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But I can't just stand by idly while Philippe has two guns pointed at him. My heart races, pounding like a drum in my chest as adrenaline courses through my veins, propelling me into action. I need to do something, anything, to help Philippe.
I dart out from behind the table. I watch the man grit his teeth, fighting to stay conscious despite the pool of blood beneath him. I crawl towards the man, wanting to force that gun from his hands.
But a strong hand grips my arm, holding me back. My muscles strain against the iron grip as I watch, horrified, the scene unfolding before me.
"Let me go!" I scream, but my plea falls on deaf ears. Philippe is too caught up in the battle, his eyes darting around in search of something – anything – that could save us from this nightmare.
The man on the ground, his face contorted with pain and determination, lifts the gun with trembling hands. For a moment, time slows down, and I can see every bead of sweat on his forehead, every twitch of his finger on the trigger.
"Philippe!" I shout again, one last desperate attempt to get him to notice the danger. But my voice is drowned out by battle noise.
And then it happens. The wounded man shifts his aim, locking onto my father just as he's about to pull the trigger on Philippe. A single gunshot rings out, echoing through the room like a death knell, and my father crumples to the ground.
"Philippe!" I scream, my heart shattering into a thousand pieces as I watch him fall. My hands tremble, fingernails digging into the arms of the man who restrains me, as my vision blurs with tears. What just happened?
Why did he shoot his boss?
"Get off me!" I snarl. Just then, the man behind me crumples to the floor. I turn and see a mafioso shoot him. I nod a quick thanks and push through the sea of bodies and violence, my mind reeling with shock and grief.
The world around me fades into a blur as I focus on reaching the Bratva who shot dead my father, unsure what I'll find when I finally reach him.
As I run, I can't tear my eyes away from my father, lying motionless on the cold floor, his blood seeping into the cracks between the tiles. My mind races, trying to make sense of what I just witnessed – the sacrifice made by the man who saved Philippe's life at the cost of my father's.
"Stay with me, Tatiana!" Philippe shouts over the gunfire, grabbing my arm and pulling me back from the brink of despair. I can see the weight of what just happened bearing down on him, but he doesn't falter. "We need to get out of here, now!"
"Wait," I manage to choke out, my chest constricting. "We can't leave without knowing who that man was, why he saved you."
Philippe glances at the fallen figure, his face pained but resolute. "There's no time for that now," he insists, his grip on my arm tightening. "We can find answers later."
"Philippe, please," I beg, tears streaming down my face. "I need to know."
He hesitates, his piercing blue eyes searching mine, before finally giving in with a nod. "Alright," he says, "but we have to be quick."
Together, we break free from the frenzy of the battle and approach the man who had changed the course of our lives in an instant. As I kneel beside him, I'm struck by the realization that this stranger had chosen to save Philippe, even if it meant dying himself. Why? What possible connection exists between them?
"Who are you?" I ask, my voice trembling with emotion. "Why did you do this?"
"Doesn't matter...who I am..." The man gasps through labored breaths, his eyes half-lidded with pain. "Just...know that I couldn't let him die."
"Thank you," I whisper, my heart aching at the sight of his suffering. "Thank you for saving him."
"It was ... for you," he mutters and looks straight at me with green eyes.
"It’s you? Viktor?" I ask in shock.
He’s reaching out with his hand. I take it, and my gaze is drawn from his face. In his palm lies a scar—a large, old burn in the shape of a honeybee comb.
The nightmares I've had. The man who clasps my mouth shut: fire and embers. A burning log fell on us, and he pushed it away. He sheltered me when I was a child the night my mother was killed. He was the one.
"U..uncle?" He nods weakly. I lift his head, take it in my lap and trace his face with my hands. To imagine that I've searched for family this whole life, only to find it saved me. Tears come to the surface.
"No, no, no," I plead to the gods and the stars.
His eyes lock onto mine, filled with pain and something else – determination. "Tatiana...I'm sorry," he rasps.
"It’s okay," I manage to say, my voice quivering. "Uncle, please," I implore, my voice wavering with emotion. "We'll get you help. We'll get you help."
Viktor's eyes cloud over with pain and guilt, but he forces himself to speak. "Tatiana, my dear niece... Your father... only knows ambition and power... It consumed him. I tried to protect you and your mother, but... the Bratva..."
