribs and left it there.
I’m sprawled on my back across what must be Sokolov’s kitchen island.
The cold granite under my shoulders sends a shiver rolling down my spine.
My jacket has been removed, my shirt sliced open from collar to hem.
A halogen work lamp has been dragged over, its beam mercilessly bright, pinning me in place like an insect on a board.
Sasha stands beside me, sleeves rolled to his elbows and a pair of medical gloves on his hands.
He’s working in silence that comes from having done this too many times.
A pair of surgical pliers glints in his right hand, slick with red.
His left hand presses a folded gauze pad against the entry wound just below my lowest rib.
The steady pressure sends fresh fire racing up my spine.
I try to breathe through it.