Chapter 29 Inessa #2
The accusation pushes her past any remaining control.
She lunges toward the antique desk, yanking open a drawer to reveal a chrome pistol.
Her hands shake as she points it at my chest, but her eyes burn with absolute conviction.
"I would rather kill you than lose you again," she says, voice dropping to deadly quiet.
"If I can't save you from what you've become, then I'll save you from what you're becoming."
Her logic is twisted, but I can see she means every word.
In her diseased mind, murdering me would constitute mercy, sparing me from further corruption.
"You won't pull that trigger," I tell her, though certainty eludes me.
"Won't I? Look what they've made of you. You're married to St. Petersburg's most dangerous criminal. I'd be doing the world a favor."
The gun wavers in her grip, but her finger stays on the trigger.
She's working herself toward the decision to fire, convincing herself that killing me represents the right choice.
"Put the weapon down and we'll discuss this rationally."
"No more discussion. No more chances for you to choose wrongly. You've picked your side, and it isn't mine."
Tears stream down her face, but her resolve appears to strengthen rather than weaken.
"I should have done this years ago. Should have taken you away from your father before he could fill your head with lies."
I edge closer, keeping my eye on the weapon.
She's not trained like a professional.
If I can get within reach, disarming her becomes possible.
But I'll have to control my racing heart if I want to live.
"You want to know the real truth about your precious father?" she asks, keeping the gun trained on my chest.
"He didn't cast me out because of theft.
He exiled me because I had ambition. I wanted to do more with my life."
"So you decided murder was the appropriate response?"
"I decided to become whatever was necessary to protect my child. But you're no longer a child, and you've made your final choice."
Her grip on the weapon steadies.
She's going to shoot.
I can read it in her posture, in the way her body prepares for recoil.
I have only a split second to react to her change in stance, and my body lurches before I can finish thinking through what I must do.
I throw myself sideways as the gun fires, the bullet shattering the window where I stood moments before.
Glass cascades downward as I roll behind the sofa, using it for cover while she adjusts her aim.
"You can't escape this," she calls, and she seems eerily calm now.
"I know every corner of this room. There's nowhere to hide."
The second shot punches through the leather near my head, stuffing exploding in all directions.
She's correct about knowing the space but wrong about my intentions.
I'm not hiding.
I'm positioning myself for counterattack.
The vodka glass sits on the bar within reach.
Moving quickly, I grab it and hurl it at her head with all my strength.
She ducks instinctively, giving me the opening I need to charge forward.
We collide near the desk, both fighting desperately for control of the weapon.
She's older but fueled by years of rage and delusion. But my age doesn't diminish my rage or desperation.
The gun discharges again, the bullet embedding in the ceiling as we struggle.
Her fingernails rake across my face, drawing blood, while I drive my knee toward her ribs hard.
We crash into the desk, papers and objects scattering and falling to the floor.
"You ungrateful little bitch," she snarls, trying to angle the gun toward my head.
"I should've strangled you at birth rather than waste years loving you."
All pretense vanishes now.
There's no maternal warmth, no fake concern, just pure hatred for the daughter who dared reject her diseased version of love.
I slam her wrist against the desk edge repeatedly, trying to break her grip on the weapon.
She screams but holds on, bringing her free hand up to claw at my eyes with her fingernails.
We're both bleeding now, both reduced to feral desperation.
I manage to wrap my fingers around the gun barrel, twisting despite the heat from recent firing that burns my palm.
She pulls the trigger reflexively, but I've angled the weapon away from both our bodies.
The struggle becomes purely about physical strength now.
Whoever gains control lives.
Whoever loses dies.
The gun tears free suddenly, spinning away from both of us to clatter across the floor.
We both lunge simultaneously, crawling and scrambling.
But I reach it first, fingers closing around the grip.
When I turn, she's already moving toward me, face distorted with rage and desperation.
"Give me that weapon," she demands, as if I'm still a child who obeys maternal authority without question.
But Batya taught me how to shoot, and Yuri taught me how to trust my instincts.
"You don't know what you’re doing," she hisses.
"I understand exactly what I'm doing," I tell her.
She stops, finally recognizing that power has shifted completely, and genuine fear creeps into her expression.
"You won't shoot your own mother," she says, and the sickly-sweet tone pulses back into her voice instantly.
"You were going to kill me."
My hands don’t even shake as I take a step forward.
"Inessa, please…"
"You orchestrated the deaths of my father and my fiancé. You poisoned my closest friend. You've repeatedly tried to destroy everyone I care about."
Shaking my head, I narrow my eyes at her.
"You've earned exactly what you're about to receive."
Terror replaces arrogance in her features.
She's finally understanding that the daughter she tried to control has become someone capable of ending her life without hesitation.
"Please," she whispers.
"I'm still your mother."
"No. You're the woman who gave birth to me. I have no mother."
The first shot hits her center mass, spinning her backward toward the shattered windows.
She staggers but remains upright, staring down at the spreading crimson stain with disbelief.
"You can't," she gasps, pressing her hand to the wound. A choked sound gurgles up before she says, "I'm all the family you have left in this world."
"I have a husband who would burn cities to protect me. That's more family than you ever provided."
The second shot hits her stomach, doubling her over in agony.
She collapses to her knees as blood blossoms into a kidney shape on the floor beneath her.
She's clutching her chest and stomach, gasping for air.
Her words are barely audible.
"Look what you've become," she whispers.
"Look what they've turned my beautiful daughter into."
The third shot ends her forever, and I don't even hesitate to take it.
They can lock me up and throw away the key forever, but I am free now.
She will never hurt me again.
I stand over the corpse, feeling no satisfaction, only relief.
My hands tremble as I lay the weapon on the desk, and faintly, I hear my phone ringing, but I'm lost in a hollow numbness I can't snap myself out of as I stare at her dying.
When the elevator opens and Yuri emerges, he absorbs the scene with a single glance.
Shattered glass, overturned furniture, a bleeding corpse.
He rushes to me, pulling me into his arms.
"Are you injured?" he asks.
"No."
I'm still numb, still feeling cold hatred.
"But I'm not okay."
Turning, I bury my face in his chest and breathe him in.
Tears refuse to come, but I know this is over.
He'll call whoever he has to call to clean it up or bury it, and I will go home to his compound where I'll feel the heaviness of having lost everyone I ever knew.
But it's over.
And I am safe.