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We both hit the floor as a spray of bullets sweeps across the living room. I watch the whole thing happen two inches to the left of my body, my sense of reality distorting in my panic. For a moment, the bullets stop.
“We have to get upstairs!” I scream at her. “We have to get to Simon!”
I grab Dahlia’s hand and pull her with me. We crawl on all fours, keeping as low as possible as our attackers continue to riddle the house with bullets. My heart is in my throat. The majority of the guards went with Dimitri earlier, leaving only a handful of men behind to keep the property safe. There’s a really good chance those stationed outside have already been gunned down.
I’m going to be sick.
Dahlia and I manage to get to the foyer in front of the stairs, but we don’t get much further. The hulking silhouette of a man grows larger on the other side of the front door’s frosted windows. The door creaks open, the handle twisting slowly—
One of Dimitri’s guards stumbles through, bleeding everywhere. He falls to his knees, spitting up blood.
“Oh my God!” Dahlia wails.
I squeeze her hand. “Go upstairs,” I order. “Take care of Simon. Lock the door and barricade it, do you understand? You have to call Dimitri for help.”
She nods, shaking so violently I swear she might rattle straight out of her skin. She clumsily and hastily climbs the stairs, tripping over herself as she sobs. Without wasting a second, I rush over to help the guard. I can’t leave him like this. This was what I was trained to do.
I check him in a frantic trance. He’s taken a bullet to the thigh, the chest, the stomach. Mercifully, he was wearing a Kevlar vest beneath his suit, but judging by the extensive purple bruises blooming over his skin, there’s a good chance the force of the impact might have broken his ribs.
“Stay calm,” I urge him as I apply pressure to the stomach wound. “Try to relax.”
“Get out of here…” he rasps, gripping my forearms. “They’re coming.”
“Who? Who’s coming?”
I regret asking the moment the words leave my mouth.
Behind me, footsteps. Loud and clear, clicking against the stone path leading toward the front door. My fight or flight instincts don’t even kick in. I freeze, too scared to move.
“Hello, Natalya. It’s certainly been a while.”
I turn slowly, peeking over my shoulder in horror.
Standing in the doorway with a pistol in hand is an older man in his early seventies. He’s in impressively good health. His posture is ramrod straight, he moves with ease, and apart from his wrinkled face and sagging eyebags, the man’s physique would suggest he’s much younger. Everything about him is impeccable and neat, from his combed white hair to his trimmed grey beard to the diamond cufflinks and silky red tie.
Edvard Levitsky.
“W-what are you doing here?” I ask, keeping pressure on the man’s gut wound. He might bleed out and die if I let go.
Edvard doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes a few steps into the house and looks around with an easy smile. We’ve only met face-to-face twice before this. The first time was when he showed up at my father’s funeral, and the next time was a few weeks later when he came to me with his plan. I was in an incredibly vulnerable place then, still grieving my loss.
Everything about him screamssnake. I didn’t see it then, but I do now.
There’s a darkness in his eyes that makes me want to curl in on myself. His smile may be pleasant, but it’s just a mask. Practiced. Meant to lure in his prey before they realize the danger they’re in.
The dangerI’min.
“This is such a lovely home,” Edvard says casually. His voice is pleasant and warm. It’s jarring, seeing him covered in blood splatter, the tip of his gun still smoking. “Mr. Antonov isn’t home, I see. What a shame.”
I can’t stop shaking. “What have you done?”
“Can you blame me, Natalya? You were taking so long. I was worried about your safety.”
“So you came in here with guns blazing?” I shriek. “I told you I was handling it.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes!”
