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I know now that Roman will do anything to protect me and my son.
My fingers grip the edge of the seat as Roman swerves onto the cobblestone streets of St. Petersburg, our SUV's engine roaring like some untamed beast. I can see two Chechen SUVs in the rearview mirror, their headlights beaming menacingly through the darkness.
We zoom past the ornate architecture and dimly lit cafes, blending history and modernity in an odd synchrony that only St. Petersburg could pull off. It feels like we're the stars of some action-packed espionage movie, except this is painfully real.
Our SUV skids onto a side alley, flinging murky puddle water into the air. Roman slows down momentarily, letting the Chechen cars believe they're catching up. Suddenly, he guns it.
With a sudden burst of speed, we rocket down the narrow lane, leaving the Chechens bewildered. But not for long. Roman takes another sharp turn onto an abandoned industrial road and kills the lights.
"Get ready," he says, his eyes scanning the road behind us. “And go for the tires.”
The first Chechen SUV barrels into sight. I take aim with my pistol, exhaling slowly to steady my hand. A heartbeat later, I pull the trigger—once, twice. Two perfect shots to the tires. The SUV skids, turning a sharp one-eighty before halting.
"As I said, we make a good team," Roman remarks, clearly impressed.
"Wait for it," I say, my focus on the rearview mirror.
The second Chechen SUV comes roaring down the road. I shoot again, and this time, the SUV not only loses its front tire but also skids dangerously close to its incapacitated companion.
"Clean shots," Roman notes approvingly. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"
"You have no idea," I reply, holstering my gun.
He revs the engine back to life, and we speed away, leaving behind the stranded Chechens and their crippled vehicles.
For a moment, as we merge back onto the main roads and the adrenaline starts to ebb, I let myself bask in the afterglow of our victory. I've dodged death before, but never like this—never with someone who could match my every move, someone who could keep up with me.
"Where to, princess?" Roman teases, bringing me back to reality.
"Take me to your castle," I reply, my eyes meeting his.
He grins, that irresistible, cocky grin I’m long past admitting I’ve fallen for. "Your wish is my command."
And as we drive through the veined streets of St. Petersburg, I realize I've never felt more alive. If this is what life has in store for me, then let the chase continue. Because for the first time, I've found someone worth running with, and perhaps, someone worth running to.
Roman pulls the SUV into the dimly lit parking area of what appears to be a nondescript apartment complex. He kills the engine, and for a moment, we sit in silence, still catching our breath from the night's exhilarating events.
"Home sweet home," he says, unbuckling his seat belt and giving me a side glance, "Well, safehouse, sweet safehouse, I should say.”
"Charming," I say, noting the heavy iron gate and the CCTV cameras discreetly tucked in the corners.
We make our way up a flight of stairs, and Roman unlocks the door to a small but impeccably designed apartment. Modern furniture, minimalist art, and the kind of kitchen you'd expect from someone who enjoys finer things but rarely has the time to appreciate them.
"Would you like a drink?" he offers, moving toward the kitchen.
"Actually, I'd prefer some answers first," I say, taking a seat on the plush leather sofa.
Roman pauses, his expression serious. "You'll get them. But before that, there's something I want to ask you."
I raise an eyebrow, wondering what could possibly be so important it had to precede the multitude of questions bubbling within me.
Roman sits beside me, takes my hand, and looks me square in the eyes. "Valentina, will you marry me?"
For a moment, I'm dumbstruck. The words hang in the air, almost surreal, given the madness that has been our life recently. But then, another thought invades my mind—uninvited but unmistakable. I'm pregnant.
My heart races, and my stomach churns as memories flood back. The way Ilya's father left me when he found out about the pregnancy—the way he chose to run away rather than be a man. The same could happen with Roman. If I tell him, would he also flee?
But as I look into Roman's eyes—steady, committed, and unflinching—I feel a glimmer of hope. This is a man who has gone to war with me, who has seen me at my worst and still chose to stand by my side.
