3. Dominik
DOMINIK
When gunfire breaks out at the chapel, I don’t waste time thinking. I grab Ana and wrench open the door of the first waiting car.
“What the—” the driver doesn’t finish before I shove Ana into the back seat, elbow him aside, and take the wheel. Hesitation gets people killed, and this situation is already past forgiving.
People scatter out of our way as the car lurches forward, guards shouting and calling for reinforcements while someone stumbles clear at the last second.
A figure breaks from the chapel steps with a gun raised, dressed like the rest of them in black, his face hidden behind dark lenses, and there’s no time to tell who he belongs to.
The tires scream as I wrench us left, then right, forcing the car through a lane that barely fits, the impact throwing Ana hard against the rear door.
I twist at the waist without lifting my foot from the gas and reach back, bracing my forearm across her chest as I haul her down. Gunfire cracks again, closer.
The rear window explodes inward, glass spraying across the back seat in sharp bursts. Ana swears once and yanks the seatbelt across her body, locking it hard as she pulls it tight before curling inward, forearms over her head.
Good. I angle the car to give her the door instead of the glass and take the next turn too fast. The driver yells something useless.
I don’t answer him. I don’t need him anymore.
“Get out,” I snap. “Now.”
He hesitates for half a second too long, so I repeat it louder, and that does it. He jerks the door open as I slow just enough, then he’s gone, disappearing into the alley with the kind of speed that comes from knowing better than to argue.
I fix my attention on the exit route, settle fully into the wheel, and punch the gas.
The engine roars as we tear down a side street slick with rain and grime.
I know this part of the city, which spills into traffic thick enough to lose a tail.
Ana is breathing hard behind me. I don’t look at her yet.
A black Mercedes-Benz swings in behind us, clean, confident. The rules are clear. No sirens, so not the police. No hesitation, so not freelance. It closes the distance without weaving, without testing us, the driver holding the wheels steady.
I take a corner hard enough that my shoulder slams into the door, then cut through a service lane and onto a main road without signaling. Horns blare. People shout. No one follows us through the chaos except the car behind us.
My phone buzzes in the console. I don’t answer it. It buzzes again. I flick on the radio instead, tuning to a private channel I use to stay ahead, not catching up. Voices bleed through, clipped and tense, layered over each other with coded threats and false politeness.
“She flew away. It’s a shame.”
“Then you failed.”
“It’s not all my fault.”
“The council hasn’t placed her yet.”
“That’s the problem.”
That tells me enough. I shut it off. This isn’t noise. It’s positioning. Ana isn’t a widow to them. She’s unresolved inventory. Too dangerous to leave unresolved.
This is what happens when a debt doesn’t stay buried, something that needs to be locked down before it drifts into the wrong hands. It means someone wants her claimed fast, and someone else wants her erased. Either way, they don’t want her deciding anything for herself.
The road opens and I push it past one twenty, then bleed the speed before the turn. I hit the brakes hard, feel the car settle, and swing left into the underground ramp at forty. I kill the lights and let us roll into shadow.
The car behind us misses the entrance and vanishes down the road.
I wait in silence. Thirty seconds. Maybe sixty. The engine idles softly, heat rising in the cabin. I watch the mirrors, every angle, waiting for a reversal or a second car that hangs back to be clever. Nothing.
In the rearview, I catch the pale oval of her face in the dim garage light. Her gaze is fixed on me, wide and alert. I give a slow blink, the only signal I can offer. Stay still.
After a minute, I decide to pull off. Forward is exactly what they’d expect if they came back for us.
I take the exit only a few know exists, a faded service ramp off the Krestovaya Line that runs behind the abandoned warehouses, used mostly by locals and drivers avoiding the midday traffic snarl.
Most hunters don’t bother with it because it looks like a dead end on every map.
But I know it. A narrow and cracked lane opens out onto Primorskoye Shosse, where traffic thins and sightlines open. Once we’re out, I pick a new direction with care, choosing roads that curve and divide instead of straight ones that broadcast our path.
I don’t slow down until I’m sure. When I finally stop, my hands are steady, but my jaw aches from being clenched too long. Ana is still pressed into the seat, hair loose around her face, a streak of blood on her cheek from the splintering glass.
She’s shaking but silent. It isn’t the cold doing it. It’s the chase, the understanding that someone is hunting her, slow to leave her system.
“You're hurt,” I say.
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”
I look at the cut again. It's a graze. I pull out my burner and hit a number I don’t use unless it’s this kind of situation.
Denis answers on the first ring.
“Need a clean switch,” I say.
“Where are you?” Denis asks, nothing more. He doesn’t talk much, and he doesn’t repeat what he hears.
I send the coordinates and text no tails. He sends a thumbs up and writes five minutes, tops.
Ana throws open the door, coat whipping loose around her knees. The veil’s gone, lost somewhere between gunfire and flight. Her dark hair clings to her face. She stands on the curb, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the street.
“That cut doesn't look too bad,” I say. “It'll heal.” I stroke her cheek lightly.
She shuts her eyes and draws a long, tight breath.
“We’re going back,” she says.
I look at her, confused.
“Back where?”
“My apartment.”
“No.”
“Yes,” she snaps.
“You think going back to where they know you live is a good idea?”
Her eyes flare. “I live there. I can handle it.”
I stare at her like she’s lost her mind. “You call being shot at ‘handle’ now?”
She glares at me, coat tightening around her like armor.
“I know the layout. I know who watches which windows. I know which doors lock from the inside and which rattled when we passed.”
I rub my thumb against the back of my neck.
“You think they won’t wait for you there?”
She blows out a breath, her mouth pressing into a thin line. “You think I woke up today and said, ‘Let’s get chased through St. Petersburg and question where we sleep’? No. I’m not asking for comfort. I’m asking to go someplace I’ve earned.”
“Earned?” I blurt it out without thinking. I’ll regret it later. “You think that place earned you?” I say.
She meets my eyes without flinching. “Better than hiding elsewhere.”
My voice goes hard. “Better? They tried to corner us out there. At your husband’s funeral.”
“So?” Her voice drops, firm. “We go back and take back control. Not run from every shadow.”
I see the logic. I just don’t like the risk. “That place makes you predictable,” I say. “Predictable gets people killed.”
Her nostrils flare. “So, what?” she asks. “Stay on the move forever? Ghost towns living for the rest of our lives? Is that freedom?”
Her question lands between us. It presses on things I don’t want touched immediately.
“Danger is not the same as control. You’re mistaken,” I say.
“I know what I know,” she tells me, voice steady. Her eyes rest on mine. “And whatever you think I forgot, I didn’t.”
Then she softens, just a fraction. “I’m asking for something that belongs to me.”
I can feel the tension in her shoulders. She steps closer, near enough that I feel her warmth through the coat. I don’t step back, and neither of us mentions how close that is to wanting.
Her voice drops, not soft, just real. “You don’t trust me,” she says.
I don’t deny it. I don’t lie.
“I trust your instincts,” I say, “but instincts aren’t walls.”
She just watches me. “You fear losing control,” she says.
I say nothing. The wind off the gulf cuts around us. Then she reaches up and lightly touches my lips.
“Then take control,” she whispers hotly in my ear. “Show me how to survive. Right here.”
I swallow tightly. “You don’t make it easy,” I say.
Before I can answer, headlights cut through the gray, and Denis rolls up in a dusty Lada. That's just the appearance. Inside, the car is as good as new. Denis sees to it.
"Get in," he says, and we slide into the back seat without a word. He merges into traffic with a grunt, takes the address, and the rest of the ride is silent.
The Lada drops us off at her apartment. I get out first, scan the street, the windows, the cars parked too neatly.
“Go,” I tell her. “Inside. Don’t turn on the lights.” Denis gives a short nod, then pulls away without waiting for thanks.
She hesitates, then moves fast. I follow her up the stairs, hand near my gun, every sense on alert. Ana opens the lock, steps in, walks to a wall, and flicks on a single hall light. It gives more shadow than light. The apartment smells stale, like the rooms haven’t breathed in a long time.
I lock the door behind us and drop the chain. Only then do I breathe. Ana leans against the wall, fingers pressed to her mouth, eyes finally losing their edge. She looks at me like she’s about to say something. My phone buzzes again. I look at it. Council. I silence it.
Her gaze flicks to the screen. “You’re not answering.”
“No.”
“They won’t like that.”
“I don’t care.”
She studies me, her face falling open, almost gentle, her eyes soft at the edges. “You’re burning bridges,” she says.
“I know.”
I move deeper into the apartment, checking rooms, windows, exits.
It’s a habit, and it lets me avoid her observations.
When I come back, she’s poured two drinks from a bottle she says she keeps tucked behind the sink.
She hands one to me without asking. I take it.
We stand there for a moment, the silence thick and strange.
“They’re going to force it,” she says, the words barely clearing her throat. “The marriage.”
“I won’t let them.”
Her mouth tightens. “You don’t get a vote.”
“I’ve got a gun,” I reply.
She almost smiles, and then her face squeezes shut.
“This is worse than before,” she says. “You know that.”
“I do.”
She takes a breath. “You’re still here.”
“Yes.”
She looks at me then—really looks, like she’s stripping away the years and the rules and the fear, and what’s left is something we both recognize.
“You were my friend,” she says, and it hangs between us.
I don’t answer right away because if I do, I’ll admit we were more than friends at fifteen.
“I didn’t choose that,” I finally reply.
She nods. “I know.”
The space between us feels charged, tight, and familiar in a way that makes my hands itch.
“I hated you for working for him,” she admits.
“I hated myself for it,” I say, breathing evenly. “That was the only way I could be near you. It wasn’t pretty watching you.”
Her breath catches. “You never touched me.”
“I wanted to,” I say.
She swallows. “It wasn’t safe.”
“No.”
The word hangs there. She steps closer like she’s testing whether the ground will give. I let her decide.
“You’re the only thing that feels steady right now,” she says.
“That’s dangerous.”
“So is everything else.”
She reaches up and grips my jacket, fingers curling like she needs the anchor. I can smell her, feel the heat of her body, and it takes everything I have not to pull her closer.
“Say no,” she whispers.
I don’t.
She leans in and kisses me, soft at first, then harder when I respond. My hands come up to her waist, firm, grounding, like I’m afraid she’ll disappear if I let go.