Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Nikolai
The clouds hung low over the street, like they'd crash down any second.
I stood in the middle of that blood-soaked street, shell casings and shattered glass crunching under my boots—remnants of Sasha's desperate fight to get Vivienne out. Bullet holes riddled the walls. Gunpowder and blood still hung in the air.
"Pakhan." Mark crouched on the ground, evidence bag in hand. "We found this behind the dumpster."
Sterling silver. An eagle carved into the surface, talons gripping a dagger—the Marchetti family crest.
I stared at that cufflink. My pupils contracted.
Marchetti.
So it really was Carmine who'd taken Vivienne.
But then a darker thought crept in—the Marchetti family alone couldn't have set up such a precise ambush on our convoy. They knew Sasha's tactics too well. Knew our routes too well.
Someone on the inside was feeding them information.
And anyone with access to intel that classified could only come from inside the Volkov family.
My phone vibrated.
I pulled it out. A photo on the screen.
Vivienne.
Tied to a chair. Bruises on her face. Blood at the corner of her mouth. Eyes full of terror and rage.
That face I'd kissed countless times, now covered in wounds.
I stared at that photo. Something in my chest burned, roared, tore at every nerve.
Then a second message came through.
"Want her alive? Come to the abandoned steel mill in the south district. Alone. Otherwise, the next photo will be her corpse."
I stared at those words, violence burning in my chest hot enough to turn me to ash.
No signature, but I already knew who sent it.
"Did you trace the signal?" My voice was ice-cold.
"We did." Mark opened his tablet, a red dot on the screen. "A Marchetti warehouse at an abandoned steel mill in the south district. But Pakhan, the place is heavily defended—at least twenty armed guards, and—"
"And what?"
"Thermal imaging shows significant movement inside. This is likely a trap. They're waiting for you."
I looked up toward that industrial wasteland barely visible in the darkness.
A trap?
Of course it was a trap.
Marchetti wanted me dead. Derek wanted the Volkov inheritance. They'd joined forces to set this up, using Vivienne as bait, waiting for me to walk into it.
But they miscalculated one thing.
They thought I'd weigh my options. Send my men to negotiate. Let reason override emotion.
They didn't know that the moment Vivienne and my child fell into their hands, I stopped caring about my own life.
"Rally everyone." I turned and strode toward the armored vehicle. "We leave in ten minutes."
"Yes, sir!"
The lights were still on at Kostya's gym.
I pushed through the door. He was cleaning blood off the ring—clearly someone had just gone through a brutal underground fight.
"Nikolai?" He looked up, obviously startled. "What brings you—"
The words died in his throat.
I held his gaze.
"You need me." Kostya dropped the towel and limped over. "All right. Who is it?"
"Marchetti took Vivienne." My voice was hoarse. "Derek might be involved too. They're waiting for me at the abandoned steel mill in the south district. It's a trap. Anyone who goes might not come back."
Kostya was silent for a few seconds.
"You love her." Not a question. A statement.
I didn't answer.
But my silence was answer enough.
"Fuck." Kostya swore, turned toward the weapons cache. "I knew one day you'd lose your mind over a woman. Give me five minutes. I'll get my gear."
"You don't have to—"
"Shut up." Kostya cut me off, glanced back, that scarred face showing a rare smile. "You almost got killed in Moscow saving my ass. Now it's my turn to repay the debt."
Five minutes later, Kostya emerged fully armed—tactical vest, silenced pistol, combat knife, and his beloved AK-47.
"Let's go." He clapped my shoulder. "Let's get your woman back. And send that worthless brother of yours to hell while we're at it."
Outside the abandoned steel mill, the night was pitch black.
Three armored SUVs stopped silently three hundred meters from the target. I opened the door. Twenty fully armed Cleaner operatives were in position—the Volkov family's most elite fighters. Every one of them had seen real combat.
"Listen up." I stood before them, voice low. "My woman's inside. And Sasha. Our objective is to get them out alive. Marchetti's men will fight to the death. There may also be Volkov traitors. So—"
I paused, scanning each face.
"No survivors."
"Yes, sir!"
I turned to Kostya. "Take ten men, go in from the west side. Cut off their escape. Anyone who tries to run, shoot to kill."
"Got it."
Then I looked at Mark. "Take five men, draw fire from the front. Make them think we're coming through the main entrance. But don't engage—just keep their attention."
"Yes, sir!"
"The rest of you, with me." I checked the Glock at my waist and spare magazines. "We're going through the east ventilation shaft, straight into the warehouse."
I checked my watch.
"Move out in three minutes."
Three minutes later, gunfire erupted.
Mark's team hit the main entrance with a feint attack. Dense gunfire shattered the night's silence. Marchetti guards rushed to return fire, both sides locked in intense combat at the front gate.
And I'd already led five men through a rusted ventilation shaft on the east side, slipping silently into the warehouse.
Dark inside. Just a few dim industrial lights swaying. The air reeked of machine oil and rust, with a faint trace of blood.
I signaled. Five men spread out, advancing in standard CQB formation.
Around the first shipping container, two armed guards with their backs to us—wearing Marchetti's signature dark brown tactical gear.
I raised my hand. Two muffled shots from the suppressed pistol. Both men dropped without a sound.
We pushed forward.
Vivienne's voice came from deep in the warehouse—she was talking to someone, her voice laced with suppressed rage and fear.
My heart clenched.
She was alive.
I quickened my pace.
Past the last container, the space opened up—
A massive clearing, lit by several blinding spotlights.
Vivienne was tied to a metal chair, the bruises on her face worse than the photo, dried blood at the corner of her mouth. But her eyes were still defiant, glaring at the man standing before her.
Ten feet behind her, Sasha was tied to a post, covered in blood, his left leg twisted at a grotesque angle. Clearly broken.
But what made my pupils contract was the man standing beside Vivienne—
Derek.
My half-brother now wore a perfectly tailored navy suit, hair immaculately combed, holding a gun pressed to Vivienne's temple.
And not far behind him, Carmine Marchetti sat in a chair, elegantly smoking a cigar, an amused smile on his face.
My suspicions confirmed.
Derek and Marchetti had joined forces.
"Finally." Derek saw me, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. "I thought you'd hesitate longer. Looks like this woman means even more to you than I imagined."
I raised my gun, the barrel shifting between Derek and Carmine before locking on Derek's head.
"Let her go." My voice was terrifyingly calm, but my gun hand trembled slightly—from barely contained murderous intent.
Derek shook his head. "You really think you're in a position to negotiate? Look around, Nikolai."
At his words, at least a dozen gun barrels emerged from behind containers, from catwalks, from the shadows—all aimed at me. Marchetti men, and a few familiar faces. Volkov family members who should have been loyal to me.
Traitors.
All traitors.
"Nikolai!" Vivienne saw me, tears streaming down her face. "You shouldn't have come! It's a trap—they'll kill you—"
"Shut up." Derek struck her shoulder with the gun butt. Vivienne cried out in pain.
My finger tightened on the trigger, almost pulling it.
That photo flashed through my mind—the bruises on her face, the blood at her mouth, the despair in her eyes.
And now, the person who hurt her stood right in front of me.
"Don't be rash, Pakhan." Carmine slowly stood up, brushing imaginary dust from his suit. "You shoot, she dies. Your men shoot, she dies. So—"
He walked over to Derek and clapped his shoulder.
"Why not hear our proposal?"
"What proposal?" My voice was cold as ice.
"Simple." Derek tilted his head, eyes filled with sick excitement. "The Volkov inheritance. You publicly abdicate, hand the Pakhan position to me, and I let her go. Fair trade, right?"
"Dream on."
"Then she dies." Derek used the gun barrel to lift Vivienne's chin. "Along with your child. Oh, congratulations on becoming a father, brother. That idiot Natasha gave us such useful information before she died. Too bad—"
His smile twisted further.
"You might never get to meet him."
"Nikolai, don't agree!" Vivienne shook her head violently. "You can't—"
"Shut up!" Derek slapped her face.
I watched the fresh red mark appear on her face, layering over the old bruises. My vision went red.
"Wait."
I lowered my gun.
Everyone froze, including Derek and Carmine.
"What did you say?" Derek looked at me in disbelief.
"I said, wait." I slowly raised both hands, placed the gun on the ground, then straightened, looking him in the eye. "I agree."
"Nikolai!" Vivienne screamed. "No! Have you lost your mind?"
I didn't look at her. Just stared at Derek.
"But I have one condition."
"You're not in a position to negotiate—"
"I know you hate me." I cut him off, voice terrifyingly calm. "Hate that I have everything you want. Now I'm giving you a chance—watch me bleed with your own eyes. Then let her go."
Derek froze.
Carmine frowned.
"What trick are you pulling?" Derek asked warily.
"No trick." I slowly rolled up my sleeve, exposing my forearm. "If you don't believe me, I can shoot myself to prove my sincerity."
"Nikolai!" Vivienne sobbed hysterically. "Don't—please—"
I finally looked at her, those dark gray eyes filled with unprecedented tenderness and guilt.
"I'm sorry, firecracker. I came too late."
Then I bent down, picked up the gun, and pressed the barrel against my left arm.
Derek stared at me for a long time, his expression shifting from hesitation to doubt to sick excitement.
"Interesting. Then, shoot, brother. Let me see how low the great Pakhan will stoop for a woman."
I took a deep breath.
The second before I pulled the trigger, my gaze moved past Derek to meet Vivienne's eyes.
Hers were full of despair and tears, shaking her head violently.
But I smiled at her—an incredibly gentle, apologetic smile.
Then I shifted the barrel slightly and pulled the trigger.
Searing pain exploded. Though I'd avoided anything vital, the bullet still tore through my left arm. Blood gushed out, splashing crimson on the ground.
I clenched my jaw, didn't even grunt, just kept staring at Derek.
"Now. Let her go."
Derek laughed like a maniac.
"Look at this! The great Pakhan shot himself for a woman! This is fucking spectacular—Carmine, did you see that? The power of love!"
He was too absorbed in his laughter. Too excited.
So excited that his grip on the gun loosened half an inch.
Now!
Vivienne jerked her head down, sinking her teeth into Derek's finger!
"Ah—fuck!" Derek screamed, the gun barrel jerking away.
I raised my hand, aimed.
The bullet drilled through Derek's forehead.
The smile froze on his face. His body stiffened for a second, then collapsed heavily. His eyes still open. Dead but staring.
"Damn it!" Carmine reacted, reaching for his gun—
Kostya and his team burst in from the west, two shots to Carmine's chest!
The old fox's eyes widened in disbelief, staring at the blood pouring from his chest. He swayed, then fell into a pool of blood.
The surrounding gunmen reacted, preparing to fire—
Mark stormed in from the front. Pincer attack!
Gunfire, screams, explosions—the warehouse became hell on earth.
But I didn't care anymore.
I staggered toward Vivienne, cut the ropes with my knife, and pulled her into my arms.
"It's over, it's over..." My voice was hoarse, repeating those words.
Vivienne clung to me, sobbing uncontrollably.
"You bastard! You damn bastard! How could you—how could you shoot yourself—"
"Because I can't live without you." I lowered my head, forehead against hers, voice barely a whisper. "I can lose the Volkov family. I can lose everything. But I can't lose you."
She cried harder, little fists pounding my chest, but soon she had no strength left, just clutched my shirt.
"Nikolai... I'm pregnant..." she choked out. "I'm carrying your child... I'm sorry... I should have told you sooner..."
My brain exploded.
Though I'd already known, hearing her say it—hearing the guilt in her voice—the shock and overwhelming joy still hit me like a tsunami.
"I know." I tightened my arms, wanting to fuse her into my bones. "I know everything, Vivienne. I'm sorry. This is all my fault... If I hadn't treated you that way, you wouldn't have—"
"Pakhan!" Kostya's shout interrupted us. "Move! This place is coming down!"
Only then did I notice—the firefight had ignited chemicals stored in the warehouse. Fire was spreading fast. The steel beams overhead groaned under the strain.
"Sasha!" Vivienne suddenly shouted.
I turned. Sasha was still tied to the post, unconscious.
"Kostya, get her out!" I pushed Vivienne toward Kostya.
"No! I'm not leaving! Nikolai—"
"Listen to me!" I shouted, then turned and ran toward Sasha.
I cut the ropes, hoisted him over my shoulder, and staggered toward the exit. Blood loss blurred my vision, but I gritted my teeth, one step at a time.
Finally, I burst out of the warehouse.
Fresh air flooded my lungs. I collapsed, Sasha and I hitting the ground together.