Chapter 25
Not Yet, Old Man
—Maksym—
The sun was already up when I forced myself to slide out of her bed.
Kira lay tangled in the sheets, her cheek pressed to the pillow, one leg stretched over to where I’d been.
The soft rise and fall of her breath, the faint crease in her brow, the hint of a smile still ghosting on her lips—it all made me want to crawl right back in and pull her against me until the world burned down around us.
But I couldn’t. I’d already pushed the boundaries of what I could get away with. Too many eyes in this house. Too many ears. Staying too long in her room would be suicide.
I pulled on my shirt and boots, grabbed my jacket, and slipped out the door like a fucking thief.
The hallway was quiet, the guards posted on rotation elsewhere.
I moved quietly down the stairs and stepped outside, letting the cold air hit my face.
By the time I reached the front drive near the estate’s gates, I caught sight of a familiar silhouette leaning against one of the stone columns that lined the main path.
Sashko had a cigarette between his lips and another already lit in his fingers.
“You’re late,” he said without turning around. “Judging by that face, I’d say the night went very well.”
I rolled my eyes and took the cigarette from his hand. “Easy there. That level of deduction might overheat that brain of yours.”
He smirked, blowing smoke into the chilly morning air. “You’re starting to look like a man who’s about to burn down the whole empire over one girl.”
I took a drag. “That obvious?”
“Only to people with eyes.” He glanced over, then gestured with his cigarette. “You know this shit’s going to explode, right? You sure that’s part of your grand plan?”
“Loosely,” I muttered. “I’m improvising.”
Sashko snorted. “Well, I hope your improvisation includes body armor. Because when Moscow retaliates, it won’t be subtle.”
I shrugged. “What’s life without a little near-death experience?”
“Man, remind me why I agreed to all this shit?” he muttered, tossing the spent cigarette onto the floor and grinding it out with his boot.
“Because drunk you got sentimental and promised me your heart and your bullets,” I replied. “And I take drunk confessions very seriously.”
Right on cue, like the universe couldn’t resist fucking with us—
A sharp growl of engines cut through the stillness like a blade. We turned at once, every muscle in my body snapping to alert. Tires screeched on the driveway’s stone pavers—fast, hard, too aggressive for anything routine. A convoy. But not the full one.
Only three black SUVs tore through the gates, and something in my gut twisted hard. The first vehicle skidded sideways into the courtyard, its side smeared with blood. One door flew open before the wheels even stopped, and a man leapt out, blood streaking his shirt.
“Attack!” he roared. “We were ambushed—two cars gone, they fucking hit us!”
The second SUV limped in behind it, one rear tire shredded, bullet holes riddling the windows. Smoke drifted from the third car, its hood blackened and cracked. A guard stumbled out, barely upright, eyes wide with panic.
“Where?” Sashko barked.
“Old bridge. They were waiting. Trap was too clean.”
One of the car doors swung open, and Pakhan stepped out like a thunderclap, the storm already in his eyes. The second his polished shoes hit the stone, he moved like something rabid, rage rolling off him in waves.
“Inside. Now. Lock this fucking place down. Weapons ready. No one in or out unless I say so!”
Guards surged forward to shield him, orders ringing out like gunfire.
But I was already gone.
As I sprinted back to Kira’s room, panic clawed at the edges of my chest. I’d braced for this day, mapped out every possible scenario, but none of that training meant shit when her safety was at stake.
Every step felt like a lifetime. I couldn’t bear the thought of her afraid—of anyone laying a hand on her.
She was my light, my fucking reason for breathing, and I’d slaughter anyone who tried to dim her.
Not one goddamn soul would reach that room.
Not while there was blood left in my body to spill for her.
My boots hit the wooden floor hard as I slammed through her door. She looked up, startled, still curled on the bed with her phone.
“Get dressed,” I snapped. “Now.”
“What—what’s going on?” Her voice trembled.
“Moscow’s retaliating. They’re here.”
I ripped open her closet while she was already moving, grabbing clothes, heart pounding just like mine. I pulled a pistol from my jacket and thrust it into her hands.
“Just in case. Point, aim, squeeze. You don’t hesitate.”
“I—Maksym, I don’t even know how to—”
I grabbed her hand and showed her quickly—how to hold it, how to flick off the safety, how to keep both hands steady.
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t come to that. But you keep it. You fucking keep it.”
Our lips crashed together, raw and fast, and then I pulled her into my arms, holding her against me like she might vanish if I didn’t.
My nose brushed her hair, memorizing the way she smelled, the way she trembled in my hands.
“Hide somewhere safe. Closet, under the bed—it doesn’t matter.
Just promise me you won’t make a sound.”
She nodded and disappeared into the shadows.
I flew down the stairs, rage igniting like a fuse in my veins.
My hand yanked open the weapons cabinet before my brain could catch up.
The rifle fit into my grip like a long-lost limb—familiar weight, smooth trigger, scope aligned like an old friend.
I grabbed a loaded pistol and clipped it to my belt, stuffing extra rounds into my pocket.
A few spare magazines slid easily into the inner lining of my jacket.
The servants’ staircase trembled beneath my boots as I bolted up to the top floor. Wind howled louder with every step until I reached the last landing and kicked open the narrow door to the north-facing balcony.
This was the best vantage point. The best range. If they came, I’d see them first—and I’d shoot first.
Wind slammed into me the moment the shutters flew open. Cold bit into my skin, my breath fogging the air. And then I saw them.
Eight more vehicles rolled toward the estate. Their tires were thick and reinforced, windows blacked out, armor glinting under the rising sun. No insignia. No hesitation. No attempt to hide their purpose.
Makarov climbed out of the first car like a king surveying a battlefield. A towering man with pale eyes and a face that never seemed to move, he was Moscow’s favorite emissary in Kyiv—their loyal shadow. He hadn’t even waited. No diplomacy. No fucking calls.
I smirked.
Guess I made them mad.
Behind him, soldiers—because that’s what they were, not gangsters—filed out with rifles, kevlar, tight formations, earpieces tucked into their necks. Trained. Disciplined. Ready. They weren’t here to scare us. They were here to finish it.
I didn’t hesitate. I raised the rifle and squeezed the trigger.
The first shot cracked through a driver’s skull. The second hit a shoulder. The third—right through a throat. They scattered like startled wasps.
Return fire lit the sky. Bullets slammed into the stone around me, shards of glass bursting beside my cheek. I ducked back behind the wall.
Someone crashed beside me—a young kid, maybe nineteen, from our crew. His hands trembled as he clutched his rifle.
“They’re fucking professionals,” he gasped, eyes wide and terrified.
“No shit,” I muttered, snapping the last mag into place. I raised the rifle again and kept firing—taking out another one trying to scale the fence. But they were swarming now, too many, too fast. Some were already breaking off and closing in on the house. I wouldn’t be able to shoot them all.
I ducked back, heart pounding, and finally set the rifle aside. It was useless in close quarters.
“They want war?” I said with a shrug. “Great. I was getting bored playing nice anyway.”
Downstairs, the house was chaos—smoke, screams, splintered wood, and gunfire echoing off marble floors.
I moved on reflex.
One man came around the corner—I shot him twice. Another burst from a side corridor. I met him head-on, blade out, catching his ribs and twisting. He howled, blood spraying the walls.
Sashko ran past me, yelling orders or maybe warnings—I couldn’t hear the words over the roar in my ears. I ducked another shot, rolled across the floor, came up, and fired. The bastard dropped like a sack of bricks.
Footsteps. Another one.
I grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed his skull into the marble wall. He crumpled.
Then I saw them—two men rushing up the main staircase.
My blood turned to ice.
That was Kira’s floor.
I aimed fast and shot the first man clean through the back. He dropped. But the second didn’t stop. He was fast—military fast—already halfway up by the time I fired again.
Missed.
Fuck.
I ran after him, boots pounding up the stairs, chest burning with every breath. When I reached the top, he was already in the hallway, moving fast—too fast. He was flinging open doors one after the other, checking every room like he knew exactly what he was looking for.
Then he reached Kira’s.
His hand wrapped around the knob. It didn’t move. Instead of stepping back, the bastard slammed his boot into the wood and blew the door inward. Something feral tore through my chest. My blood iced over. I launched myself at him.
He barely got one foot inside before I slammed into him from behind, knocking him sideways with all the force I had.
We collided hard, the impact rattling my spine.
He was strong. Trained. He slammed his elbow into my jaw.
I tasted blood. I hit back, landed a blow to his gut, but he recovered fast, driving his fist into my ribs. Pain flared.