15. Sergey
SERGEY
Through the window I can see the back garden we just came through, it’s crawling with men now.
Dawn—I hadn’t even realized it was coming so quickly.
The guards would be changing now—more security arriving.
But the house is too quiet.
We check the last door at the end of the hall. It’s locked. Heavy and reinforced.
I step back and shoot the lock out. The wood splinters, and the door swings open with a creak, and I’m already inside, gun raised. The room is large, an opulent bedroom with an enormous bed. It’s been slept in, the coverlet and sheets are in disarray.
The room smells of expensive perfume and lotion and the air is steamy and heavy like a sauna.
“Where is she?” I bark at the uniformed woman who cowers by the bathroom door. She screams and throws her hands up.
“Please! Take her! Just take her!” she shrieks as she scrambles away from me. “I don’t want any trouble!”
I don’t have time to process who she is or why she’s here.
Veronica emerges from a closet I hadn’t noticed. She’s dressed, but barely, and her hair is wet like she’s just emerged from a bath.
Perfect and flushed.
Beautiful. How dare she be so beautiful amid all this horror?
“Sergey.” Her voice is small, but it cuts through everything—the ringing in my ears, the pain in my thigh, the exhaustion pulling at my bones.
I’m at her side in three steps. She’s pale, her eyes hollow, but she’s alive.
“Put on some shoes,” I say. “We have to run.”
She nods, and she disappears back into the closet. When she emerges a moment later she’s pulled a cardigan over her shoulders and has shoes on her feet.
Mikhail appears in the doorway, breathing hard. He takes in the scene—Veronica in her freshly scrubbed glory, and the terrified woman cowering by the vanity—and his jaw tightens.
“Where’s Orlov?” he demands.
The woman shakes her head frantically. “I don’t know! He left me here to—to prepare her. Please, I’m just a maid! I don’t know anything!”
Mikhail grabs her by the collar, but Veronica steps between them.
“Don’t,” she says quietly. “She’s telling the truth. She just came in?—”
“Where is he?”
Veronica shakes her head. “I— I don’t know. He was just here?—”
“Did he hurt you?” I ask through gritted teeth. I’m going to kill him anyway, but I want to know.
“No,” she says and lays a hand on my shoulder, and presses her other hand to Mikhail’s back. Gentle and reassuring. Affirming. She’s chosen us.
That’s enough for me. Even if we don’t survive this, that’s all I need.
Mikhail releases the woman, who scrambles away from us and presses herself against the wall. I want to tell her to run, to get out while she still can, but I don’t have the breath for it.
I take Veronica’s hand. It’s cold and trembling. “Can you walk? Run?”
She nods, her eyes never leaving mine. “I can do whatever I need to.”
The sound of footsteps in the corridor makes us all freeze. Mikhail moves to the door, peering out. “Two men, maybe three. Coming this way.”
I look around the room, desperate for another exit. The window—too far to the ground. The closet—just a closet. We’re trapped.
“Stay behind me,” I tell Veronica, positioning myself between her and the door.
Mikhail backs away from the door, pressing himself against the wall. “When they come in, I’ll take the first one. You get the second.”
The footsteps grow louder. My heart hammers against my ribs. I can feel Veronica’s breath on the back of my neck, warm and quick.
The door bursts open. Two men in black tactical gear rush in, guns raised. Mikhail moves like lightning, slamming the first man into the wall. I fire at the second, catching him in the shoulder. He staggers back, but doesn’t go down. I fire again, twice, center mass this time. He crumples.
Mikhail has the first man pinned, knife at his throat. “How many more?” he snarls.
The man spits blood but says nothing. Mikhail presses the blade harder, drawing blood. “Last chance.”
“Three—maybe four more on this floor,” the man chokes out. “More outside.”
“Orlov?” I demand, stepping closer. “Where is he?”
The man’s eyes dart toward the door. “Downstairs. Office. West wing.”
Mikhail nods once, then slams the man’s head against the wall. He goes limp.
I turn to Veronica. Her face is pale, but her eyes are clear. She’s afraid, but she’s ready.
“We need to move,” I say. “Now.”
She nods, stepping over the bodies without looking down.
We only pause long enough to collect fresh weapons. The maid is still pressed against the wall, eyes wide, hands over her mouth. Veronica pauses beside her.
“Run,” she whispers. “Get out while you can.”
The woman nods frantically and scrambles toward the door. She disappears into the corridor, and I hope she makes it. Not that it matters. Not in the grand scheme of what’s about to happen.
Mikhail checks the hallway. “Clear for now.”
We move fast, keeping Veronica between us. My leg screams with every step, but I push through it. The corridor is littered with bodies—ours, theirs, it doesn’t matter anymore. Blood smears the marble floor like spilled paint.
At the top of the stairs, Mikhail holds up a hand. I stop and pull Veronica against the wall. He peers over the banister, then ducks back.
“Two at the bottom,” he whispers. “Armed.”
I nod, then glance at Veronica. Her hand is still in mine, cold and small. I squeeze it once, then let go.
“Stay here,” I tell her. “Don’t move until I come back.”
She doesn’t argue. Smart girl.
Mikhail and I move down the stairs in tandem. The two guards are positioned at the entrance to the west wing, rifles at the ready. They’re alert—everyone knows we’re here now.
Mikhail goes left, I go right. We’ve done this a hundred times before, but never with stakes this high. My leg throbs with every step, but I ignore it.
We’re halfway down when the first guard turns. His eyes go wide, mouth opening to shout, but Mikhail is already on him. A single shot, silenced, and the man crumples. The second guard spins, raising his weapon, but I’m there.
I grab the barrel, twist it upward, and drive my knee into his stomach. He doubles over, and I bring my elbow down on the back of his neck. His face collides with the marble, and he doesn’t get up.
I look back up the stairs. Veronica is watching, her eyes huge in her pale face. I gesture for her to come down. She moves quickly and steps over the bodies with the same careful precision she used in the bedroom.
The west wing stretches before us, a long corridor lined with more paintings and heavy oak doors. The air smells different in here. Like alcohol and cigars—a hint of expensive cologne. Orlov’s scent. The thought sends a chill down my spine and straightens my shoulders.
Mikhail moves ahead, gun up, checking each door as we pass. Most are locked, but the last one at the end of the hall stands slightly ajar. Pale morning light spills through the gap, warm against the cold marble floor.
I pull Veronica behind me, positioning her against the wall. Mikhail and I exchange a look—he’ll go first, I’ll cover, then we’ll bring her in. He nods once, then kicks the door open.
The office is enormous—all dark wood and leather, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive desk at the far end. And behind it, Viktor Orlov.
He doesn’t look like a man whose compound is being torn apart.
He sits perfectly still, hands folded on the desk, immaculate in a tailored suit.
His dark hair is silver at the temples, and his pale eyes track us as we enter.
There’s no fear in them. No surprise. Just a cold, calculating stillness that makes my skin crawl.
“Sergey Tolya,” he says, my name rolling off his tongue like something distasteful. “And Mikhail. I expected you’d come eventually.”
Mikhail moves to the left, keeping his gun trained on Orlov. I move right, creating a crossfire. Veronica stays in the doorway, her hand pressed against the frame.
“You have something that belongs to me,” Orlov continues, his eyes drifting past me to the doorway where Veronica stands. “But you’ve brought her back to me, unharmed. Delivered on your promise at last. How considerate.”
My finger tightens on the trigger. “She’s not yours.”
Orlov’s smile is thin and precise. “Everything in this house belongs to me. Everything I touch. The paintings, the furniture, the woman.” He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “You’ve caused quite a disruption, boys. Men dead, property damaged. Do you know what that costs?”
“Don’t care,” I say. The gun feels heavy in my hand, slick with sweat and blood. “We’re leaving. With her.”
“Are you?” Orlov tilts his head, studying me with those pale, dead eyes. “You’re injured, both of you. You’re outnumbered. How far do you think you’ll get?”
Mikhail shifts his weight, gun steady. “Far enough.”
Orlov’s gaze slides to Veronica. “My dear, come here. These men have been very rude to you, I’m sure. You must be frightened.”
Veronica doesn’t move. Her chin lifts slightly, and I see something in her face I haven’t seen before—defiance.
“You don’t own me,” she says, her voice is clear and steady despite the tremor in her hands.
Something flickers across Orlov’s face—surprise, maybe, or annoyance. “You’ve been misled, Veronica. These men are criminals. They’ve killed my guards, destroyed my property. They’ll kill you too, when they’re done with you.”
I want to pull the trigger right now. The urge burns through me like acid, eating away at every shred of restraint I have left. But Mikhail’s eyes are on me, and I know what that look means. Wait.
Orlov rises from his chair with the grace of a predator, hands still visible.
He’s not reaching for a weapon, not yet.
“Veronica, come to me. Your father and I have already spoken. He’s already approved of this match.
I can protect you. I can give you everything—safety, wealth, power.
Everything you need. These men can offer you nothing but a grave. ”