57. Vasilisa
Chapter 57
Vasilisa
T he deafening boom of gunshots echoes through my home, each one sending a jolt of fear and anguish through me. The sound of glass shattering pierces my heart, as I imagine the destruction. Romeo is out there, outnumbered by a relentless onslaught of attackers. My only relief is that the staff is gone, sent away by Santo to protect them from possible harm. My hands tremble as I open the box Angelo gave me, revealing a loaded gun - a violation of our safety rules, but now my only lifeline. A loud bang shakes the room and the elevator lights flicker as it begins to move.
My heart races with hope - Santo must be here to save us. But then a cold chill seeps into my bones as doubt creeps in - what if it’s not him? I steel myself and stand up straight, gripping the gun tightly as memories of every training session with Angelo flood my mind. I got this.
I press back against the shuddering wall of the elevator, my breath shallow. The floor beneath me quakes, a constant reminder that every tick downward is pushing me closer— closer to whatever waits for me below. My hands, slick with sweat, tighten around the gun. It had been a mere tool before—just a weight in my grip during training, under Angelo’s watchful eye.
Now, it feels alien.
Cold.
Unwelcome.
But it’s my only chance.
I squeeze my eyes shut, going over the instructions Angelo drilled into me.
Grip.
Stance.
Sight alignment.
The mechanics are etched into my mind. But what terrifies me isn’t the act of pulling the trigger. It’s what comes after. The life I might take. The blood I might spill. The elevator keeps descending. And with it, so does my hope.
It feels like I’m being lowered into an abyss, an endless void with no rope to pull me back up. The distant echo of gunfire above grows fainter, drowned beneath the ragged sound of my own breath and the thunder of my racing heartbeat.
“Vasilisa, you have to do this,” I mutter to myself, my jaw clenched, every muscle in my body wound tight with dread and resolve.
The elevator slows, and I know, just know , that in a few seconds, the doors will slide open to reveal my fate. The cold steel of the gun feels heavier in my hand now, yet somehow empowering, grounding me in the only reality I have left. I take a deep breath, steadying myself.
The doors slide open.
And what used to be beautiful—the open floor plan I once adored—now feels like a cage.
My heart sinks as my eyes lock onto the two figures standing about ten feet away. Their grins are sinister, gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights.
My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, the world seems to slow.
Time slows.
They start moving toward me, but instead of retreating further into the elevator, like my instincts scream at me to do, I force myself to stand straighter.
I lift the gun, pointing it directly at the closest figure.
“Back off,” I warn, my voice shaking but steady. Any hint of fear will only push them closer.
And just as the first figure lunges forward, I squeeze the trigger.
The shot rings out, a brutal crack that shatters the silence.
He drops.
The force of it—the finality—is instantaneous. A violent jerk of his body before he crumples to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
Right between the eyes.
My stomach lurches.
I stare, frozen, my breath strangled in my throat as a dark bloom of red spreads beneath his skull. His body twitches, just once, before going unnervingly still.
The smell of gunpowder lingers, burning my nose, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. I feel like I’m floating, like my mind has ripped from my body, hovering somewhere above me, watching in numb disbelief. I just— I just shot someone in the head.
A blur of movement.
The second man lunges.
The gleam of steel catches my eye. I barely register the knife in his hand before his body slams into me, knocking the air from my lungs.
The gun slips from my grip, skidding across the floor.
I thrash, but his hands clamp down on me, his weight crushing. I react on instinct.
My elbow crashes into his jaw, the sharp clack of his teeth slamming together echoing in my ears as the impact reverberates through my arm.
He grunts, staggering back, his grip loosening just enough—
His knife slips from his hand, clattering to the floor. I twist free, reaching for my gun, but he shoves me down, his full weight slamming on top of me.
The glint in his eye sends a frigid wave of ice through my veins. Before I can react, his hands are on me.
Possessive.
Revolting.
Claiming.
I thrash, my body recoiling instinctively, every nerve in me screaming, but he doesn’t stop. His fingers clamp down on my inner thigh, rough and invasive. A cold, nauseating dread fills my veins as his hand reaches the waistband of my leggings.
I freeze.
This is it.
I can’t stop him.
Inevitable.
I shut my eyes, swallowing a sob.
After he’s done with me, he’ll take me or kill me or send me back to Santo in pieces.
Santo’s face flashes behind my eyelids.
I can’t be another person Santo loses.
I won’t.
The second his fingers dip beneath my waistband, I snap.
My hand shoots up, palm slamming into his nose just like Angelo taught me.
Make the fucker regret breathing.
Blood gushes. His face contorts—not in pain, but rage.
Then his hands move.
Not to his face.
To my throat .
His fingers tighten like a vice, cutting off air, squeezing the fight out of me.
Stars begin to blur at the edges of my vision. I can feel it—death slithering closer, curling around me like a noose.
But I’m not done. I won’t let him win. Through the fog of fading breaths, something sharp cuts through the panic—
That thought again.
Santo .
What if they got to him first? What if he’s already—
No.
The thought ignites something inside me; a last, desperate ember refusing to be snuffed out.
Suddenly I see it.
A flicker of steel. His knife. Lying within my reach.
My fingers scrabble against the cold, unyielding floor, grasping, clawing—but I’m running out of time. My lungs are screaming, my vision darkening, my body betraying me.
One last stretch, one last agonizing inch. My hand closes around the handle.
I don’t hesitate.
I rip the blade upward, dragging it in a jagged line across his throat.
His grip loosens. His eyes widen in shock.
Blood . Hot, thick, endless spurts from his neck, drenching my hands, my face, my lips.
My stomach lurches, every instinct screaming at me to not inhale, not swallow, to keep my mouth sealed against the flood of him.
His body convulses above me, his breath coming in shallow, wet gasps, his fingers still twitching, but I crawl out from under him.
I scramble away, coughing, heaving, dragging in ragged, burning gulps of air. The floor tilts, my mind spinning, my hands shaking.
But I’m alive .
I stagger to my feet, barely registering the mess around me, barely feeling anything beyond the raw, aching reality of survival.
My gun.
I spot it and snatch it up. Without a second thought, I fire one last shot into his twitching body.
Then, I run.