Chapter 21 – Sebastian
I don’t wait for Mikhailov to speak. Don’t wait for Sienna’s trembling breath to settle against my back. The fury that had been coiled inside me all day snaps into something sharp, precise—lethal calm. The kind only a Rusnak carries into battle.
I step forward, each movement measured, deliberate, the gravel crunching under my boots like a metronome counting down his seconds.
“You used my wife,” I say softly, my voice steady, cold. “You threatened her. You dragged her into a war she never asked for.”
Mikhailov scoffs, though the tension in his stance is betrayed in the rigid set of his shoulders. “You act as if she didn’t play along. She hated you. I merely gave her a chance to destroy you before you destroyed her.”
I don’t flinch. My gaze locks on his. “She never wanted to destroy me. Only hurt me. And I earned that.” My voice hardens, darker. “But you crossed a line the moment you put her in danger.”
No theatrics. No shouting. No bravado. Just a quiet pronouncement of doom, and the weight behind it is heavier than any weapon.
Mikhailov’s smirk falters. I can see the calculation behind his eyes, the momentary flash of doubt as he realizes he underestimated me. He might have planned for my rage, but he didn’t anticipate this—controlled, measured, and inevitable.
I shift, just slightly, and the air between us tightens, electric, ready to snap. “This ends tonight,” I murmur, and even the shadows seem to lean closer to listen.
Mikhailov straightens, forcing arrogance back onto his face like armor. “Sebastian, we both know your hands aren’t clean. You cost my family millions in black-market dealings.”
“You were selling stolen cultural artifacts,” I cut in coldly. “I crippled your network because you profited off desecration.”
His jaw tightens. Rage bleeds through the cracks. “You ruined my family.”
“You ruined yourselves.”
He opens his mouth again, but I raise a finger. One. Sharp. Final.
“No,” I say quietly. “This is why you’re really angry. You tried to buy me. You wanted me exclusive—to your auctions, your clients, your dirty empire. And I said no. My talent isn’t owned. Not by you. Not by anyone.”
His eyes narrow, memory flashing there—resentment, humiliation, obsession.
For a heartbeat, he just stares. Then his mouth curves into something ugly.
“You always were arrogant,” he says softly. “And now you’ve made a fatal mistake.”
He shifts his weight, glancing past me—counting exits, angles, shadows. His voice drops, stripped of pretense.
“You think you’re walking away from this?” he asks. “Both of you?”
My grip tightens around Sienna’s hand.
Mikhailov smiles, slow and vicious. “I won’t let either of you leave this place alive.”
Behind me, Sienna whispers my name—soft, terrified, pleading. I don’t look back. If I do, if I see her pale face and tear-streaked cheeks, the rage inside me will break its leash.
I need precision.
Not chaos.
“Let her go,” I say evenly. “And I’ll let you walk out of here.”
Mikhailov barks a laugh. “You’re not in a position to negotiate.”
“You’re on Rusnak ground,” I reply. “You are always negotiating with me.”
That lands. I see it in the flicker of hesitation, the recalculation behind his eyes.
“This isn’t Rusnak ground. It’s in my name.”
I don’t argue.
But Mikhailov isn’t finished.
“Fine,” he says, spreading his hands. “If you want her so badly—take her. But understand this: Your business is already collapsing. Your name will follow. Soon you won’t have a wife left to protect.” His gaze slides past me, cruel. “She’ll run from you again. Just like before.”
My jaw tightens. Behind me, I hear Sienna’s sharp inhale.
Then—before I can stop her—she steps out from behind me.
Her hand slips free of mine. Her eyes blaze.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she says, voice steady, lethal. “I’ll always be with Sebastian. You lying piece of shit.”
The air seems to still.
Mikhailov blinks, genuinely startled.
And in that moment—standing there, defiant, unbroken, choosing me without hesitation—she looks glorious.
Unstoppable.
Something in my chest shifts permanently, painfully, beautifully.
I know then, with absolute certainty: My heart will never be the same again.
Mikhailov recovers first. His mouth twists, cruel and deliberate.
“Say that now,” he sneers at Sienna, “but you’ll choke on it later. Women like you always do—brave until reality reminds you who you really married.”
The words land where he intends them to. I feel Sienna stiffen.
I move. Rage snaps tight in my chest, a clean line drawn straight to violence—and then—
An engine roars.
We all turn as a black car screeches to a halt behind us, headlights carving the darkness into harsh white blades. The driver’s door opens.
Dimitri steps out like death given a human shape—calm, precise, inevitable. Roman follows, expression unreadable. Then Lev, eyes sharp, already assessing angles and exits.
Three Rusnak princes.
Standing shoulder to shoulder.
Mikhailov goes pale. Truly pale.
“This—this wasn’t supposed to—” He stumbles back a step. “I have guards everywhere. How did you get in?”
I don’t take my eyes off him.
“Didn’t I tell you?” I say quietly. “You’re on Rusnak ground.”
I take a step forward.
“Everything here belongs to me,” I continue. “Your guards. The air. Your life.”
Mikhailov retreats again, breath quickening.
Dimitri’s voice cuts through the night, low and merciless.
“Step away from my family, Mikhailov.”
Sienna’s fingers clamp around my arm, fear spiking. “Sebastian,” she whispers. “No bloodshed. Please.”
I turn my head just enough to touch her hand with mine, grounding her.
“There won’t be,” I murmur.
Not for her.
My gaze lifts back to Mikhailov, cold and final.
For him? There would be plenty.
I walk toward him—slow, measured, inevitable—until we’re a breath apart.
“You threatened the only woman I have ever loved,” I say quietly.
His eyes widen.
That’s all the warning he gets.
I move—not wild, not reckless. Precise. My hand snaps his wrist; the knife skids across the gravel with a hollow clatter. I drive him back, forearm locking across his throat, concrete biting into his spine as he wheezes.
“This ends now.”
“I—I can fix it,” he gasps. “The gallery. I can retract—”
“Not good enough.”
My voice is ice.
“You’re going to dissolve every operation tied to Sienna,” I continue, pressure tightening just enough to make the point. “Every network you used her to access. Every threat you made. You’ll sign a confession stating you falsified the evidence and attempted to frame me.”
“And if I refuse?” he croaks.
I lean in, close enough for him to hear the promise in my breath.
“Then I take everything you ever loved,” I whisper. “And I make you watch.”
Silence.
Then—fear. Real fear. His bravado collapses like wet paper.
“Bring it,” Dimitri says calmly.
Roman produces a folder as if it’s been waiting its turn. Lev sets a phone on the hood of the car—recording, red light blinking.
Mikhailov’s shoulders sag.
“I’ll sign,” he says hoarsely.
Good.
I release him and step back, not because I’m finished—but because I’ve won. Dimitri takes over, efficient, merciless. Roman slides the papers forward. Lev watches the perimeter.
Mikhailov signs.
Each stroke is sloppy. Angry. Humiliating.
When he’s done, he tosses the pen aside and looks up at me with a bloody smile.
“You think this ends me?” he rasps. “Men like you always rot from the inside. She’ll see it eventually.”
That’s when I grab him again.
My hand locks around his throat, fingers digging in, lifting him just enough for his feet to scrape uselessly against the ground. His words choke off into a wet gasp. Red floods his face.
I lean in. “You don’t get to speak about her. Ever.”
A hand presses to my back—light, trembling, grounding.
“Sebastian,” Sienna murmurs. “Enough. He can’t hurt us anymore.”
Her voice cuts through the rage like a blade through smoke.
I close my eyes. Exhale slowly. Force my grip to loosen.
When I let go, Mikhailov collapses to the ground, coughing violently, clutching his throat as if the air itself has betrayed him.
Dimitri steps forward, already issuing quiet orders into his phone. “We’ll handle cleanup.”
I nod once, barely registering him. My attention is already where it’s always been.
On her.
Sienna stands a few steps away, arms wrapped around herself, eyes shining with guilt, fear, love—everything tangled together. She holds my gaze like she’s afraid to blink, afraid I’ll disappear if she does.
I cross the distance and cup her face, my thumb brushing beneath her eye.
“It’s over,” I whisper.
She shakes her head. Just once.
“No. Not yet.” Her voice wavers but doesn’t break. “I still need to tell you everything. All of it.”
I rest my forehead against hers.
“And I’ll hear it,” I say softly. “When we’re home.”
No matter what she tells me now, this part is over. The war. The fear of losing her to someone else’s cruelty. Whatever truth remains, we’ll face it together.
She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for years, her body sagging with relief against mine.
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate.
I kiss her—fierce and desperate, everything I couldn’t say packed into the press of my mouth against hers. A vow made without words. A promise etched into the night air, into bone and blood.
Sienna kisses me back without reservation.
No fear. No doubt. Just her hands clutching my coat, her lips moving with mine like she’s choosing me again and again in every second we breathe the same air.