Chapter 22 – Danil
The quiet of my study was a welcome relief from the chaos of the outside world.
I sat at my desk, the wound on my side a dull, constant throb beneath my bandages.
The pain was a sharp reminder of the new reality I was living in, a reality where my world and caterers were now one, vulnerable to the same threats.
Her trust, given so conditionally, felt like both a shield and a powerful, new purpose. I had to protect her. At all costs.
A knock on my door, and Luka entered. He looked more tired than usual, his face pale. In his hand, he held a dark, unopened bottle of wine.
“Danil,” he said, his voice flat.
I glanced at the antique clock on the wall. “Luka, it’s not even noon. This feels a little early to start drinking.”
He didn’t smile. He just set the wine bottle down on my desk, the glass making a quiet thud against the polished wood. “This arrived yesterday. For you and your wife. A wedding gift.”
The words sent a prickle of unease down my spine. This timing, the gesture—it all felt wrong. It wasn’t our wedding anniversary. We hadn’t celebrated anything. “From who?” I asked, my voice suddenly colder.
“That’s the thing,” he said, his gaze locked on the bottle.
“The note was generic. A gift for the happy couple. But it didn’t sit right with me.
The messenger, the timing…. I had it tested.
” He finally looked up at me, his eyes grim.
“It’s poisoned. A highly potent nerve agent. Enough to kill a dozen men.”
My blood ran cold. My mind, usually so quick to react, went completely blank. A wedding gift. For my wife and me. A quiet, insidious poison. It wasn’t a warning. It was a direct assassination attempt, a message in a bottle.
“Katria,” I said, the word a choke in my throat. I had held it. I was in the same room as her. She had been here, in the same room. I could have brought it to her myself. I could have killed her.
“She hasn’t touched it, Danil,” Luka said, as if reading my mind. “It was intercepted before it made it to her.”
“Who sent it?” I asked the question in a low, dangerous growl. “Who delivered it?”
I stared at the wine bottle, my mind reeling. My blood ran cold, a silent terror gripping my heart. “Who delivered it?” I repeated, my voice now low, a dangerous growl. “Where did it come from?”
Luka met my gaze, his own eyes grim. “It was a young delivery rider. He seemed completely clueless, Danil. He just had the package. We tracked his route and found the courier service. It’s a local company, a small outfit.
They were hired through a ghost account.
But the package itself…we were able to trace the label. ”
He paused, a heavy silence hanging in the air between us. “It came from a local vineyard. And one of the owners listed on the company registry…is Feliks.”
The name hit me like a physical blow. Feliks. It was always him; he wasn’t just a traitor. He was a murderer. He had tried to kill me. He had tried to kill Katria. My hands clenched into fists, a raw, murderous rage bubbling just beneath the surface.
“I need your permission to move on him, Danil,” Luka said, his voice filled with a desperate urgency. “We can arrest him. We can interrogate him. We can get the truth out of him before he has a chance to disappear.”
My first instinct was to say yes. To unleash every man, every resource, to tear him apart. But then, I remembered the last time I had acted on instinct. The last time I had killed a man who was, in the end, innocent. And I thought of Katria. Of her tears. Of her warning.
If you’re lying to me…I will never forgive you.
“No,” I said, the word a slow, firm command.
Luka’s eyes widened in disbelief. “No? Danil, he tried to poison you. He tried to poison your wife! We have him!”
“We have him on a technicality,” I countered, my voice low and steady.
“He’s old and confident. He’s been playing this game his entire life.
If we arrest him now, based on a single piece of evidence that could be plausibly explained away as a mistake, he will get out of it again.
He’ll use his connections, his resources.
He’ll lawyer up, and he’ll be a free man within a week.
And then he’ll have a clear target on our backs. ”
I stood, walking to the window, my gaze fixed on the storm-swept trees outside.
“He thinks he’s invisible. He thinks he’s untouchable.
We won’t give him the satisfaction of a panicked, amateur move.
We won’t give him a chance to get away.” I turned back to Luka, my eyes a silent command.
“I want you to compile every single piece of evidence we’ve already found.
Every laundering transaction. Every suspicious meeting.
Every dirty deal. And I want a case so airtight, so overwhelming, that when we finally move, he has nowhere to go. No one to call. No way to escape.”
Luka was silent for a moment, processing my words. He finally nodded, a slow look of respect on his face. “Yes, Danil. We’ll do it. But….” He gestured to the wine bottle. “Things are no longer safe here. He’s made his move. He knows where you are.”
“I know,” I said, my face now fixed on the door of my suite. “And because of that…I’ll take Katria away. To one of the other houses. We’ll be harder to find there. Harder to reach.”
Luka modded and left, the silence in the study growing heavy with the weight of our shared secret.
A poisoned bottle. A gift for my wife and me.
The cold rage that had consumed me after my father’s death was back, but this time, it was different.
It wasn’t a blind fury. It was a focused, malevolent fire, aimed at a single purpose: the protection of Katria.
Feliks had crossed a line, a line he could never uncross. He had made this personal.
I walked from the study, my steps deliberate.
I had to go to get it. I had to tell her.
Not all of it, but enough to make her understand.
Enough to make her move. I knew this wouldn’t be easy.
She wouldn’t simply obey. She was not a subordinate, not a guard, not an employee. She was my wife. And she was a fighter.
I found her in the library, a book in her hands, her brow furrowed in concentration. The quiet of the room, the image of her, so calm and peaceful, was a stark contrast to the violence I had just heard about.
“Katria,” I said, my voice low.
He looked up, her expression immediately becoming guarded. She put the book down, her movement slow and deliberate. “Danil. Is everything alright?” Her eyes, though, were sharp, searching, betraying a suspicion she had no doubt harbored since my return yesterday.
“No,” I admitted, my voice blunt. “Everything is not alright. I need you to pack a bag. Just the essentials. We’re leaving.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed in defiance. “Leaving? Where are we going? Why?”
“To one of the other estates,” I said, my words clipped and precise. “It’s a security precaution. It’s not safe here.”
She stood, a fresh wave of suspicion crossing her features. “Not safe? What does that mean? Are you in danger? I’m I?” She took a step toward me, her arms crossed over her chest. “Is this because of what happened yesterday? The…the ambush?”
“That’s part of it,” I said, my patience wearing thin. I didn’t want to get into a long, drawn-out explanation. I just wanted her to trust me. To come with me. “I can’t discuss the details. Just pack your bag. We leave in ten minutes.”
Her chin lifted, a look of pure rebellion on her face. “No,” she said, her voice firm. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why. What kind of danger are we in? You can’t just tell me we’re leaving and expect me to follow without a single question. I’m not a soldier, Danil. I’m your wife.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, the frustrating burning in my chest. She was right. She wasn’t a soldier. She was a woman who had just confessed her trust in me, her fear of losing me. She had to understand the stakes. I couldn’t just order her. I had to show her.
I walked out of the library, leaving her standing there in stubborn defiance.
I returned to my study, my hands finding the cool, glass bottle.
I didn’t even wrap it. I just held it, the dark liquid a sinister promise, a symbol of danger that was now a part of her life.
I walked back to the library, the wine bottle a weapon in my hands.
“You want to know why?” I said, my voice a low, dangerous growl. I walked toward her and placed the bottle on the table between us. “This is why.”
Her gaze dropped from my face to the bottle.
Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but then something else took over.
Not fear. Don’t panic. Just a deep simmering rage.
Her brow furrowed into a tight, angry line.
It was the same look she had when she was arguing with me, when she was fighting back.
But this was different. This was personal. This was a silent, venomous accusation.
“It was a gift,” she said, her voice low and dangerously calm. “A wedding gift, wasn’t it?”
My chest tightened. She hadn’t even had to ask.
She had just known. I was shocked. I had expected so many things from her: tears, anger, a broken silence.
I had expected her to fall apart. But she didn’t.
She just…frowned. A quiet, terrifying anger that felt a thousand times more dangerous than any scream.
“How did you know?” I asked, my voice a rough whisper.
“It’s just the way they operate,” she said, not as a question, but as a chilling, bitter statement of fact.
“My father…he told me about all their little games. The little deceptions they use to get to you. The little gifts they give you that are designed to hurt you later. Only this one…this one was designed to hurt me now.” She looked at me, her eyes filled with a venomous fury. “It was him, wasn’t it? It was Feliks.”
Her words were an accusation, but they were also a question, a plea for confrontation.
Her father had been right. Feliks was a traitor.
And now, he had tried to kill her. My rage, which I had kept so carefully contained, flared.
This wasn’t just a strategic chess game anymore. This was personal. This was for her.
“Yes,” I said, my voice as cold as ice. “It was him. He tried to poison us. He tried to kill you.”
She took a step toward the table, her hand trembling slightly as it hovered over the wine bottle, the symbol of his betrayal. “He tried to poison us,” she said, her voice filled with a chilling wonder. “He tried to kill me.”
“He did,” I said. “And because he failed, he’s going to try again.”
She didn’t look at me. Her eyes were fixed on the wine, a deep, silent rage building within her.
“He’s a coward,” she said, the words a hiss.
“He didn’t have the courage to face my father.
He didn’t have the courage to face you. He just hides in the shadows, sending poisoned gifts.
” She finally looked up, her eyes blazing with a fierce, unwavering light.
“He’s the reason my father is dead—the reason I almost died. I want to kill the man myself.”
The words, so raw and honest, were a direct challenge. She wasn’t asking for my permission. She was telling me her intentions. I had expected so many things from her. A need for revenge. A plea for me to protect her. But this…this was a vow. A shared purpose.
“Katria,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “You can’t do that.”
“Why not?” she demanded, her voice rising with furious indignation. “He killed my father! He tried to kill me! Why can’t I?”
I walked to her, my hand rising to cup her face, my thumbs stroking her cold cheeks. “Because you’re not a killer,” I said, my voice a low, rough murmur.
“I’m his daughter!” she countered, her voice now desperate pleading. “I’m his revenge. You want him to pay, don’t you? You want him to suffer. Let me be the one who does it. Don’t you dare take this from me.”
I held her gaze, my eyes searching hers. And in her burning eyes, I saw not just hatred, but a fierce, unyielding sense of justice. She wasn’t just my captive anymore. She was my partner. My equal. My wife.
“If it comes to that,” I said, the words a solemn vow, “if we confirm that he is indeed the one who killed your father, I will give you your revenge. I will not take this from you. He will answer for his crimes. He will answer to you.”
Her eyes filled with a raw, fierce gratitude, a silent understanding passing between us. The war was no longer just mine. It was ours.
“Now,” I said, my voice firm, releasing her face and taking a step back. “Go pack. We leave now. We have a traitor to hunt.”
She didn’t hesitate. She turned and strode toward the bedroom, her shoulders squared, her steps no longer the weary pace of a prisoner but the confident stride of a woman on a mission. A mission of her own. With a revenge she had a personal right to claim.