“Attack!” he roared. “We were ambushed—two cars gone, they fucking hit us!”
The second SUV limped in behind it, one rear tire shredded, bullet holes riddling the windows. Smoke drifted from the third car, its hood blackened and cracked. A guard stumbled out, barely upright, eyes wide with panic.
“Where?” Sashko barked.
“Old bridge. They were waiting. Trap was too clean.”
One of the car doors swung open, and Pakhan stepped out like a thunderclap, the storm already in his eyes. The second his polished shoes hit the stone, he moved like something rabid, rage rolling off him in waves.
“Inside. Now. Lock this fucking place down. Weapons ready. No one in or out unless I say so!”
Guards surged forward to shield him, orders ringing out like gunfire.
But I was already gone.
As I sprinted back to Kira’s room, panic clawed at the edges of my chest. I’d braced for this day, mapped out every possible scenario, but none of that training meant shit when her safety was at stake. Every step felt like a lifetime. I couldn’t bear the thought of her afraid—of anyone laying a hand on her. She was my light, my fucking reason for breathing, and I’d slaughteranyone who tried to dim her. Not one goddamn soul would reach that room. Not while there was blood left in my body to spill for her.
My boots hit the wooden floor hard as I slammed through her door. She looked up, startled, still curled on the bed with her phone.
“Get dressed,” I snapped. “Now.”
“What—what’s going on?” Her voice trembled.
“Moscow’s retaliating. They’re here.”
I ripped open her closet while she was already moving, grabbing clothes, heart pounding just like mine. I pulled a pistol from my jacket and thrust it into her hands.
“Just in case. Point, aim, squeeze. You don’t hesitate.”
“I—Maksym, I don’t even know how to—”
I grabbed her hand and showed her quickly—how to hold it, how to flick off the safety, how to keep both hands steady.
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t come to that. But you keep it. You fucking keep it.”
Our lips crashed together, raw and fast, and then I pulled her into my arms, holding her against me like she might vanish if I didn’t. My nose brushed her hair, memorizing the way she smelled, the way she trembled in my hands. “Hide somewhere safe. Closet, under the bed—it doesn’t matter. Just promise me you won’t make a sound.”
She nodded and disappeared into the shadows.
I flew down the stairs, rage igniting like a fuse in my veins. My hand yanked open the weapons cabinet before my brain could catch up. The rifle fit into my grip like a long-lost limb—familiar weight, smooth trigger, scope aligned like an old friend. I grabbed a loaded pistol and clipped it to my belt, stuffing extra rounds into my pocket. A few spare magazines slid easily into the inner lining of my jacket.
The servants’ staircase trembled beneath my boots as I bolted up to the top floor. Wind howled louder with every step until I reached the last landing and kicked open the narrow door to the north-facing balcony.
This was the best vantage point. The best range. If they came, I’d see them first—and I’d shoot first.
Wind slammed into me the moment the shutters flew open. Cold bit into my skin, my breath fogging the air. And then I saw them.
Eight more vehicles rolled toward the estate. Their tires were thick and reinforced, windows blacked out, armor glinting under the rising sun. No insignia. No hesitation. No attempt to hide their purpose.
Makarov climbed out of the first car like a king surveying a battlefield. A towering man with pale eyes and a face that never seemed to move, he was Moscow’s favorite emissary in Kyiv—their loyal shadow. He hadn’t even waited. No diplomacy. No fucking calls.
I smirked.
Guess I made them mad.
Behind him, soldiers—because that’s what they were, not gangsters—filed out with rifles, kevlar, tight formations, earpieces tucked into their necks. Trained. Disciplined. Ready. They weren’t here to scare us. They were here to finish it.
I didn’t hesitate. I raised the rifle and squeezed the trigger.
