Chapter Twenty-Four - Lukin
I’m seething.
I’m raving mad.
Someone broke into my home. My home. To hurt her. To kill my child. If I hadn’t made it in time… I don’t let the thought finish. I can’t.
I’m in the war room now, surrounded by my men who are equally angry. The room reeks of tension and rage. Gunpowder clings to my skin, metallic and bitter. The echo of that gunshot is still sharp in my head—loud enough to drown out the sound of her voice when she called me a monster.
But I don’t have time for softness right now.
This is war.
Arseny’s already laying out files, maps, coordinates on the steel table. His face is carved from stone, eyes bloodshot but alert. “The Cobra signature was on the knife at the warehouse, and again tonight,” he says. “It’s confirmed. They’re back.”
Back from the dead. Back for revenge. I killed them once, and I will do it again, this time, for good.
Adrian bursts through the door like a damn hurricane, tossing a folder down in front of us. His leather jacket’s half unzipped, his shirt bloodstained—probably not his own. He’s grinning, feral and sharp.
“I found them,” he says. “Old wine distribution building. Outside the city. They’ve built tunnels beneath it. They’re hiding like fucking rats.”
Then he switches to Russian, low and lethal: “Dava? ub’yom etikh sukin synov.” Let’s kill those motherfuckers.
No one argues. Weapons are already being prepped. Kevlar zipped. Radios checked. Orders issued in clipped tones. My fists clench. They made this personal. That was their first mistake. They’ll beg before I’m done.
The drive is silent. Too silent. No one plays music. No one jokes. Not even Adrian.
I sit in the back seat, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of road ahead, mind chewing through every angle. How they got past my gates. Who helped them. Why now.
Adrian leans forward slightly. “Is Zoe okay? The baby?”
I don’t look at him. I just nod. “They’re fine.”
But fine doesn’t feel like the right word. She looked at me tonight like I was the man who murdered her family. Maybe I am.
When we reach the building, it’s worse than I expected—old, crumbling, surrounded by forest. A skeleton of what used to be a wine distribution center, now hollowed out and rotten. We slip in through the back, the tunnel system exactly where Adrian said it’d be.
Tight. Damp. The walls weep mold. The floor smells like rot and old metal. But it leads us straight in.
We breach fast.
The firefight is immediate—like hell cracked open the moment we stepped into the light. Bullets spark off pipes and concrete. Men scream. Guns crack like thunder.
I move without thinking. Cover, aim, shoot. Again. Again. There’s no room for hesitation. No space for fear. I don’t care who they are—young, old, surrendering. They entered my war.
One of my men goes down two feet from me—face blown open, blood painting the wall. I keep moving.
I see Adrian disappear around a corner. I hear his shout. Then—crack. Crack. Crack. Six shots, six bodies.
It’s over in under ten minutes, since we had the element of surprise. When I step over the last body, I’m breathing hard. Gun still raised. There’s blood on my boots. On my gloves. In my teeth. I don’t care whose it is.
All I know is they won’t touch her again. Not Zoe. Not the baby. Not ever.
By the time I make it back home and to the bedroom, it’s well past midnight. I don’t turn on the light. I don’t need to. The blood on my shirt is still wet enough to cling, thick and sticky. I pull it off and glance down at the mess.
What will she say this time?
Monster!
I’ve been called worse—by enemies, by allies, by my own fucking father. But her voice, cracking like something raw inside her, cut through in a way nothing else ever has.
I expect to find her curled on the far side of the bed like always. Her back turned, pretending I’m not there.
But the bed is empty.
Cold.
Her things are still here. Her robe slung over the chair, her sketchbook by the window. But she isn’t.
A quiet rage coils in my chest. I check the other rooms. One by one. Methodically. Until I reach the guest suite down the hall and find the door shut tight.
Locked.
I knock once.
Nothing.
Not a sound. Not a word.
I could break it down. Fuck knows I’ve broken through heavier doors for far less. My hand hovers over the knob, jaw tight, fists itching. But I don’t.
She’s afraid of me now. The same girl who once moaned my name and clung to me like I was salvation, now hides behind a lock like I’m the devil.
It pisses me off. Burns like acid under my skin. But beneath the anger is something worse—something I don’t want to name.
She’s too soft. Too trusting.
Too innocent.
I should’ve never touched her. Never let myself fall into her quiet. But it’s too late now. She already belongs to me. My name, my child, my blood. No locked door will ever change that. Still, I let her be. Only for now.
I return to my room, the door clicking shut behind me. The silence feels heavier now. Lonelier.
I toss the bloody shirt onto the floor and sit at the edge of the bed, running a hand down my face. That’s when my phone buzzes. It’s Katia. My younger sister’s name lights up the screen, followed by a string of texts.
Katia: Adrian told me what happened. Don’t argue with me—I’m flying into L.A. tomorrow.
I sigh and type back quickly.
Me: It’s handled. Stay in Moscow.
The three dots pop up immediately, then disappear. A second later, she calls.
I answer with a low, “Katia—”
“Don’t start. You should’ve told me the second someone came after your wife.”
“She’s fine.”
“You almost lost her.”
Silence stretches.
“I’m coming,” she says again, gentler this time. “You can’t shut me out for this. Not again. I’m your sister; I won’t let you face this alone.”
Before I can respond, the line goes dead. I stare at the screen for a long second, jaw clenched. She’s always been stubborn, and right now I’m too tired to handle two stubborn women under my roof. But when Katia puts her mind to something, there’s no stopping her.