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Dominika is lying on the couch, her white dress stained red. Her face is ghostly pale, and her blonde hair is matted with blood. Her eyes are closed tight with pain, and her breaths are shallowrasps. Gently, I try to assess the extent of her injuries. Despite the loss of blood, she’s fiercely determined to live.
Determined to make one final report to me.
“Who did this?” I demand of the cook, who watches us in silence.
But Dominika answers me herself.
“The brigadiers. They took the girls,” she gasps with pain. “I tried, Kolya … I’m so sorry.” She calls me by the name I haven’t heard from her lips since I became a man.
“Stay with me.” My order sounds like a plea. “We’ll find them and bring them home.”
The young cook looks at me with uncertainty. “Is there anything I can do, Nikolai Gennadyevich?”
I place a thick throw over Dominika to keep her warm. “Stay with her.”
“Dammit!” I curse. The drawers along the shelving unit have been forced open and the contents emptied onto the floor. Without checking, I know the journals are gone. I should have been here. I should have protected them. I should have listened.
I searchevery corner of the penthouse for God knows how long. Focusing on what I must do, I take a deep breath and push my emotions aside. I can’t let anger overtake me now. It won’t help Eden.
Suddenly, the elevator chimes, and I spin around, my gun drawn and ready for battle. But when the doors open, it’s not an enemythat steps out but Vito and Zakhar, led by a guard. Their faces pale with shock as they take in the destruction.
“What happened?” Zakhar demands. He turns in circles, scanning the demolition of my home.
“Brigadiers,” I manage to choke out. “They took Eden and Mercy.”
“Where? Where are they?” Zakhar roars.
I get in his face. “I don’t know. The brigadiers did this and took them.” My rage increases as Zakhar stares at me like I’m a worthless fuck. “They kidnapped them, old man.”
“You lying bastard!” Zakhar roars in a murderous rage. “Where is my daughter!”
He steps forward, his fists clenching and unclenching, but I don’t move an inch. He lunges at me, hands reaching for my throat, and I let him.
I laugh in his face as he tries to squeeze the life out of me. It’s what I deserve, what we both deserve for failing.
Vito intervenes, pushing Zakhar off me with a harsh curse.
“You said you wouldn’t pull shit.” Vito pins him against a wall. “He told you who was responsible. Killing Nikolai is exactly what they want you to do.” Vito stares down Zakhar. “We need his help to find our daughters.”
“Couldn’t resist one more try?” I rub my throat. “This isn’t about sides anymore. It’s about family. Our family, Zakhar.”
He glares at me, hatred simmering beneath the surface. But then he nods grudgingly. “Family,” he repeats. “But once we find them, you and I—we have unfinished business.”
“Deal,” I reply, knowing this truce is weak at best. But for now, it’s enough.
“Good,” Vito smooths his jacket. “Maybe we can tolerate each other long enough to save Eden and Mercy.”
The cook enters the living room and stares at me. “Nikolai Gennadyevich.”
“Shit,” I hurry into the room, followed by Zakhar and Vito. The sight of Dominika hits them both in the gut, and I no longer have to convince them that this isn’t a setup.
Recognition flickers in Zakhar’s gaze as he towers over Dominika’s fragile form. The sight of her has an unexpected impact on him, as his bravado leaves him and his shoulders slump. They had a history long before I was born, though I never knew the whole story. Seeing her frail figure and bloodied clothes must have brought back a flood of memories he tried to suppress.
Zakhar hesitates before finally approaching the couch and slowly sinks to his knees beside her. “Dominika?” he whispers.
Her eyelids flutter open, and she weakly turns her head to the side. “Privyet, Zakhar,” she murmurs softly. Her cracked lips gently part, releasing a thin trail of blood. She gasps for air between each word. “Your vengeance is directed at the wrong person.”
“And how do you know this?” Zakhar demands as she places her shaky hand on his arm.
