24. Vasiliy
“Iknow you think you’re supporting her, but she didn’t grow up in this world. She has no idea what she’s getting into,” Siderov scolds from behind his desk, leveling me with a condescending look.
“And whose fault would that be?” I prod, enjoying the spark of anger that flares at my words. If he thinks he can convince me to leave Octavia in the dark, he’s sorely mistaken about my priorities.
Now that his daughter has left the room, Sasha Siderov’s face resumes its primary, predatory expression. His spine straightens a bit further. His brows lower, shadowing those calculating eyes. Ah. So this is where the formidable Bratva boss was hiding.
“Come on, kid. We both know this isn’t going to end well.” He tilts his head, his only tell before firing the first shot. “I bet she doesn’t even know why you got shipped to the US in the first place.”
She does. Sort of.
“No idea what you’re talking about.” I pick dirt from my nail, feigning boredom.
“Oh?”
Alex, Octavia’s uncle, snorts. “We’re quite a flight from the homeland, but not so far as to miss the drama on Morozov’s little interrogator.
” He grins. “We heard all about the explosion at the Abelev club. They said the neighbors could hear their screams from five blocks away as the poor little family banged against the doors.”
“I don’t see why that’s any of your business,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. I heard the same rumors, but the truth is, the explosion itself killed most of them, and the rest were too affected by smoke inhalation to do much screaming.
I’m not real torn up about it—the Abelevs were known skin traffickers, and the world is a nicer place without them.
It’s what came after the bombing that leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
Anya, begging me not to leave between ragged sobs. Uncle at the door, reminding me with that silent sneer how much I have to lose if I don’t fall in line.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget how destroyed my little sister looked, standing there in the doorway as I turned my back on her. I’m going to have to get my hands on a phone today to check in with her care team.
“It becomes my business when you have my daughter wrapped around your finger like you’re her entire world!”
A smile splits my lips. Yeah, right. I’m not sure he’s capable of reconciling the Bratva princess he thinks he’s owed with the girl who nearly strangled me with my own belt.
“Wipe that grin off your face before I sever your pretty head from your shoulders.”
“You won’t kill me.” My smile widens. “Not if you truly think your daughter’s that attached to me.”
Sasha’s fist smacks the desk, knocking a decorative metal candlestick onto its side. “Don’t be an idiot! You think I don’t know why you’re still here?”
My lips flatten. “If you’re implying that I’m some lovesick—”
He laughs, a cold hollow sound that brings my words to a halt. “No, I’m fairly certain your feelings have nothing to do with it.” His eyes narrow as he leans across the desk. “You left your post in New York.”
I’m not expecting the direction his words take, not that I’d let that show on my face. I stare back with a blank expression, noting the pronounced furrow between his brows.
He thinks I’m trying to hide out from Solokov.
There’s no way he’d believe the truth, which is that I, stupidly, haven’t even thrown my professional life a spare thought in days. He’s got a point, though. I left my post over a week ago. Which means…
Which means they’ve likely already labeled me a defector.
Shit.
“The only one here who’s hurt her is you, old man,” I deflect, shifting the topic to a more comfortable zone.
“You’re trying to turn her against me.”
“I think you’re doing a fantastic job at that, all on your own.” I don’t typically entertain cannibalistic tendencies, but if he tries to mess with Octavia, I’ll roast his fucking heart and eat that shit on a skewer. This guy has no idea who he’s dealing with.
He covers his face with a growl. “I don’t want to continue fighting, for the sake of my daughter—”
POP.
My spine straightens, hand reaching for a gun I don’t have.
All three of us know exactly what created the sound that pierced the air. Time stagnates around a singular thought. Octavia’s out there.
Sasha and Alex are instantly out of their chairs, drawing weapons as we race for the door. The details register one by one.
Empty hallway—where are the fucking guards?
A growing puddle of blood.
And standing above it all, a small woman with wine-red hair, eyes as wide as saucers.
Relief fills my chest as I take in Octavia’s uninjured form.
There’s a body strewn across the floor in front of her.
Actually, not a body yet. A wet, gurgling sound fills the air as the man struggles to breathe around the fatal bullet buried in his neck.
It’s not a clean shot, but it’s a definitive one.
Not quite dead, but close enough that I don’t stop to address him on my way to her.
My hands are on Octavia in an instant, systematically patting down every limb and junction for any sign of injury.
She stands perfectly still as I do, blinking once before her eyes drift to mine.
I’m not hurt, she seems to say, even though her lips don’t separate from their tight line.
There’s a handgun dangling from her grip, both clarifying the situation and confusing me more.
“Morozov. Report,” Sasha calls out behind me.
“She’s uninjured,” I respond without turning my head. I glance at the second body a few feet away. “Two down, one is ours.”
“He snuck up behind me,” she finally says in a whisper. Her tone fucking guts me. There I was, sitting on my ass and arguing down the hall when she needed me most. Shame swarms my stomach. I had been so close to leaving out the window the night before…leaving her…
She extends her hand, offering me the gun she must have taken from the other body.
Her fingers shake around the metal, trembling as if holding the weapon is a painful act in itself.
It reminds me of the time I took my sister fishing in the late summer, and she handed me the slimy worm baiting her hook, tears welling in her eyes.
I take the weapon.
“He was armed.” Her eyes grow impossibly larger, and a vicious wave of protectiveness spills through me. “I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t…”
“I know,” I nod. “You didn’t have a choice.” My thumb wipes a splatter of blood from her pale cheek. She nods with a faraway look that makes me want to press her into my arms and never let go.
“Vas,” she gasps, so soft the word is almost inaudible.
My head tilts before I even process the cue, stepping close enough for her lips to brush my ear.
“Vas, he’s not dead,” she rushes out, gripping my wrist. A glance confirms that the Siderov brothers are sweeping the nearby hall, and the choking sounds continue to break up the silence.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say against her skin, taking a selfish breath of her scent. I move to pull away, but her hands latch onto my chest, just like they did that day in the cage.
“Don’t leave me.”
The plea wreaks havoc on my poor heart.
“I won’t,” I promise, tugging her waist close. “But I need you to step away and close your eyes, okay?”
The change happens so quickly, I almost miss it. She blinks, and suddenly her pupils start to go back to normal. Her wrists shake out until her palms steady. She lets go of my chest, only to link one of her hands through mine.
“No.”
“No?” I tilt my head, trying to make sense of the sudden shift.
“No. I’m not going to step away or close my eyes.”
I blink. Part of me wants to talk her out of that decision, but her jaw is set in such stern conviction, I can’t voice the dissent.
The guy’s balaclava is still draped over his face, even as he chokes beneath the fabric.
Her shot was effective; given enough time, the clip to his throat would’ve been mortal.
In fact, most would’ve bled out by now. Pride rises in my chest as I lean down to align the barrel with the fucker’s temple.
Octavia leans down with me on sturdy legs, her hand still secured to mine.
One pop, and the gurgling stops.
I barely have a second to appreciate the familiar weight of a weapon resting between my fingers when the Pakhan comes barreling into the hall on silent feet.
“We gotta move,” Siderov urges, crouching to tug the balaclava off the man’s head. His eyes burn with recognition, something I fully intend to question him on later.
“You okay?” I ask Octavia, my hands finding her waist.
Your first kill is hard. We both know that’s what this is, even if I was the one to finish the job.
I still remember mine so many years later.
Sometimes, I still dream about his face—the way it shifted from mirth to fear as he realized his death would come by a twelve-year-old’s hand in the basement of the Morozov compound.
I’ve ended dozens of lives since that day, but his is still the one that revisits me the most.
Her eyes bounce around the room, landing on a million different things.
Her father. The stained carpet. The fresh corpse.
She finally nods, settling on the still body by our feet.
I watch carefully as she shuts her eyes, preparing for her to emote in some normal, understandable way.
Yelling, or crying, or falling to the red puddle growing across the fluffy carpet.
But, I guess I should’ve known better by now.
This is Octavia Clarke. The same girl who strangled the stranger in her cell and hummed through subungual needle torture.
So, naturally, she gives her shut lids one last squeeze, and when they open back up, her irises are a settled, dry shade of jade.
“I’m good,” she says, voice as steady as a seasoned soldier.
Her dad blinks.
“We’ve got company!” Alex shouts before drawing his gun and firing a shot down the hall. I react immediately, pushing her body against the wall for cover and drawing the gun I tucked away.