The first man’s head snapped back as the bullet punched through his face. The second dropped a half-second later, skull erupting as the shot tore through. Blood sprayed across the room, splattering the walls—and Pakhan’s suit, his face, his eyes.
He flinched, more from surprise than fear.
For one heartbeat, I stood there watching him through the smoke, gun still smoking in my hand.
I glanced around the ruined study, rage coiling tighter in my chest. He’d barricaded himself in here alone—safe room sealed, guards sacrificed, no thought given to dragging his daughter in with him.
Selfish cunt.
I could let him die right here.
I hated the motherfucker. Hated him for my childhood. For my family. For Mila.
But I wasn’t done with him.
I still needed answers. And he was going to give them to me.
Pakhan wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving mine. He took in the bodies, the wreckage, the gun in my grip. Then he exhaled slowly.
“You saved my life,” he said, voice steady despite the gore. “I won’t forget that.”
I didn’t answer. I just stared at him through the smoke, already deciding how—and when—I would make him pay.
26
Love in Enemy Territory
—Maksym—
By the time I stepped out of Pakhan’s study, the worst of it was already done.
The Moscow crew hadn’t come sloppy. They hadn’t come small. But they’d underestimated how fast Pakhan’s men could close ranks once the first wave broke—and how ugly it would get when cornered animals stopped trying to escape and started trying to win. Outside, the courtyard looked like a battlefield after the smoke cleared: bodies strewn at odd angles, shattered glass glittering under the lights, blood tracking across stone where men had crawled before they died. A few were still breathing. Not many.
I helped finish it. There were no speeches. No drama. Just work. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew my arm was still bleeding, but the adrenaline flooding my system dulled everything. I barely felt it. It didn’t matter. A shot here, a blade there.
Makarov and a few of his men slipped through our fingers. Unfortunate. But they saw enough. They’d carry the message for me.
The second the last threat was down and the shouting faded, my thoughts snapped to her. I hadn’t seen her yet, hadn’t heard her voice, hadn’t touched her to confirm she was in one piece. I knew she was probably okay—I’d told her exactly what to do—but it didn’t matter. I had to see her with my own eyes. My boots moved before I could think, pounding up the stairs, the smear of red across my forearm still wet. I didn’t care that I was covered in blood, didn’t care what I looked like. She was alive. That was all I needed to know.
The silence on her floor was thick and suffocating. That bastard had thrown her door open—God knows how terrified she must’ve been, thinking it was him coming back. The door still hung ajar, and I charged through it without hesitation, eyes scanning the room for her.
“Kira,” I called once, my voice soft and careful, but there was no answer.
I checked the bed first—nothing. The bathroom was empty too. My pulse spiked as I crossed to the closet and pulled the door open.
The gun came up instantly.
Her hands were shaking—violently, uncontrollably. The barrel trembled in the air, nowhere near steady, but her grip remained tight. Her eyes were wide and glassy, staring through me as though I didn’t exist. She wasn’t crying or blinking. She was just gone.
“Hey,” I said quietly, cautious not to startle her. Dropping slowly to my knees, I kept my voice steady. “It’s me. Just me.”
She didn’t react.
Her lips moved with a hoarse, broken rhythm, repeating the same words like a prayer: “Don’t look, don’t move, don’t scream. Don’t look, don’t move, don’t scream...”
My throat tightened. I reached for the gun with slow, deliberate hands. “It’s over,” I murmured, brushing my fingers against hers. “I’ve got you now. You’re safe.”
She didn’t move when I took the weapon from her. Her body trembled, breath shallow, the mantra spilling from her lips in a cracked loop.
