31. Via
VIA
The concrete beneath my cheek is vibrating. The storm outside has been dead for hours, but the air in this damp, lightless basement is humming with a sharp, concussive pressure that makes my ears pop.
Muffled, rapid gunshots echo through the floorboards above us.
I sit up slowly, my right wrist jerking against the rusted radiator pipe, the iron handcuffs clinking sharply in the dark.
My shoulder is stiff, my split bottom lip dry and cracked, the taste of dried blood thick in my mouth.
I press my free left hand flat against my belly, my fingers digging into the green silk of my dress, my heart hitting my ribs in a fast, terrified rhythm.
We’re getting out of here.
Ekaterina is huddled against my side, her small frame shaking so violently her shoulder blades are knocking against my chest. She’s clutching her knees, her face buried in the wool of her sweater, her breath coming in short, shallow hitches. "Via... is that... is that him?"
I hope so.
"It’s him," I whisper, my voice a dry, ragged thread in the dark. "I told you. The grumpy bastard doesn't know how to stay dead."
A massive, bone-rattling explosion shakes the ceiling above us, throwing a thick shower of grey plaster dust down into the dark.
Ekaterina lets out a sharp shriek, her hands flying to cover her ears as the floorboards groan under some heavy, falling weight.
The screaming starts then, high, frantic shouts in Russian, the voices carrying a wild, disorganized panic that tells me the Russo perimeter has completely collapsed.
The heavy steel door at the top of the stairs is kicked open, a flood of harsh, yellow light pouring down the wooden steps.
Uneven, frantic footsteps thud down the stairs, the wood creaking loudly under the weight.
Mikhail descends into the basement, and he is completely unrecognizable.
The neat, beige composure he maintained yesterday is entirely gone.
His suit jacket is missing, his white shirt torn at the shoulder and soaked with a mixture of black grease and dark, fresh blood.
His face, the left side a melted, pink ruin of scars, is dripping with sweat, his blue eyes wide, glassy, and wild with the panic of a cornered animal.
He’s holding a heavy black pistol in his right hand, his fingers shaking so hard, the barrel is tracing small, erratic circles in the air.
"Get up," he growls, his voice a high, wet wheeze as he stumbles toward us. "Get the hell up!"
I don't move, my hand staying flat over my stomach as I look up at him through the yellow light. "The water is rising, isn't it, Mikhail? Your little Russo friends are running out of bullets, and you've realized you’re nothing but a decoy."
He lunges forward, his boot catching my hip as he kicks me back against the radiator.
The rusted iron bites into my spine, a sharp, white-hot pain shooting through my ribs, but I don't let a sound escape my lips.
He fumbles in his pocket, pulling out a small, silver ring of keys, his hands shaking so violently, he drops them onto the concrete.
"Shut up!" He drops to his knees, his fingernails scraping against the concrete as he scrambles for the keys. He grabs them, shoves the smallest one into the cuff on my wrist, and twists it.
The lock clicks open, the heavy iron band falling away from my skin.
He grabs me by the arm, his fingers digging into my muscle with a desperate, crushing strength, and hauls me off the floor.
I stumble, my legs stiff and cold from hours on the concrete, my head spinning with a sudden, dizzying wave of nausea.
He reaches down, grabbing Ekaterina by the collar of her coat, and drags both of us toward the stairs.
"We’re going to the slipway," he pants, his hot, sour breath hitting my neck as he forces us up the creaking wooden steps. "The boat is idling. If Kovalevskii wants his little prizes, he can try to catch us in the channel."
"He’ll catch you before you even clear the harbor," I say, my feet scraping against the wood as I try to drag my weight, trying to slow our progress. "He knows the river better than you do, Mikhail. You’re just a tourist in his city."
He pushes me through the door at the top of the stairs, and the sheer volume of the chaos hits us like a physical blow.
We are standing on the mezzanine of a massive, ruined shipyard warehouse.
Overhead, the corrugated iron roof is riddled with neat, starlike bullet holes, the pale evening light cutting through the smoke in long, grey beams. Sparks are showering down from a collapsed crane tower near the center of the floor, and the concrete below us is a mess of broken crates, burning fuel drums, and silent, dark shapes slumped in the dust.
A hail of automatic gunfire shatters the glass of the high office windows to our left, the shards raining down onto the concrete slipway below.
Mikhail doesn't stop. He keeps his grip on my arm, his body shoving through the smoke as he forces us down the narrow metal catwalk toward the rear exit. Ekaterina is weeping, her boots slipping on the metal grates, but he drags her along like a ragdoll.
"Let her go, Mikhail!" I twist in his grip, my free left hand clawing at his face, my nails searching for the pink, puckered flesh of his scar. "She has nothing to do with this! Take me and let her stay!"
He turns, his face contorted in a sick, manic fury, and backhands me across the mouth.
The force of the blow snaps my head to the side, my split lip opening up again, a warm, thick rush of blood filling my mouth.
I stumble against the metal railing, but before I can fall, he hauls me back, his fingers locking around my collar.
"You don't get to make deals, Via. You’re the reason my house was bombed. You’re the reason I’m carrying this face.
You both go on the boat, or I put a bullet in her head right here. "
Ekaterina looks up at me through her tangled dark hair, her eyes wide, terrified, and completely silent. She doesn't scream. She doesn't beg. She just holds onto my sleeve, her small hand the only anchor I have left in this screaming hell.
We burst through the rear service exit, the cool, damp evening air hitting my face like a cold splash of water.
The slipway leads straight down to a wooden finger pier that projects into the dark, misty river.
The fog off the channel is thick, a grey, moving wall that limits the visibility to a few yards, but I can see the outline of a sleek, black motorboat idling at the end of the dock, its twin outboards rumbling with a low, wet vibration.
Two Russo enforcers are standing near the cleats, their rifles held low as they scan the misty wood.
"Get them in the cabin!" Mikhail shouts, his voice cracking as we reach the damp wood of the pier. "Cast off the lines! Now!"
"We’re clear, Mikhail!" one of the guards shouts back, his hand reaching out to grab Ekaterina’s arm. "But Kovalevskii’s sweepers are at the eastern gate! We have to move!"
"Mikhail!"
The voice carries through the shifting grey fog, low, gravelly, and carrying a heavy, familiar weight that makes the blood in my veins instantly turn to ice.
A figure steps out from the shadow of the rusted fuel tanks at the base of the pier.
It isn't Ilya.
It’s my father.
Petr Denisov stands in the mist, his dark coat hanging open to reveal a heavy bulletproof vest, his grey hair damp with the fog.
He isn't holding his cane today. He’s holding a heavy black submachine gun in both hands, his face pale, tight, and lined with a exhaustion that looks older than the city.
His eyes don't look at Mikhail, and they don't look at the boat.
They lock onto mine.
"Via," he says, his voice quiet, steady, and completely devoid of the old, arrogant pride I’ve known my entire life.
The two Russo guards near the cleats spin, their rifles rising toward his chest, but Petr is faster.
The submachine gun in his hands barks, a rapid, deafening spit-spit-spit of muzzle flashes lighting up the grey fog. The two guards are thrown backward by the impact, their bodies hitting the wooden planks of the pier before sliding silently into the dark, oily water of the channel.
"Petr!" Mikhail shrieks, his face turning a dark, splotchy purple.
He spins, his heavy black pistol rising, aligning directly with my father’s chest.
"No!" I scream, throwing my entire weight against Mikhail’s arm, my heels dragging against the wet wood of the dock. "No! Stop!"
Mikhail is stronger. He shoves his elbow hard into my chest, the blow driving the air from my lungs, throwing me back onto the wet planks.
He pulls the trigger.
Bang.
The concussive slap of the shot is deafening, the bright flash lighting up the scarred ruin of his face.
My father steps forward, his boots heavy on the wet wood, his body moving in a slow, deliberate line that puts him directly between Mikhail’s barrel and me.
Bang. Bang.
Two more shots tear through the quiet fog.
The impact of the rounds throws Petr backward, his body shuddering as the bullets rip through the fabric of his coat, the black vest beneath useless against the close-range fire. He stumbles, his SMG clattering onto the wooden planks, and falls heavily onto his knees.
"Father!"
The shriek tears from my throat, a raw, bloody sound of pure, unadulterated agony that doesn't sound like my own voice. I scramble forward on my hands and knees, my fingers slipping on the wet wood, until I reach his side.
He slides flat onto his back, his chest rising and falling in short, wet gasps.
The dark, thick crimson is already blooming across his white shirt, spreading fast, soaking through the wool of his coat.
It catches the green silk of my dress as I pull his head onto my lap, the bright red blood staining the emerald fabric in a heavy, wet smear that looks exactly like the wedding train at the cathedral.
It’s happening again.
The incense. The smoke. The blood on the floor.
I’m standing in the greenhouse, holding my mother’s hand while she turns cold. The freeze is trying to take my limbs, the dark, heavy panic rushing up from my stomach to lock my throat, to turn me back into the fragile, broken girl who could do nothing but watch her world burn.
No.
A sudden, violent wave of white-hot rage explodes in my chest, burning through the panic, clearing the cold fog in my brain. I’m not seven years old anymore. I’m Viallentinka Kovalevskii. I’m carrying his child, my father is bleeding out in my lap, and I’m done running from the ghosts of this city.
My father looks up at me, his grey eyes glassy, a thin line of red running from the corner of his mouth as he tries to speak.
He doesn't have the breath. He slowly reaches up, his cold, wet fingers touching the purple mark Ilya left on my neck, his thumb tracing the bruised skin with a light, final pressure.
"Live... my little one," he whispers, his voice a low, wet rattle.
His hand drops flat onto the wood, his eyes turning wide, vacant, and staring blankly up at the grey fog.
The silence that follows is absolute.
"He’s dead, Via," Mikhail says, his voice carrying a sick, quiet satisfaction as he steps closer, his pistol pointing down at my head. "Your family is finished. Now get on the boat."
I don't look up at him.
My eyes drop to the wooden planks next to my father’s hand. The black submachine gun is lying there, the metal cool and damp with the fog, the safety still cleared.
In a single, fluid motion that I don't even think about, my hand slides onto the cold, textured grip of the weapon. I roll away from my father’s body, my knees hitting the wet wood, and swing the barrel upward, my finger locking around the steel of the trigger.
I stare straight into the scarred, smiling face of the ghost.
I pull the trigger.