15. Sergey #2
Something shifts in the air. I feel it before I see it—the subtle change in Mikhail’s posture, the way his finger tightens on the trigger. Orlov’s hand moves toward the desk drawer, slow and deliberate.
“Don’t,” Mikhail says, his voice is like ice.
Orlov pauses, his hand hovering over the drawer. “You won’t shoot me. You need answers first. You always need answers.”
“Try me,” Mikhail says.
Veronica steps forward. Not toward Orlov, but toward me. Her shoulder brushes against my arm as she moves between us.
“I’m not staying with you,” she says to Orlov. Her voice doesn’t waver. “I choose them.”
The words hit me like a fist to the chest. I want to grab her, to kiss her, to tell her she’s insane and brave and everything I never knew I needed. But Orlov’s face has gone cold, his mask slipping for just a moment to reveal something dark and ugly beneath.
“You stupid girl,” Orlov says and his voice drops to something venomous. “You think they’ll protect you? They’re animals. They’ll use you, fuck you, ruin you, and discard you when you’re no longer useful.”
She doesn’t flinch.
“Maybe,” she says, her voice soft. “But at least I’ll have chosen it.”
Orlov’s hand moves toward the drawer again, faster this time, and Mikhail fires. The bullet catches the edge of the desk and splinters wood inches from Orlov’s fingers.
“I said don’t,” Mikhail repeats, his voice deadly calm.
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. I can hear my own heartbeat, the drip of blood from my wound hitting the marble floor, the distant sound of approaching sirens.
Orlov straightens, his composure returning like a mask being carefully repositioned. “You won’t leave this house alive,” he says. “None of you will.”
I reach out and grab Veronica’s elbow to pull her slightly behind me. “We’ll see about that.”
Something shifts in Orlov’s expression—a flicker of calculation. He’s not afraid, I realize. He’s weighing options.
“You could join me,” he says, the words directed at me but his eyes on Mikhail. “Both of you. Men of your... talents are valuable. The girl—she’s nothing but a pretty face. I can offer you real power. Real wealth.”
“Fuck your power,” I spit. My finger tightens on the trigger. “Fuck your wealth. We’re not for sale.”
Orlov’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Everyone has a price, Tolya. Even you.”
Mikhail shifts his weight, gun steady. “We’re done talking.”
The sirens are closer now. Someone must have called the police. Time is running out.
Orlov’s hand moves again, this time toward something at his waist. I don’t wait for Mikhail’s signal. I fire.
The bullet catches him in the shoulder, spinning him sideways. He crashes into the bookshelf, sending leather-bound volumes tumbling to the floor. Blood blooms across his white shirt like a crimson flower.
He laughs, and the sound is wet. “You’ll never make it out alive.”
I step closer, gun trained on his head. “Maybe not. But you won’t be here to see it.”
Veronica’s hand closes around my arm. “Sergey, don’t. He’s not worth it.”
I look at her—this perfect, angelic creature standing in a room full of blood and death—and something in my chest cracks open. She’s right. He’s not worth it. But he needs to die.
Mikhail moves to the window, glancing outside. “Three cars, maybe four. Armed response units.”
“Time to go,” I say, not taking my eyes off Orlov.
He backs toward the window, reaching for something at his hip—a small pistol, pearl-handled, the kind of weapon chosen for aesthetics as much as function.
Mikhail lunges forward and catches his wrist before he can raise it and slams his arm against the window frame until the gun drops and slides across the polished hardwood.
Viktor hits the floor. I look at Veronica. Veronica looks at the gun on the floor. Nobody moves to stop her when she picks it up.
The pearl handle gleams in her pale fingers. She holds it like she’s weighing something precious, something that might bite.
“Veronica,” I say, but her name comes out rough, like I’ve been swallowing glass.
She doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are fixed on Orlov, who’s struggling to sit up, blood soaking through the pristine white of his shirt. His composure has finally cracked—I can see the fear now, the realization that the game has changed.
“You don’t have to do this,” Orlov says, his voice strained but still trying for that smooth, hypnotic quality. “Put it down. We can still?—“
“Shut up.” Her voice is quiet, but it cuts through the room like a blade. “You don’t get to speak to me anymore.”
I want to step forward, to take the gun from her, but something in her posture stops me. She’s not shaking. Her hand is steady as stone.
Mikhail moves to my side, his breath ragged. The sirens are closer now, maybe two minutes out. We need to move.
“Veronica,” Mikhail says, his voice low and urgent. “We need to go. Now.”
But she doesn’t move. She stands there, the gun steady in her hand, pointed at Orlov’s chest. Her face is expressionless, but her eyes—those pale, haunted eyes—are blazing with something I’ve never seen before.
“Veronica,” I try again, softer this time. “Give me the gun.”
She shakes her head, just once. “No.”
Orlov laughs, but it ends in a cough. “She won’t do it. She doesn’t have it in her. My men will gun you down like dogs and then I’m going to fuck her raw?—”
Something shifts in Veronica’s expression and her finger tightens on the trigger.
The sirens are deafening now. They’re at the gates, I’m sure of it. We have seconds, maybe less.
With a strangled roar, Viktor lunges at her, and Veronica pulls the trigger.
The shot echoes through the office like a thunderclap.
Viktor’s body jerks backward, a red flower blooming on his chest. His eyes go wide—surprise, then something else. He sinks to his knees, then crumples sideways onto the floor.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there, watching the life drain from the man who tried to own her future.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. The sirens are right outside now, tires screeching on gravel, doors slamming. We’re out of time.
“Veronica.” I step toward her, my voice barely a whisper. “We need to go. Now.”
She turns to look at me, and something in her eyes makes my chest ache.
“I killed him,” she says. She drops the pistol onto the floor, and it lands with a metallic thud.
“Yeah.” I reach for her, my hand closing around her wrist. “You did.”
Mikhail steps around Orlov’s twitching corpse and peers through the curtains. “Three squad cars. Armed response. We have maybe ninety seconds.”
“We need to move,” I say and look into Veronica’s eyes. “Are you ready?”
She nods. Her eyes are bright, but she’s not going to cry, and her lips are pressed into a firm line.
I lean forward and kiss her, quick and hard.
“Come on,” Mikhail snaps. Veronica turns away from me and crosses the room to Mikahil. She grabs his face and kisses him just as hard.
“I’m ready,” she says. “Let’s get out of here.”