Chapter 30
Anya
I wake to strange noises and movement in the bed.
A sharp crack sounds in the distance, outside. Then another. My half-asleep brain scrambles to match it to something familiar: a branch snapping, fireworks, an old car backfiring… anything seems more plausible than the truth.
Gunshots.
I open my eyes and sit up fast. Maksim is already on his feet.
He’s so fast I can’t keep up. One second he’s sleeping beside me, and the next he’s standing by the bed, naked, alert, pistol in hand—must have grabbed it from the nightstand. His silhouette against the window is tense, every muscle outlined in the dim light filtering in from outside.
For a moment he says nothing, just stands there with the gun in his hands, eyes fixed on the sheer curtain, listening and watching for any movement outside.
“Maksim…” I call out, barely above a whisper—so quiet I don’t think he’ll hear.
“Get dressed,” he orders, already yanking on his pants. He disappears into the closet and comes back wearing a plain t-shirt and a double holster, a gun on each side. “Now, Svetlana! Shoes too, let’s go.”
I obey without arguing, shaking off my stupor, heart pounding in my throat. Sweatpants, sports bra, tank top, the boots beside the bed. My hands tremble as I grab the knife Yelena gave me and strap it to my ankle.
The shots sound closer now. Maksim eases the door open, checks both ways, then moves into the hallway—gun in one hand, the other gripping mine, guiding me. A rapid burst of cracks echoes through the house, sounds I’ve only ever heard in movies and never thought were real.
“That’s a machine gun,” I whisper, incredulous.
“No. Assault rifle. Kalashnikov[26] automatic.”
The coldness with which he corrects me—in the middle of an attack—sends a chill down my spine. I take several deep breaths, following his steady, silent footsteps, trying to focus only on keeping up with him and not on the fact that we’re under attack.
Under attack.
The words hit hard. Someone came here. To our home. They want to kill us.
Maksim stops at the end of the hallway, at the foot of the stairs, grabs my chin and forces me to meet his eyes.
“You’re going to the office—Olga will be there. Do everything she tells you and don’t leave the hiding place for anything. Not even if you hear my voice telling you to come out. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Anya.” His fingers tighten gently on my chin, his hard eyes locked on mine. “For nothing, you hear me?”
“Okay.”
And then he’s gone, heading down toward the ground floor where the shots stop and start again. On trembling legs, I climb toward the second floor, moving as fast as I can to the office.
Before I can knock, the door flies open and I nearly scream.
“Quiet.”
I’m pulled inside, thin cold fingers wrapping around my wrist with more strength than I thought she had.
In what must be the safest room in the house, I look at Olga for the first time and the sight hits me like a blow.
She’s almost unrecognizable in a pale pink robe, her hair loose from its pins, her left arm pressed strangely against her body.
I notice the fabric soaking through with blood just above the elbow.
“Olga!”
“Just a graze,” she cuts me off, voice low. “Came out of nowhere. Didn’t run into anyone on the way here. Now come on—we can’t waste time.”
She moves toward the built-in bookshelf near a small fireplace and runs her hand beneath one of the shelves, feeling for something.
A click, and an entire wall panel swings open to reveal a hidden room.
It’s a panic room—small, lined with steel on all sides, with nothing but a dim emergency light and a screen showing feeds from every camera in the house.
That’s how she saw me coming.
“Get in,” Olga orders.
“But there’s no air vent—how will we breathe—” I start to babble, but she pulls me inside and shuts the door.
“There’s a ventilation system. Now sit down and try to calm yourself.”
In one corner sits a sleeping bag and a backpack that looks like it holds basic supplies. I move toward it but can’t bring myself to sit, too agitated by the deafening silence pressing down on the room.
On the screens, I see men in black crossing the front yard.
Muzzle flashes like lightning from the weapons they carry, and our men positioned at various points on the main floor.
Maksim’s silhouette stands out, moving stealthily through Ivan’s winter garden, circling the house to head straight for the attackers.
“Maksim is out there,” I say, my voice shaking. “I can’t just hide while—”
“While what?” Olga stares at me with the hard gaze of someone who’s lived too long in this world.
“While the men do their job? What are you going to do out there, girl? With what weapon? What training?” Her voice softens slightly.
“There’s a time to help and a time to wait, Svetlana. Today, you wait. That’s how you help.”
She's right, of course she is. This woman, usually so austere, carries a wisdom and experience I never imagined. Olga is Bratva, too. She raised the former Pakhan's son and watched him, along with her own son, grow up and conquer this world. She knows what she's talking about.
So I give a brief nod and take her hand, guiding her to sit beside me on the sleeping bag.
“Let me see that.” I carefully pull her injured arm into my lap, but she resists.
“Later.”
“Olga.” I hold her hand firmly, the way she did with me seconds ago. “I wasn't asking.”
Despite her surprise, I can tell she approves of my command, and slowly, very carefully, I help her lower the robe.
I don't know much about bullet wounds, but this is clearly more than just a “graze” like she said.
There's a deep gash in her forearm that won't stop bleeding.
It's ugly, but I don't flinch. I pull my tank top over my head, leaving just my sports bra, and tie the fabric tightly above the wound.
“Ballerina knows how to make a tourniquet now?” Olga grumbles.
“I had a roommate who liked medical dramas.” I tighten it a bit more and she grits her teeth. “There wasn't much else to do in the Bolshoi dorms.”
“You went there when you were very young?”
“I was fourteen. It was good—better there with all the discipline and strict schedules than staying in Vysotsk dealing with my mother's coldness.”
“Your mother sounds like a lovely person.”
“You have no idea,” I reply quietly, finishing with the makeshift tourniquet. “Hold this and apply pressure.”
We don't talk after that. Not about my family, about the Bolshoi, or about the attack unfolding outside.
The truth is there isn't much more to say about me—my mother was terrible and I found refuge in the discipline of ballet school.
The people I met there, even those who shared dorms with me, were so transient that I can barely remember their names now.
As for what's happening outside… Well, Olga was right. I have to trust that everyone out there knows what they're doing. I can tell from the way she clenches her fingers in her lap that she's not immune to the nervousness and worry either.
We stay there for a while. Too long, just waiting. We can see some movement through the cameras, but nothing that tells us what's actually happening.
Then comes an explosion.
The entire floor shakes. The emergency light flickers, and Olga squeezes my hand with everything she has. I squeeze back, holding my breath, eyes fixed on the screen where one camera has gone dark and the others waver, showing only smoke swallowing the garden.
After that, nothing. Just silence.
Anguish consumes me. I don't know what's happening, don't know if we're about to die or if Maksim…
The door opens.
I lunge forward, reaching for the knife hidden in my boot, and place myself between Olga and the door. I don't know how or where this instinct came from, but I'm ready to do whatever it takes to keep us alive.
Whatever it takes.
Slowly, light from the office spills into the room, illuminating a silhouette in the doorway.
Maksim.
Alive. Blood stains his hands and clothes, but he's alive.
I cross the small room in a rush and throw myself into his arms. Frantic, I cup his face in my palms, turn it toward the light, searching for a cut, a wound, anything that would explain all that blood.
But I find nothing. The blood isn't his.
“Medvezhonok,” I call softly, a lump catching in my throat. “Are you in one piece? Look at me. Are you hurt?”
He freezes.
Beneath my hands, his body goes still for a fraction of a second, as if that word hit a place not even bullets could reach. He looks at me, and for the first time, beneath all the violence that just happened, I see my husband almost break.
“I'm fine,” he says, his voice low. “None of this is mine.”
Relief hits me so hard my legs almost give out. I rest my forehead against his chest, not caring about the blood making his shirt stick to his body. I breathe deeply, the acrid, metallic smell invading my senses and making me nauseous, but also reminding me that it's over.
“Olga got hurt,” I say, still holding him. “Her arm—it looks bad. I made a makeshift tourniquet.”
He pulls away from me just a little and looks at Olga, who's already passing us, heading out of the room. I hear quick footsteps coming from the hallway and I flinch, still in shock. Igor's deep voice fills the room.
“Mama[27]!”
He covers the distance between them in just three steps and wraps his arms around her. A low, whispered conversation unfolds between them. Olga, just like me, runs her hands over her son's face and arms, searching for injuries.
I like watching this moment between the two of them—it's beautiful, and even though there's a part of me that envies it, I still appreciate it. I don't watch for long, though, not wanting to intrude on a moment that's only theirs.
I savor Maksim’s warmth a little longer, feeling his chest rise and fall, listening to his racing heart pound against my ear.
The calm passes faster than I’d like. Grisha, along with other men, appears in the hallway, not daring to enter the sacred office. Maksim starts firing off so many questions my head spins, barking orders left and right.
He releases me slowly, and I know this gentle movement comes with an unspoken question—a request for permission he wouldn’t make in front of his men.
“You can go,” I say quietly. “I’ll be with Olga in the kitchen.”
Maksim leans down and presses a chaste kiss to my forehead before walking out the door.
We’re sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea in silence while a short, middle-aged doctor bandages Olga’s arm.
She complains and grumbles about how this isn’t necessary, but the man just ignores her and keeps working.
After the doctor—who never even introduced himself—leaves in a silent rush, probably heading to the next wounded person, I finally hear the housekeeper address me.
“You became the lady of the house tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
Her small, tired eyes regard me with tenderness beneath that serious expression.
“You didn’t freeze up or run off to hide and cry in a corner.” She shrugs with her good arm. “You took care of me and wanted to take care of him too.” A pause. “Your mother-in-law would have liked you, girl. She was the same way—held the house together when the world was on fire.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just sip my tea and reach out to take her hand. I squeeze her thin fingers—a silent thank you—and Olga gives me something very rare and very precious: a small smile.
Our brief, intimate moment is interrupted by Maksim. He bursts into the kitchen, agitated, eyes darting everywhere as if searching for something. When his gaze lands on me, my heart freezes. I know something terrible has happened.
“Ivan’s been shot.”