Chapter 39 Damien
Damien
Morning comes, sharp and ugly with a downpour that makes me think the universe is sending an omen.
But I never put much stock in signs.
Buttoning up my shirt, I glance at Lidiya, still asleep in my bed, still full of my cum, still mine.
I told her the worst thing I did to her, and she still stayed with me.
Still came back to me in every way that counts.
She is still angry, upset and betrayed. But she is a big enough person to deal with it while still being able to look at me, touch me, fuck me.
For that, I am eternally grateful.
I don’t deserve her.
“You’re staring,” she mumbles.
“Just admiring what an amazing woman you are.”
“Ugh,” she spits out, cracking an eye open. “What a crap line.”
“Crap or not, it’s the truth.”
“Is that rain?”
“It is,” I say and avert my gaze back to the window. “It’s pouring down.”
“Ever been to a bloodbath in a raincoat?”
“Who says it’s going to be a bloodbath?”
“It’s my expectation. If no blood is shed, then yay. If there is, I was prepared.”
“Good mantra: always expect a bloodbath.”
“I’ll get dressed, and we can get this shitshow over.”
“You sound… less worried than you should be.”
“Who gets to decide how worried I should be? What is the bar?”
“Good point. But you say you expect a bloodbath, and then you take it lightly.”
“There is nothing light about this. I know what we are walking into.”
“Then we move fast and finish it.”
She drags herself upright, hair a riot, mouth stubborn. “Coffee first.”
“Non-negotiable,” I say, and pull on a jacket.
“How are you dressed already?”
“I didn’t sleep.”
“Not shocked.”
I smirk, but don’t elaborate. I don’t tell her I was poring over the blueprints to the Ashlar until the early hours, planning ten contingencies in case this goes tits up with no backup.
She moves across the room and disappears to the guest room, where her clothes are. Something I will have to change when all of this is over.
I holster a gun at my back, slip the knuckleduster into my inside jacket pocket, and slide a spare mag into the other. The rain hammers the glass like a crowd trying to get in.
She appears in the doorway in black leggings, an oversized tee, a puffer coat and those boots I like too much.
She looks like she is about to hit the shops, not go into the spider’s web and potentially meet her long-lost grandfather.
But I understand it. She wants to feel free to move, to run without being hindered.
Her face is pale but set. I take the stiletto from where I placed it in the bathroom and flip it once, and hand it over. “Right boot.”
She tucks it away without flinching.
I tip her chin. “Remember the rule.”
“Stay behind you,” she recites. “Stab if anyone gets close. Don’t conduct an orchestra.”
I kiss her—brief, claiming—and step back before it becomes something else. “Breakfast on the move.”
Downstairs, Marek stands with his arms folded and an expression that says he slept even less than me. “Kirill’s out cold,” he reports. “He’ll live. Don’t be heroes.”
“I’m a barracuda,” I say, taking two takeaway coffees from the counter and a brown paper bag Anton left. “Heroes die poor.”
“Romantic,” Lidiya mutters, stealing a coffee and the bag. “Got any paracetamol?”
Marek slides a strip across the island.
She pops two and guzzles them back with coffee.
We take the front door like we’ve got nothing to hide, and I open the Aston. Lidiya is inside before I’ve moved to open the passenger door. I climb in the driver’s side and hand her the bag as I slot my cup in the holder. She opens it and grabs a croissant.
“No crumbs,” I mutter as she takes a big bite, adjusting quickly so the bag can catch the crumbs. I smile to myself. She is so eager to please. “Ready?”
She nods, and I fire up the engine, steering the car out of the driveway and pointing it towards Mayfair.
We pass the crash site on the way, and it’s all been cleared up and corrected. I’m sure the police know exactly who left the scene, but it will be handled. One of the perks of having Baron Voronov as your dad.
We travel the few minutes in silence, and when I pull up outside the Ashlar, I check the rearview mirror and blink.
“What?” Lidiya looks over her shoulder at the black Range Rover that has slotted in behind me.
“We’ve had a tail since we left the house. I’m assuming it’s you-know-who.”
She swallows and quickly faces front. “I’m not ready.”
“You don’t have a choice. This is either going to be very amicable or—”
“A bloodbath and we haven’t even gone inside yet.”
I pull forward half a car length and kill the engine. The rain comes down like nails. The Range Rover moves forward, sticking to me like glue. It’s an intimidation tactic, but Stanislav Gorbachev can’t intimidate a Voronov. It doesn’t work that way.
Rain smears the windscreen into a watercolour of Mayfair money. The Ashlar’s brass plaque gleams like it knows its own importance. Two doormen under a striped awning size up the Aston, then me, then Lidiya and then the Range Rover. Orlov has heightened her security.
I open my door. Cold hits. Rain needles my face. I round the bonnet and open Lidiya’s door before she can do it herself. Habit. Possession. Security. Take your pick.
She is shaking, but she pulls up her hood against the rain, outwardly casual and composed.
We turn to face the Range Rover, and the back door opens. Moments later, an old man steps out, still spry and energetic. I don’t know what I was expecting. But probably some old, ex-KGB agent, hobbling with a cane and arthritis.
He completely ignores me; his gaze is only on Lidiya. It makes me more protective.
He moves like the rain parts for him. Tall, coat dark as a funeral, silver hair clipped neat. His eyes are pale winter, and they fasten onto Lidiya as if the rest of Mayfair ceases to exist. His man opens a dark umbrella over him as he stops a few feet away.
“Anna,” he says, soft and certain.
Lidiya draws in a breath I feel more than hear. My hand finds her hip and guides her a fraction behind me.
“My name is Lidiya,” she replies, voice steady enough to make me proud.
He takes another step. Two more men slide out of the Range Rover behind him, suits, open collars, the kind of muscle that never forgot its training. They fan, casual to the untrained eye. To mine, it spells trouble.
“Not one more step,” I say.
His gaze cuts to me for the first time. Calm. Measuring. He takes me in like I’m a line on a ledger. “Voronov.”
I give him a thorough stare, which he returns.
“I am not here for trouble. I want what was taken from my daughter.”
Lidiya chokes silently. “How do you know I’m what you want?”
He holds out his hand, and a man places an envelope in his palm. “DNA test. You shouldn’t leave your blood at crime scenes.”
She gulps loudly. “Can I ask you something?”
He frowns and tilts his head. He clearly wasn’t expecting that. “Of course.”
“Why not just snatch me? Or approach me and try to talk to me? If you believe I am who you think, why go through Orlov?”
“She was the only one who knew who you were. She facilitated the abduction. She has had a guard around you your whole life; you just never knew. You were a bargaining chip.” His voice is like ice.
“I had never seen you before you stepped on that stage on Friday night. But as soon as I saw you, so like Stasia, I knew it was you. This time, I knew.”
“She facilitated the abduction,” Lidiya whispers and looks at me, drowning in this information, but I grip her upper arm, hard, to drag her composure back. She can’t break down now.