Chapter 19 – Dimitri
By noon, Vivian and I are already walking into the same hall we used for our last press conference. The air is electric—buzzing, frantic—reporters shouting, camera lights snapping like gunfire.
Vivian’s hand is in mine. This time, it isn’t for show. This time, I need it. Her warmth. Her steadiness. The reminder that I’m not walking into this war alone.
I squeeze her hand once as we approach the podium, and she squeezes back. It anchors me more than I’d ever admit.
But I’m not stupid. I’m prepared.
I have men posted at every entrance, snipers on the rooftops, and a quiet ring of Bratva soldiers disguised in the crowd. If Charles Deveraux decides to crawl out of whatever hole he’s been hiding in…he’ll die today.
That’s the plan.
Lev stands by the front row, jaw tight.
Niko is scanning every shadow.
Roman looks like he’s seconds away from strangling any person who moves too fast.
And Sebastian—
He’s already texted me that he’s here, though I can’t find him in the crowd. Typical.
The ghost in my machine.
Vivian lifts her chin beside me, fearless, beautiful in an immaculate white dress, and far braver than she realizes. Reporters surge forward the moment they see us together, shouting questions, flashes exploding like lightning.
I guide her to the podium.
This time, we’re standing together—not as enemies, not as a performance—but as a united front against whoever is coming for us.
And I can feel it in my bones. Today, something is going to break.
Together, Vivian and I step onto the podium and face the sea of cameras, microphones, and hungry eyes. Her hand slips from mine only when she needs both hands to brace herself against the podium—chin up, fearless, standing beside me like she was born for war.
I make a show of spreading out a prepared statement in front of me.
A neat stack of papers. Formal. Safe. Predictable.
The press leans in, waiting for the script.
But I don’t need it.
I already know exactly what I want to say.
And so does Vivian. It doesn’t even matter what I say, we’re not here for the conference anyway. It’s just a front.
I dramatically push the papers aside. A gasp ripples through the room.
Vivian’s eyes flick toward me, steady, telling me: I’m here. Say it. My wife. My anchor. She doesn’t know that.
I look out at the crowd and let them see it all—my anger, my resolve, my intention to burn the whole world down if I have to.
“Good afternoon,” I begin, my voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. “I may sound a little upset today, but that’s just because I am.”
A few nervous laughs ripple through the hall, but I don’t smile.
“I’m not in the habit of organizing press conferences,” I continue, “but I’ve been forced to do two in the space of a few days, and frankly? That’s unacceptable.”
Vivian stands still beside me, chin high, expression unreadable but blazing with quiet strength. She isn’t here as a prop. She’s here as the line no one is allowed to cross.
“There have been physical attacks on me and my wife,” I say, my voice dropping into something darker. “Some of you were here at the last conference—the one that ended with gunshots. Since then, the attacks have increased exponentially.”
Gasps. Murmurs. Cameras flash like lightning.
“And let me make one thing perfectly clear—” I lean forward, gripping the podium. “I will never—never—be forced to hide with my tail between my legs.”
The room holds its breath.
“So if there’s anyone out there who hates me, who resents me, who wants to see me fall…stop being a coward. Come clean. Face me like a man.”
Silence. Heavy. Electric.
Then, slowly, deliberately, I turn my head toward Vivian.
“My wife,” I say, voice roughening, “is the most important asset in my life. My anchor. My priority. And if anyone—anyone—so much as harms a strand of her hair, they will incur my full wrath.”
A collective gasp breaks through the room. Some reporters stare at me like I’ve lost my mind. Others like they’re witnessing a declaration of war.
Both are correct.
“I hope,” I add, sweeping the room with a cold stare, “that I’ve made my point. Some of you may assume I’m acting out of fear.” I shake my head slowly. “I’m not scared. Not even close. I’m secure in my ability to protect my family.”
The flash of cameras is blinding now.
I give a curt nod and step back from the podium.
Vivian steps forward. “My husband has said everything,” she begins, a tremble threading through her voice—it’s calculated, precise, the kind that compels people to lean closer. “But I—”
She doesn’t finish.
Chaos detonates.
CRACK—CRACK—CRACK.
Gunshots explode from the main doorway.
Screams erupt instantly. Reporters dive for the floor, chairs flip, cameras crash, lights topple. Roman, Lev, and Niko spring into action like they were born for this—guns out, instincts sharp, fury immediate.
I don’t think. I move.
I grab Vivian and throw her to the ground, covering her with my body as more bullets tear across the hall.
“Stay down,” I hiss, even though she’s already trembling beneath me.
Sylvester appears out of nowhere like a demon, returning fire, pushing back against the wave of masked shooters pouring through the doorway.
I drag Vivian behind the podium, my arm locked around her waist. She clings to me—fingers digging into my shirt, breath shaking like she’s trying not to shatter.
“Dimitri—”
“I’m here,” I whisper into her hair. “I’m right here.”
I risk a glance over the podium’s edge.
Chaos.
Smoke.
Gunfire flashing like lightning.
My men are fighting hard, and the shooters—masked, armored—are starting to retreat. One is already down. I feel the burn of helpless rage. Every cell in my body wants to stand up, pull a gun, and tear through every one of those bastards.
But the weight in my arms—Vivian—anchors me.
I won’t leave her.
Not now.
Not ever.
Another round of bullets hits the podium and she flinches hard, squeezing her eyes shut.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, pulling her tighter against me. My heart is steady even as the room explodes around us. “Nothing is going to touch you. Do you hear me? Nothing.”
When the shooting finally stops, the silence is almost worse than the gunfire.
I pull back from Vivian—just enough to look at her—and my stomach drops.
Blood.
All over me. All over her. Warm. Fresh.
“No,” I breathe, voice breaking for the first time in years. “No, no, no—Vivian—”
My hands fly over her body, searching, desperate, frantic until I find it: a grazing bullet wound slicing across the soft skin of her upper arm.
Not deep, but bleeding heavily.
My vision goes red.
“Vivian—”
“It’s okay, Dimitri. Really,” she shakes her head, but I can see the stress in her eyes.
“They came for you,” I whisper, my voice nothing but gravel and fury. “They wanted to make me watch. This attack was primarily directed at you.”
She tries to smile, even now. “It doesn’t hurt that much—”
“I don’t care.”
I practically snarl it.
I scoop her into my arms before she can protest, hugging her against me as if I can physically shield her from every danger in the world.
Outside, the hall is chaos—sirens in the distance, reporters scrambling, my men securing the perimeter. But all I see is her.
“Sylvester!” I bark.
He jogs toward me, gun still in hand, face set in a lethal scowl. “We caught one of the men. He’s—”
“Call the doctor,” I order, already striding toward the car. “Vivian has been shot.”
Sylvester’s eyes widen. “On it. I’ll have him ready by the time you get home.”
I don’t slow down. I don’t breathe.
I don’t let her go for even a second.
I place her gently in the back seat, climb in beside her, and pull her into my chest again, my heartbeat pounding so hard she can probably feel it.
“You’re okay,” I murmur fiercely into her hair, holding her trembling hand. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
But inside, the truth burns:
Someone dared to hurt her. Right in front of me.
One hour later, I leave her with the family doctor, station five guards at the door, and follow the address Sylvester sent me earlier.
They caught one of those bastards.
They have him in one of the Rusnaks’ holding cells.
No one has touched him.
They’re waiting for me.
And that’s exactly what I want.
The hallway leading to the cell is cold, metallic, humming with quiet fear. My boots echo off the concrete. Sylvester stands by the door, arms folded, jaw tight.
“He’s inside,” he says. “Refused to talk.”
I flex my hand once, feeling the phantom warmth of Vivian’s blood drying on my skin.
“He’ll talk,” I say quietly.
I step inside.
The unmasked bastard is tied to a chair, breathing hard through split lips, trying to sit tall even though he’s shaking. The moment he sees me, something in his eyes shifts—recognition, then dread.
Good.
I drag a chair across the floor and sit in front of him, elbows on my knees, calm…too calm.
“You fired into a room full of people,” I say softly. “But you aimed at one person. My person.”
He swallows.
I lean in, voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Now I want you to tell me who sent you—before I take you apart piece by piece.”
His breath stutters.
I smile, slow and cold. “I have time tonight.”
The next half hour is a blur of screams, steel, and the wet sound of a man breaking.
The gunman holds out longer than I expect. Long enough to piss me off. Long enough to make me imagine Vivian’s blood soaking through my shirt all over again.
But nobody holds out forever.
Not with me.
Eventually, he cracks—voice shredded, body slumped, breath rattling.
“Shell companies…overseas…” he coughs. “Money…moved through…two intermediaries….”
I grab his chin, force his glazed eyes to meet mine. “Names.”
He gives them. One after another.
And then—finally—the link that makes my pulse stop.
“Deveraux,” he whispers. “All trails…go back to Deveraux.”
The room goes quiet.
I straighten slowly, my heartbeat turning into a deep, steady thud of fury. Sylvester steps into the doorway, waiting for my read.
“This wasn’t random,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel already stained red. “Not a negotiation tactic. Not intimidation.”
I glance back at the broken man in the chair—alive, barely.
“No,” I say, voice dropping to something cold and certain. “This is personal.”
By the time I leave the cell, hours later, the rage in me hasn’t eased. It’s only sharpened—focused, distilled, weaponized.
I return home feeling unfulfilled. The need for violence still crawls under my skin like fire ants, but there’s something stronger pulling me upstairs.
Vivian.
I head straight to her room.
The lights are dim. She’s lying on the bed, bandaged, one arm immobilized. For a moment, she looks asleep. But when the door clicks shut behind me, her eyes open.
We stare at each other across the quiet.
No words.
Just silence—heavy, charged, trembling with fear…and something deeper neither of us dares name yet.
I sit on the edge of the bed. Slowly, carefully, I take her uninjured hand.
“Vivian,” I whisper, voice rough with everything I’ve been holding in, “you will never walk into fire again while I’m alive.”
She exhales shakily.
Then she shuts her eyes—like she’s surrendering to something she’s been fighting all day—and throws her uninjured arm around my neck. She pulls herself into me, pressing her face against my chest.
I wrap an arm around her waist, hold her steady, hold her close, unable to stop myself.
For a moment, the world stops.
No gunshots. No enemies. No blood.
Just her heartbeat against mine and the terrifying truth that I almost lost her.
Again.