Chapter Twenty-Four - Dimitri
The news comes sharp and direct, no hesitation in the voice delivering it. One of my spies, a man I trust enough to put in places that matter, confirms what I already feared. Annie. Taken. Under Gabriel Moreno’s orders.
The words hit like shrapnel, tearing through muscle, lodging deep in my chest where nothing can dig them out.
I force myself to stay still, to keep my face the mask my men expect. Cold. Indifferent. “She made her choice,” I say, dismissing the report with a wave of my hand, my tone flat as glass. “She’s nothing to me.”
That’s what I tell them. That’s what I tell myself.
When the door closes and silence fills the office, the weight presses too heavy. My body won’t stay still. I pace, each step carving into the rug, denial splintering under pressure.
Images I can’t control flash through my mind: Annie’s face twisted in fear. Moreno’s hands—Moreno’s filthy hands—anywhere near her.
My throat burns. My jaw locks. I try to shut it down, try to bury the fire under stone, but it rips through me anyway.
The chair goes first. I kick it hard enough that wood cracks, slamming against the wall with a splintering crash. The sound echoes, sharp and final. My control is gone.
I don’t hesitate. Keys in hand, I’m already barking orders in rapid Russian as I stalk through the halls. Men scramble, boots pounding on tile, weapons pulled from racks.
The air shifts instantly—everyone knows. Vehicles roar to life outside, engines ready, steel and fire waiting only for me to give the word.
The fury that drives me isn’t clean. It’s a storm that twists and snaps in every direction.
Rage at Moreno for daring to think he can use her against me.
Rage at Annie for putting herself in his path, for making me feel this.
Rage at myself for letting her slip away, for pretending I could live without her.
I tell myself this is about power. About strength. About reminding every rival that Dimitri Sharov is not a man you touch through weakness.
I know the truth, the one I’ll never speak aloud.
It’s more dangerous than power. More dangerous than any war.
It’s the thought of losing her. Of never seeing her face again. Of never having the chance to stand before her and say the things I refused to admit when I still had her in my grasp.
I slam the door behind me as I step out into the storm, men falling into formation, trucks lined like teeth in the dark.
This isn’t business anymore.
This is blood. This is war. Moreno has already signed his death warrant.
***
The convoy tears through the night, engines growling like caged beasts, headlights slicing clean through sheets of rain. I ride at the front, rifle laid across my lap, a storm bottled tight in my chest. Every mile we eat up is a mile closer to him. Closer to her.
When the compound looms out of the shadows, it’s exactly as I expect—Moreno’s stronghold, ringed with guards, floodlights cutting through the storm, steel gates slick with rain. I don’t wait. Hesitation is death. I signal with one sharp motion, and my men surge forward.
The attack detonates with ruthless precision.
Gunfire cracks through the night, sharp and unrelenting. My men move like the blades I’ve forged them to be, cutting angles, driving wedges into Moreno’s defenses. I advance at the front, a predator through chaos, rifle raised and steady.
My voice cuts through the roar, commands clipped and lethal. Flank left. Cover fire. Push through.
The rifle kicks against my shoulder, barking flame and thunder. Each target drops, each body that falls nothing more than another step closer to her. The storm drowns out everything but the rhythm of violence—rain, fire, blood.
The air thickens with the stench of gunpowder and wet earth. Shouts ricochet off concrete walls, boots pounding as Moreno’s men scramble, stumbling over their own fear. They’re not ready for me. They never were.
I don’t slow. I don’t falter. Every motion is calculated, every shot placed with purpose. Men scream, collapse, vanish into mud. My path cuts straight toward the compound’s core, slicing through the confusion until there’s nothing left but the inevitability of my arrival.
Then he’s there.
Moreno. Snarling orders from behind a wall of his remaining soldiers, face twisted, eyes blazing. His hand jabs the air, voice straining to reassert control as his empire crumbles around him. For a heartbeat, our eyes lock across the storm.
I don’t hesitate. My rifle rises, steady as my breath. One pull.
The bullet buries deep in his chest.
Moreno staggers, disbelief flickering across his face before it collapses into nothing. His knees buckle. He crumples into the mud, lifeless, swallowed by the rain and darkness.
Around us, the last resistance falters. His men scatter, broken, leaderless.
There’s no satisfaction in me. No triumph.
The fury hasn’t dulled. The storm inside hasn’t eased, because she isn’t here. Until I see Annie—until I put my hands on her and know she’s alive—none of this matters.
The steel door waits at the far end of the corridor, locked and reinforced, the last barrier between me and what Moreno thought he could hide.
My pulse hammers in my throat, rage coiled tight.
I drive my boot into the hinges once, twice—on the third strike, the metal shrieks and splinters.
The door swings wide, slamming against the wall with a crash that shakes the floor.
I step inside, rifle raised, ready for resistance, ready for her defiance, for her terror.
What I don’t expect is the child. He’s small and trembling. Clinging to Annie’s side like a shadow.
The world narrows to a pinpoint.
My gaze locks on Henry. His eyes—pale, cold, sharp—stare back at me with the same shade I see in the mirror every morning. Not hers. Mine.
My blood turns molten.
Time fractures. Sound muffles. The distant crack of gunfire fades, my men’s shouts swallowed into nothing. All I see is her. All I see is Annie holding my son. My son.
The realization hits with the force of an explosion, crashing into me, ripping me open from the inside. Months—longer—she carried this. Hid this. She let me drink myself numb, rage myself hollow, while she built a life in the shadows with him.
My son.
Every instinct tears in different directions. I want to demand answers, to rip the words out of her throat until she tells me why. I want to drag her against me, to feel the proof of both of them alive. I want to tear the room apart, to destroy the silence she wrapped this secret in.
The storm inside me is cut short.
Boots thunder down the hall. Shouts bark closer. Moreno’s last defenders, desperate and reckless, pouring toward us. The sound snaps the moment clean in two.
I lower my rifle toward the door, my body between them and her without thought. Rage burns through me, but it hardens into something sharper, colder.
The reckoning between us will come, but not yet. Not until they’re safe.
I seize her wrist, iron-tight, dragging her upright with Henry pressed between us. My grip doesn’t waver, not when she stumbles, not when her eyes flash with panic, not when Henry whimpers against her shoulder.
My hold is absolute. She is here now, with me, and I will not let her slip away again.
The compound burns behind us, smoke and flame curling into the rain-soaked night. Sparks spit against the storm, hissing as they hit wet earth. My men move with ruthless efficiency, checking corners, dragging out survivors only to cut them down, making sure Moreno’s name is buried.
I pull Annie and Henry through the chaos, their small forms stark against the violence. Every step feels like a vow carved deeper into my bones.
I can feel Annie’s pulse thrumming beneath my fingers, wild and frantic, but she doesn’t fight me. She clutches the child tighter, shielding him even as she lets me lead them out.
We break into the open air, the night split by headlights and the growl of engines. Trucks wait, doors open, men shouting positions, the storm rolling heavy above. I shove her toward one, guiding her up into the seat with Henry clinging tight. My hand never loosens.
When I speak, my voice is low, cold, every word honed to a blade. “We’ll discuss this later.”
Her eyes flick to mine, wide and sharp, and for a moment I see all the fury, the fear, the defiance she’s tried to hold back. It doesn’t matter.
Later, when the guns are quiet and the fire is behind us, when Henry is safe and there are no more walls between us to hide behind.
When that moment comes, nothing she says will stop me. I will tear through every secret, every lie, every silence she built between us. She gave me a son and hid him from me. She left me hollow while she carried him, let me believe she was gone when she was never gone at all.
The storm outside rages, but the one inside me burns hotter.
The ride from the compound is a blur of rain-slicked roads and the thrum of engines. My men sit silent, weapons across their knees, eyes scanning the dark. Inside the truck, the air is thick, heavy with smoke and the lingering echo of gunfire.
Annie holds Henry close, her body curled protectively around him.
He stirs, whimpers once, then quiets, lulled by her steady heartbeat.
Her eyes never leave me, though—sharp, accusing, terrified.
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The weight of everything she’s hidden presses louder than words.
I let the silence stretch, jaw tight, hands flexing against my knees. Questions tear through me, hot and relentless. Why did she keep him from me? Why did she vanish, make me believe she was lost, while carrying my blood inside her?
I force the fury down, keep my voice steady when I finally speak. “You’ll explain.”
Her chin lifts, defiant even now, though her arms clutch Henry tighter.
Later. The word drums in my skull. Later, when the storm ends, when there are no more excuses.
She will answer me; and when she does, nothing between us will ever be the same again.