Instead—gunfire erupts, deafening and brutal.
The crack of bullets slices through the warehouse air, sharp and unrelenting. My eyes snap open, breath ragged, and the world tilts into chaos. Kirill jerks to the side, snarling, his gun arm thrown wide as he scrambles for cover. Sparks spit from the metal scaffolding above, where bullets tear through it.
Anton ducks, cursing. The chair rattles beneath me as the ground trembles from the barrage, and for a split, wild heartbeat, I can’t tell who’s shooting—can’t tell if salvation has just walked through the door or if this is simply another circle of hell.
The air thickens with smoke and gunpowder, every breath searing my lungs. The gunfire dies down, replaced by the heavy thud of boots on concrete.
Through the haze, his silhouette cuts sharp and certain. Niko.
He storms in like a force of nature, dark coat flaring behind him, eyes burning with a rage I’ve never seen before. Lev is at his flank, cold and precise, and behind them pours an army of men—bristling with weapons, moving like one body, their presence swallowing the warehouse whole.
My chest twists, tears pricking my eyes. My heart had been clinging to a single, fragile hope, and now, here he is. My salvation. My husband.
A smile breaks across my face, trembling and desperate. Of course, he came. Of course. He promised me.
And I knew—deep down, through every doubt and fear—that Niko always kept his word.
Chapter 22 – Niko
Smoke hangs heavy, curling through the broken beams of light that filter into the warehouse. Noelle’s face flashes through the haze—wide-eyed, trembling, but alive. That’s all I need.
Two rogues rush me from the left. I don’t hesitate. My gun rises, two sharp cracks splitting the air, and they collapse before they even touch the ground.
That sound—the echo of their bodies falling—is the signal. Chaos erupts. Anton and Kirill’s men surge forward, a disorganized but vicious tide of rogues hungry for blood. My soldiers meet them head-on, trained precision clashing against wild brutality. The air fills with gunfire, shouting, the metallic stench of blood already sharp.
But I don’t care about the noise. My eyes lock only on two men.
Anton. Wild-eyed, reckless, stupid.
Kirill. Calculated, smug, the puppet master.
I push forward, rage burning in my veins, while Lev and the others carve a path through the storm. Every step feels inevitable. I’ve waited for this moment, for this reckoning.
“Anton!” My voice cuts through the gunfire, low and lethal. His head snaps toward me, and for the first time, I see something flicker there—fear.
Good.
Because this ends tonight.
Before I can respond, the two men dash out of my view, scrambling toward the back, where there’s probably an escape route. I nod at Demyan, who immediately nods back and chases after them. He’s an ex-special forces agent, and Anton and Kirill are no match for him.
Demyan moves like a wolf unleashed—quiet, efficient, deadly. In the blur of gunfire and screams, he peels through the chaos and corners Anton and Kirill against the far wall of the warehouse.
“Nowhere to run,” he growls, his gun leveled.
Anton lunges first, stupid as ever. He swings at Demyan, but Demyan ducks, slamming his elbow into Anton’s ribs before sending him sprawling with a sharp kick. I don’t give him time to breathe. I close in, my fist connecting with his jaw, the satisfying crunch echoing even over the din of battle.
Kirill isn’t reckless like Anton. He moves with the bitterness of experience, pulling a knife from his coat and coming at me with surprising speed for a man with a gut. I sidestep, block with my forearm, then drive my knee into his stomach. He snarls, slashing, the blade nicking my jacket but not my skin.
Demyan drags Anton up and slams him against a steel beam, pinning him there with a forearm across his throat. Anton thrashes, spitting curses, but Demyan doesn’t budge. He’s a wall.
I grab Kirill’s knife hand, twist until the blade clatters to the floor, then slam him down on his knees. His eyes widen as I press my gun to his temple.
“You think you can touch what’s mine?” My voice is ice, steady even with blood dripping somewhere in the chaos behind us. “You think you can take her?”
Kirill bares his teeth, but I see the tremor in his jaw. Fear.
Behind me, Anton gags as Demyan pins him to the steel beam, one hand crushing his throat. Anton thrashes, nails clawing at Demyan’s arm, but Demyan’s face is stone. His other hand pistons into Anton’s ribs, punch after punch until the wet snap of cartilage and bone fills the air. Blood sprays from Anton’s mouth as he wheezes my name—“Niko—!”—but it’s broken, pitiful.
