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“I won’t do anything with her in the room.”
Lyla—and Leo—already saw me kill one person today, which I’m trying not to dwell on.
Dmitriy shakes his head. “Always so fucking principled. There’s no point to having power if you don’t use it.”
“That,” I say, “is why you’d make a terriblePakhan.”
I predict the hit coming. I don’t move to avoid the butt of the gun as it slams into my cheek. The metallic tinge of blood fills my mouth, which makes me think I must be bleeding externally as well.
I could lift a hand to feel since I haven’t put on the cuffs yet. But that would draw Dmitriy’s attention to the fact that I haven’t, which I’m trying to avoid doing.
He’s too invested in this moment he’s spent almost a year chasing to think critically. To treat me the way you should treat a dangerous opponent.
I gauge the distance between us and the angle he’s holding the gun at, deliberating on what to do. I’ve never had to calculate the risk of having an innocent person involved in a volatile situation like this. It’s always been trained men beside me who would face the consequences if I made a decision that backfires.
Lyla could die if I decide wrong…and she could die if I cooperate.
And then a shot goes off. Confusingly, it’s not from Dmitriy’s gun. I stare at the firearm he’s holding for a couple of seconds, confirming it’s still pointed at the floor. And then I realize it’s not the only weapon in the room.
There’s a bizarre delay in my mind as the pieces slowly fall together, like I’m watching this unfold from a distance instead of up close. Everything seems to be moving fast and slow.
Dmitriy lets out a choked gurgle, glancing down in shock, just as perplexed as I am. Blood is beginning to flow from the wound in his stomach, slow yet steady.
His hand begins to rise. Not the empty one, the one holding a gun.
That’s when I react. I lunge forward and twist the gun from his grasp.
Ever since I walked into the flat, Dmitriy has had the opportunity to kill me. He hasn’t acted. But I don’t hesitate.
I raise the gun and fire twice, killing him instantly.
I stare down at his still, bloody body, a maelstrom of emotions swirling inside of me. For the first couple of years after I becamePakhan, he was right by my side, as close a confidant as Alex or Roman.
We drifted apart gradually, bitterness building up when he made suggestions and I acted differently, which culminated with him committing the ultimate betrayal. I knew it would end this way ever since I heard he left. But it’s different to see it.
The sound of heavy breathing cuts through the haze of adrenaline and disbelief.
I glance at Lyla. She’s looking at Dmitriy’s dead body. Her face is completely white, devoid of any color. Even her lips look pale. My gun hangs limply in her hand.
I approach her slowly, taking the gun out of her loose grip and using my free hand to tilt her chin up. Her skin is cold, her eyes dull and unfocused. My thumb moves along her jawline, but she doesn’t react to the touch. She keeps inhaling quickly and exhaling shakily.
“Lyla.”
Nothing.
“Lyla!”
She still doesn’t react, just keeps hyperventilating.
I should slap her. Instead, I kiss her.
It takes a few seconds for her to respond. For her open-mouthed breaths to turn deep. I doubt any doctor or psychiatrist would consider this a recommended method for coping with shock and trauma, but it seems to work. The kiss is sweet with relief. Filled with the intoxicating essence of being alive.
“Are you okay?” I whisper as soon as our lips separate.
“I killed him.”
“No. You didn’t. I did.”
