“What if I just give up my claim? Give you my inheritance and run?” I offer as a last hope.
She shakes her head. “The board will always worry you’ll come back one day. I’m sorry, but this is the way it has to be.”
An anguished cry slips from my throat, and I try to fight the guards holding me.
“Remember—do it quickly,” she reminds the men.
My feet stumble, their grip tightens. The doors open. Cold air snakes inside as if an omen to what’s about to happen.
I look back one last time. Trina is nothing but a silhouette cut out of firelight. Aleksander sags against his desk, hand red and shaking, eyes full of hatred. Jack shifts his weight and taps the gun against his thigh, waving with his other hand.
“Vlad will come,” I yell to all of them, to myself, to the baby. It lands with a small, stubborn weight.
Trina’s smile is polite but empty. “He’s already too late.”
CHAPTER 39
TERESA
The sky is slate gray with a sullen shimmer when they march me through the French doors and across the back stone terrace. Snow drifts down in delicate little flakes.
If I weren’t about to be murdered, I’d think it was pretty.
The Volkov garden looks like a mini Versailles. Clipped boxwood hedges, marble nymphs with strategic drapery, a long reflecting pool glazed with ice, and dead center, the fountain I remember from the galas here—a four-tiered structure crowned with a stone angel. The water hasn’t frozen yet; it bubbles beneath a thin crust of ice.
“On your knees,” one of the goons says.
I move like I’m obeying, letting my knees bend, and I notice a loose chunk of the fountain’s base, fist-sized, veined with ice. I snatch it up, whipping around in one swift motion, focusing all of my anger, all of my rage. The stone connects with the guard’s temple, a sound between a knock and a thunk. He staggers back, eyes widening, blood streaking down his face.
“Fuck...” He goes for his gun, raising it slowly toward me.
Time stops. A shot cracks through the air. I don’t feel anything except winter licking at my cheeks.
For a second, my brain tries to compute that I’m dead and just haven’t realized it yet. Then I notice the guard staring down at his coat where a dot of cherry red is blooming. He blinks, confused, then tips over into the snow covered pathway.
Everything stalls before the world detonates.
More gunfire, this time from the tree line, short, controlled bursts that chew up hedges and snap branches. A second guard drops so fast you’d think he slipped on the ice. The remaining two are smarter; they pivot and return fire, pushing me toward the fountain’s stone bowl. I duck, pressing my back to the opposite part of the fountain’s base.
Shouts ripple from the terrace. Doors bang open. More Volkov men spill into the garden, weapons up. In the same breath, shadows peel off the hedgerows and statues. They move quickly, precisely, and eerily silent except for the metallic cough of suppressed fire.
Silver ties flash in the snow-muted light.
Angels of Death.
They fan out and the garden becomes a warzone, muzzle flashes blinking like fireflies. One of ours somersaults behind a statue and uses a marble nymph as a firing rest. It would be impressive if I weren’t trying not to die.
A voice cuts through the chaos. “Teresa! Move! Now!”
Dmitri. Thank God. He’s somewhere to my right, half-hidden behind a low hedge, trading shots with a pair of Volkov men. He jerks his chin toward the house.
I keep low and do my best to stay out of the crossfire. Bullets ping off stone. Shouts ring out in Russian.
The terrace steps feel like a small mountain, but my adrenaline pushes me forward. I take the stairs two at a time, clutching the banister. I run through another set of French doors into a long hallway. Gold-framed portraits stare at me. I aim for the foyer, hopeful there will be fewer bullets—wrong. There’s a gun battle at the front of the mansion too.
From my vantage point, I see the entry hall explode as the main doors slam wide and snow gusts in. Outside, black SUVs are angled nose-to-nose, gunfire flashing against the marble columns, men ducking behind planters, barking into radios.
Vlad strides through the doorway with a squad of his men at his back, their weapons up, returning fire with brutal precision.
