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“I know,” I reply, my knuckles white on the wheel. “But Ilya and Valentina… they’re worth the risk.”
Samuil grimaces. “You’d better be right.”
The muted hum of the city surrounds me as I drive, but my thoughts are louder and far more demanding. Every turn, every streetlight, paints memories of Valentina on the canvas of my mind. The way she moved, the way she spoke, the silent yet intense fire that always burned in her eyes.
I take a deep breath, the cold winter air filling my lungs and grounding me. Our lives are ensnared in a deadly dance of loyalties and betrayals, but amid all the chaos, there's a singular truth: what Valentina and I have is worth saving. She's not just the Ghost, the skilled and feared assassin. She's Valentina, the woman who has come to mean everything to me.
The tangled web of our respective worlds would challenge us, test our resolve, and push us to our limits. But in that challenge, I find clarity. No matter which side of the fence we started on, right now, our paths have converged. We need each other. Not just as allies, but as two souls reaching out for a connection.
With that resolution in mind, I continue, each mile drawing me closer to answers, to Valentina, and to the future we might still carve out together.
The aunt’s last known address leads us to an old, weathered apartment building on the outskirts of the city. Its pale blue paint is chipping, and the windows are dimly lit. There’s an air of melancholy about the place, suggesting it has witnessed many tales of woe.
We ascend the creaky stairs, reaching a door marked 3B. Taking a deep breath, I knock. No response. I knock again, louder. After several moments, the door opens a crack, revealing a wary eye.
I’m all smiles. Time to work.
Chapter 25
Valentina
My heart pounds like a drum as I approach my apartment building. The air is thick with tension, every shadow a potential threat. The place is crawling with Vladimir's goons—Chechen thugs who wouldn't think twice about putting a bullet in my head.
Luckily for me, I've been trained to blend into the shadows. I take advantage of the dying light, the way the streetlamps create pools of illumination interrupted by darkness. I keep to the less lit areas, my every step calculated. I use the noise of a passing bus to mask the sound of my movement, slipping through a side entrance I know the security cameras don't cover.
Inside, I climb the stairs rather than take the elevator. No point in announcing my arrival with a ding. I reach my floor and press my back against the wall, peeking just enough to scan the hallway. Two guys stand near my door. I can see their breath fogging in the cold air as they talk in low voices. It's now or never.
I spot a small piece of metal at my feet and quickly pick it up. With a flick of my wrist, I toss it down the opposite end of the hall. The sound of clattering metal echoes, distracting them. The moment they turn their backs, I move. Like a wraith, I slip past them, silently unlocking my door and entering my home.
My eyes dart around, half-expecting to find my son hiding somewhere. But there's nothing—no laughter, no toys on the floor, no sign of life. It's as if the air has been sucked out of the room, leaving a vacuum that draws all the warmth out of me. Panic surges through my veins, a tidal wave of fear and dread. Where is Ilya?
The thoughts are like bullets, each one hitting its mark. If anything has happened to my son, I'll burn this city to the ground. Vladimir will wish he never crossed me, that much is certain.
I can't shake the feeling something's off as I walk through my apartment. It's not just the empty silence, the absence of my son's laughter, or even the cold sense of foreboding gripping me. It's something subtler. Things are out of place—chairs slightly moved, drawers not fully closed, like ripples in a pond betraying a disturbance.
And then I catch it—the unmistakable scent of Roman's aftershave lingering in the air. It's distinct, woody and warm, a smell I've come to associate with our close encounters. It hangs in the room, not overpowering but clear. And as soon as I recognize it, my mind starts racing.
Could Roman have been here? Did he come looking for Ilya? I hope to God he did. I remember the last time we spoke, just before my call was abruptly cut short, and how he said he'd do anything to help me. Despite our complicated history, I know deep down he would never harm my son. Roman might be many things—calculating, cunning, ruthless when he needs to be—but he's not a monster who would hurt a child.
For a split second, I let myself imagine Roman swooping in, snatching Ilya away from this mess like some kind of action movie hero. The thought brings a reluctant smile to my face. I need to trust him, at least in this. After all, if he was willing to help me even when I was pointing a gun at his head, why wouldn't he save Ilya?
But trust, even if it's warranted, doesn't solve my immediate problem. Where the hell is Roman now? Finding him suddenly becomes the focal point of all my energy. My gaze falls on my small home office area. The lock has been opened and things are out of place, though only subtlety. He was most certainly here.
I boot up my old desktop, tucked away in the corner for emergencies. I access a hidden network I keep for contingencies, one only a few people even know exists. Logging in, I look for any signs, any messages from Roman. But there's nothing. Frustration surges, burning hot and quick like a flash fire.
Slipping into my bedroom, I head straight for the walk-in closet. I slide my hand along the wall, stopping at a concealed panel. With a firm push, the wall gives way, revealing an arsenal hidden from view. Rows of firearms, knives, ammunition, and various other tools of my trade greet me like old friends. The sight has never been more comforting.
First things first—body armor. I pull out a slim Kevlar vest, engineered for maximum protection without sacrificing mobility. It's designed to stop most small arms fire and won't slow me down. Slipping it over my tank top and under my sweater, I adjust the straps, ensuring a snug fit.
Next, firearms. My hand hovers for a moment between options before settling on a Glock 19. Compact, reliable, easy to use. I check the chamber, load a magazine, and slip it into a concealed holster at the small of my back.
For backup, I choose a Beretta Bobcat. A smaller caliber, but sometimes subtlety is just as important as firepower. That goes into an ankle holster. Spare magazines for both go into pouches on my belt.
I turn my attention to blades. A slim, double-edged combat knife catches my eye. Made of high-carbon steel, it's both strong and sharp—perfect for close-quarters combat. I sheathe it horizontally on my lower back for easy access. I also take a few throwing knives, tucking them into concealed pockets sewn into the inside of my coat. Poison may be my weapon of choice, but that doesn’t mean I’m afraid to getmessy should the situation require it.
Finally, miscellaneous tools—a compact first aid kit, a set of lock picks, a small can of pepper spray, and a few smoke grenades. Every single item is calculated, serving a specific purpose for the chaos that's about to unfold.
I lock eyes with my reflection as I put on my gloves, each one custom-fit with reinforced knuckles. The face staring back at me is focused, cold, almost unrecognizable. The moment Vladimir decided to drag my son into this mess was the moment he crossed an unforgivable line. He turned this from a battle into a war. Now it's time for him and his lapdogs to face the Ghost.
