30. Ilya
ILYA
The smell of bleach is the first thing that registers, a sting that burns the back of my throat.
I try to draw a breath, but my chest instantly locks, a blinding, white-hot spike of agony driving straight through my left lung.
I let out a low, wet cough, a thick, metallic taste filling my mouth as my head thrashes against a thin, vinyl pillow.
The ceiling above me is made of raw pine joists, the rhythmic, muffled vibration of heavy washing machines rumbling somewhere overhead.
The basement clinic.
My eyes blink open, the flickering light of a single fluorescent tube making my skull throb with a dull, heavy rhythm.
I try to sit up, but my body refuses to obey.
My legs are completely dead, numb and heavy under a rough wool blanket, and a thick plastic chest tube is taped tightly to my left side, drawing dark, sluggish bubbles of red into a plastic canister on the floor.
"Don't move, Pakhan."
Yuri, the young field medic who usually handles the dock enforcers' knife wounds, steps into my line of sight. He’s wearing a blood-stained green apron, his hands covered in thin latex gloves that are smeared with dark crimson.
He has a silver syringe in his hand, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and frantic with a panic he’s trying to hide.
"Your lung is half-collapsed. The steel beam crushed three of your ribs. If you pull that tube out, you’re going to choke on your own blood in five minutes. "
I grab his wrist with my good right hand, my fingers locking around his bones like a vise. My grip is shaky, but I have enough strength to force his hand down. "Where is Dmitri?"
Yuri’s jaw works, his eyes dropping to the concrete floor.
He’s gone.
Dmitri is gone. My right-hand man, the only person who has stood beside me since my father handed me a blade at seven years old, is currently lying in the ashes of the estate.
A sudden, violent wave of nausea hits my stomach.
The physical pain in my chest flares up so hard, my vision darkens at the edges.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my teeth grinding together until I can hear the enamel click.
I see the phone screen behind my eyelids.
The zip-ties on her small, pale wrists. The dark grease on her forehead.
The grey sweater thrown on the bedroom floor.
"He’s right, you know."
The voice comes from the dark corner of the room, near the old iron boiler.
I open my eyes slowly.
Petr Denisov is sitting on a rusted folding chair, his heavy wool coat draped over his shoulders, his hands resting on the silver handle of his cane.
He looks older today. The sharp, arrogant posture of the southern Pakhan is entirely gone, replaced by a hollow, weary slump that makes him look like a ghost himself.
He’s holding a plastic cup of cold water, his fingers trembling just a fraction as he sets it on a wooden crate.
I release Yuri’s wrist, my hand dropping flat onto the cot. "You’re a long way from your safe house, Petr."
Petr stands up slowly, his cane thudding softly against the concrete as he walks to the side of my bed.
He looks down at my bandaged chest, his grey eyes scanning the blood soaking through the linen.
"My safe house doesn't have a security detail anymore, Ilya.
My accounts are dry. My men left at noon.
If your boy Yuri hadn't found me in the suburbs, I’d probably be sitting in a cellar waiting for the Russos to find my retirement fund. "
I let out a short, wet chuckle that turns into a sharp, agonizing groan as the chest tube rattles in my side. "I sent the five million."
"I know," Petr says, his face softening just a fraction, his hand coming to rest on the metal frame of my cot.
"The courier got the codes before the Vostok lanes were flagged.
My security stayed long enough to get me to the city border.
You kept your word, Kovalevskii. Even when the world was falling down around you. "
I look up at the ceiling, my chest expanding in a shallow, whistling breath. "I didn't do it for you."
"I know that too," Petr says, his voice dropping into a quiet, heavy register. "She’s my daughter, Ilya. But she’s your wife now. I saw how she looked at you at that museum. I saw the way she stood next to you on that balcony."
I look back at him, the old, bitter hatred between us finally turning into a dull, cold ash. There is no pride left in this room. No contracts. No territorial boundaries. We are just two broken men who have lost the only thing that mattered to us in a single, violent afternoon.
"I took her to hurt you," I rasp, my voice a low, gravelly whisper that sounds raw in the quiet basement. "I wanted to take your pride at that altar. I wanted to make you watch your legacy burn. But... I was wrong."
Petr doesn't move. He just watches my face, his jaw tight.
"I love her, Petr," I say, the confession dropping between us like a heavy iron weight. "I’ve spent twenty years learning how to kill, how to build walls, how to be the monster my father wanted me to be. But she... she cracked the ice. I can't lose her. I’m sorry for how I took her. I’m sorry for the wedding. "
Petr takes a long, slow breath, his head bowing slightly as he leans his weight on his cane. He stays silent for a long time, the only sound the steady, rhythmic hum of the washing machines upstairs. When he looks back up, there are tears in the deep creases around his eyes, but his gaze is steady.
"She’s a stubborn girl, Ilya," Petr says, a tiny, sad smile scratching at the corner of his mouth. "She takes after her mother. She doesn't break easily. But if anyone can get her back from that bastard, it’s you. I’m not going to let you do it alone."
I stretch my right hand out, my fingers wrapping around his palm. The grip is firm, a silent, final seal on an alliance that should have happened twenty years ago.
"Where are they?" I ask, my hand tightening on his.
"The old southern shipyard," Petr says, his face turning hard as he pulls his hand back and reaches into his coat pocket.
He pulls out a printed satellite map, unfolding it across my stomach.
"Mikhail isn't working alone. He has three teams of Russo enforcers guarding the dry docks. It’s a joint strike. Viktor Russo gets the northern shipping lanes once you’re in the ground, and Mikhail gets the girl. He wants his trophy back."
I trace the red circles on the map with my thumb, my eyes narrowing into slits. "He’s working with the Russos."
"He’s their puppet," Petr growls, his cane tapping the concrete. "But he’s a dangerous puppet. He has forty men on the perimeter, two thermal scopes on the crane tower, and the dry dock is reinforced with steel plates. It’s a fortress, Ilya. If we go in there, we aren't coming back."
"We don't need to come back," I say, my voice flat, cold, and final.
I grab the thick plastic chest tube taped to my ribs.
"Pakhan, no!" Yuri screams, lunging forward to grab my hand, but I shove him back with my elbow, his body hitting the metal instrument tray with a loud, crashing clatter.
I pull.
The physical sensation is horrific, a hot, tearing vacuum that feels like my entire lung is being ripped out through my side as the plastic tube slides free from my chest. I let out a loud, animalistic roar of pure, agonizing pain, my back arching off the cot, my teeth grinding together so hard, a chip of enamel bites into my tongue.
Blood, hot and thick, immediately fountains from the open wound, soaking through my white bandages and dripping onto the concrete floor.
"Stitches! Now!" I growl, my chest heaving as I try to draw a shallow, whistling breath of the bleach-scented air. "Tape it shut, Yuri. I’m standing up."
Yuri is shaking, his latex gloves slick with my blood as he tears a strip of heavy medical adhesive from the roll.
He presses a thick pad of sterile gauze over the hole, his fingers digging into my ribs to hold the pressure.
"You’re going to bleed out before we even reach the car, Ilya! Your blood pressure is dropping!"
"I don't care," I rasp, my good hand grabbing the metal frame of the bed as I swing my legs over the edge.
The movement is a blinding white wall of agony.
My thighs are numb, the muscles stiff and cold from where the steel beam crushed them, but as my bare feet touch the cold concrete, the pain hits my brain like a physical hammer.
The stitches along my left side and my thigh instantly snap, a warm, wet rush of fresh blood soaking through my trousers, turning the grey cotton into a deep, dark red.
I stumble, my knees bucking, my weight falling forward.
Petr catches me by the shoulder, his cane creaking under our combined weight as he holds me steady. He doesn't tell me to lie down. He doesn't tell me I’m being a fool. He just grinds his teeth, his hand solid on my arm until my feet find their balance on the stone.
"You're a stubborn bastard, Kovalevskii," Petr pants, his face pale from the effort of holding me up.
"I’m her husband," I say, my jaw set, my breathing shallow and fast.
Yuri steps in front of me, his hand holding a silver syringe filled with a clear, sparkling liquid. "Morphine, Pakhan. Just enough to dull the edge so you can hold a rifle. If you don't take it, the shock is going to stop your heart before you reach the southern channel."
I look at the needle, then at his face. I raise my right hand, my palm flat and heavy, and slap the syringe out of his grip. The glass shatters against the concrete floor, the clear liquid pooling in the dust.
"No drugs," I growl, my voice a flat, freezing whisper. "I need the pain. If I can't feel the side of my body, I won't know if I’m dying. The pain keeps me focused. The pain keeps me sharp."
Yuri stares at the broken glass on the floor, his mouth opening slightly in a mixture of terror and absolute disbelief. He slowly backs away, his hands rising in a gesture of submission. "You're a monster, Ilya."
"I am," I say, my eyes dark, cold, and completely empty of any human mercy. "Now get the gear."
The armory in the sub-basement is a narrow, brick-walled vault that smells of gun oil, packing grease, and cold stone.
I’m standing in front of the gun rack, my hands moving in a slow, painful blur as I check the chamber of my AK-74.
My dislocated left shoulder is hanging loose, a dull, dead weight that I can barely lift, but I grab a heavy roll of black duct tape from the workbench.
I wrap the tape tightly around my shoulder and my chest, binding the joint flat against my rib cage to keep it from shifting when I move.
The pressure is suffocating, turning every breath into a short, stabbing gasp, but it holds the bone in place.
I slide six thirty-round magazines into my tactical vest, the heavy steel cartridges clicking sharply into the fabric.
My remaining captains, only six of them left, the survivors of the southern gate detail, stand in a line near the steel table, their faces pale, tight, and completely silent under the flickering light of the bulb.
They are all that is left of my empire. The men I raised, the men I paid, the men who survived the thermite blast.
"We are six men," Lev says, his head bandaged with a bloody cloth, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "And Petr has eight of his old guard. We’re going against forty Russo enforcers with thermal scopes, Ilya. It’s a suicide run."
"Then don't come," I say, my voice flat as I slide a fresh magazine into the well of my rifle. "I’m going to the shipyard. If you want to stay in this basement and wait for Viktor Russo to find you, that’s your business."
Lev looks at the captains, then back at me, a sudden, dark pride settling into his jaw. He clears his safety with a sharp click. "I’ve been a Kovalevskii since I was fifteen, Pakhan. I’m not starting a new career today."
The other captains nod once, their faces turning into hard, silent masks as they check their weapons.
Petr steps into the room wearing a heavy bulletproof vest under his dark coat, holding a modified submachine gun in his hand.
He looks at my bound shoulder, then at the bloody bandages showing through my torn shirt.
"The fog is rolling in off the southern channel, Ilya.
The visibility at the docks is down to five yards.
The thermal scopes won't be able to track us through the mist if we stay close to the water. "
"Then we use the water," I say, my boots thudding as I walk toward the stairs. "We use the old cargo barges to bypass the main gate. They won't expect a river breach if they think I’m dead under the house."
"And Mikhail?" Petr asks, his hand tightening on his cane as we ascend the stairs into the damp evening air.
"He’s mine," I growl, my jaw set, the cold ice in my blood finally turning back into a steady, freezing rage.
We climb into the back of two unmarked black delivery vans parked in the alley behind the dry cleaners. The engine rumbles to life with a low, heavy vibration, the tires splashing through the wet gravel as we pull out into the dark, misty streets of the city.
I lean my head back against the metal wall of the van, my eyes closing as I listen to the steady, rhythmic hum of the tires against the asphalt.
My side is on fire. Every breath is a knife in my lung, the blood slowly soaking through the fresh duct tape, sticky and warm against my ribs. I don't care. I let the pain burn, let it wash over my brain like a cold wave of water, keeping me sharp, keeping me focused on the only image that matters.
I’m coming, Via.
She is my other half. My violent, beautiful whole.
And if I have to drag myself through the mud of that shipyard on my knees, I’m going to tear Mikhail’s throat out with my bare teeth before I let him touch what is mine.
I slide my leather glove on, my fingers locking around the cold steel of my rifle as the van turns toward the river.
The city is going to burn tonight.
But when the smoke clears, I’ll be the one holding her in the dark.