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Chapter 16
Damien
The cityscape blurs past us, a whirl of lights and blue sky as we cut through the afternoon. My hand reaches for the phone once more, thumb scrolling until Andrei's number appears. I hit the call button with a grim determination. Silence greets me, the dead tone in my ear mocking the urgency that is clawing at my insides.
At a stoplight, I glance at Mariya, her delicate frame rigid against the leather seat, her eyes wide with the horror of the day’s events.
I squeeze Mariya’s hand, the contact meant to reassure us both. "Mariya," I say, my voice firm yet gentle, "look at me."
She turns, her gaze locking with mine, seeking some sort of solace. "It's going to be okay," I promise, feeling her hand tremble beneath my touch. "I won't let anything happen to you."
A shaky breath escapes her, and she nods, trying to compose herself. "I know," she whispers, "but this is all so terrifying."
I can't shield her from the ugliness of my world, but I can be her protection against it. "I know it's not the life you wanted," I admit, "and I'm sorry you're in the middle of this. But I'll protect you, Mariya. With everything I have."
She manages a small, brave smile. "I believe you, Damien."
Her belief in me is a weighty thing, a responsibility that I embrace fully.
The urgency in Mariya's voice, a blend of fear and determination, snaps me out of my reverie. "We need a plan, Damien," she says, her eyes scanning the streets as if the solution might be etched in the neon signs and the grim facades of the buildings we pass.
Her words ground me, shifting my thoughts from protective instincts to strategic actions. "You're right," I concede, my mind racing through the possibilities, discarding them as quickly as they form until one sticks. "We'll head to the taxi depot."
Confusion flickers across Mariya's features, and I can't help but let out a half-laugh. It's a sound that seems foreign in the tense atmosphere of the car. "A taxi depot?" she asks.
"Yes, the taxi depot," I affirm, navigating the car through a tight turn. "It's more than it seems. The depot is a front, a laundering hub. And those cabs are our chariots, moving more than just passengers through the veins of Moscow."
Her gaze lingers on me, assessing, trying to reconcile the image of the refined man she married with the underworld figure I embody. There's a pause, a breath of a moment, where the silence speaks volumes of her adjustment to the dichotomy of my life.
"Andrei will be there, or someone who knows where he is," I continue, my voice laced with the confidence I've honed over years of navigating the perilous waters of Bratva politics. "It's the heart of our operations during the day. If we're going to find help, it'll be there."
Mariya nods, a look of resolve settling over her. "Then let's not waste any more time," she says, a hint of steel underlying the softness of her voice.
I press the accelerator, the engine's growl punctuating the silence that falls between us. As the skyline streaks by, I can feel Mariya's hand on my arm, grounding me.
As we approach the depot, however, I can sense that something is very, very wrong. Fire trucks barrel past us, their shrill sirens piercing the calm before fading into the distance. Police cars follow.
Something’s happening at the depot. I press down on the gas pedal again, the engine revving as we pick up speed.
From the depot, smoke coils into the sky, a dark signal that stirs a sense of dread deep within my gut. The closer we get to it, the more apparent the severity of the disaster becomes. Red and orange flames dance violently across the structure, devouring the building that houses so much of our day-to-day operations.
I park the car haphazardly, the need to see, understand, and take action overriding all else. I’m out the door in an instant, but a wall of heat and the firm grip of law enforcement halt my advance. They don’t know who I am, not really, but they see the urgency and barely restrained violence in my posture, and they keep me at bay.
Mariya’s cool and steady hand finds mine, pulling me gently but with surprising strength back toward the car. “Damien,” she murmurs, her voice a whisper lost in the cacophony of sirens and crackling timber, “you can't help them by getting arrested—or worse.”
Her words hit me like a cold splash of reality. I'm too visible here, too exposed. Every officer at the scene is a potential witness to my desperation, my connection to the Bratva. With a curse, I allow her to guide me back to the car, my eyes seared with the image of the inferno that was once a cornerstone of our operations.
As we drive away, I can't help but look in the rearview mirror, watching the smoke billow into the sky, a beacon of loss and a clear consequence from our enemies. The attack on my mansion wasn’t just a message—it was a declaration of war.
Mariya’s presence beside me is a silent pillar of support, her touch a reminder that there are things still worth protecting. But as we put distance between ourselves and the blaze, my mind races with the implications of what’s happened.
Someone is methodically dismantling our power structure, exploiting our weaknesses, and striking with precision. I've been playing a game of chess, but our opponents have been setting the board on fire, piece by piece.
The Bratva isn't just my family—it's my life, our lives. And now it's under threat, teetering on the edge of destruction.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles white with the effort. This is no longer just about survival; it's about retribution, about clawing back from the brink.
The city whips by in a blur, each street and alley a potential haven or a trap. We have to find a safe place, a stronghold where we can regroup and plan our next move. But as we snake through the tangled streets, fate throws a stark, chilling message right before our eyes.
