I was trying to understand the strategy. But I couldn't see past the immediate horror of having my parentage displayed like evidence at a trial, of having my mother's affair made public, of becoming the center of a succession dispute I'd never wanted to be part of.
Anton stood, his voice tight with barely controlled rage. "This is absurd. The girl was raised by Dmitri Volkov, exiled Volkov trash. She has no claim, no training, no understanding of what it means to lead. She's—"
"She has blood," Alexei Volkov interrupted, standing as well with authority that made Anton's protest fade to silence. "In our world, blood matters more than documentation. More than training. More than anything except demonstrated capability. If she's Konstantin's daughter, she's legitimate Belyaev heir regardless of her upbringing."
Other Pakhans were weighing in now. Pavel Kozlov arguing about precedent from the eighties. Viktor Sokolov citing even older protocols from before they'd left Russia. Ivan Morozov questioning whether American-born children of affairs counted the same as Russian-born legitimate heirs. Ancient codes being invoked, arguments about blood purity versus organizational capability, the kind of bratva politics I didn't fully understand but could feel the weight of.
The argument escalated. Voices rising despite the sacred setting. Men standing, gesturing, making points about succession that meant everything to them and nothing to me except that they were talking about my genetics like I was property being appraised.
I watched Nikolai's face. Watched for some sign that he knew I was drowning here, that having my parentage dissected by dangerous men was destroying something fundamental in me. But his expression stayed neutral. Strategic. The Pakhan who couldn't afford emotion when playing for stakes this high.
Then I saw it.
The slight nod Nikolai gave to Kostya, who was positioned near the side exit. So subtle I almost missed it. Just a minimal tilt of his head, but deliberate. Significant.
Maks shifted position by the main doors. Not obviously. Just adjusting his stance in a way that put him closer to the exit, that changed his angle relative to the Belyaev guards.
The Volkov guards around Mikhail were repositioning too. Subtle movements that looked casual but created different formations, different coverage patterns.
Understanding hit me like ice water.
This wasn't about legitimacy arguments. Wasn't about convincing the Council to rule in my favor or overthrow Anton's position through legal challenge.
This was about creating chaos.
Creating the perfect moment when everyone's attention was on the dramatic confrontation to make a move that should be impossible. To extract both hostages while the Pakhans were busy arguing about bloodline and succession and ancient protocols that Nikolai probably didn't care about except as distraction.
He was breaking the game.
My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. This was it. Whatever Nikolai had planned, whatever desperate move he'd calculated during the hours I'd been in Belyaev hands—it was about to happen.
I just had to be ready.
Kostya materialized beside me like violence given human form. One second I was sitting in the front row watching Pakhans argue about my bloodline. The next his massive hand found my arm—not gentle, not careful—and yanked me from the chair hard enough that I gasped.
Gunfire exploded through the cathedral's sacred space.
The sound was deafening. Worse than deafening—physically painful in the stone acoustics, each shot multiplying and echoing until I couldn't distinguish individual weapons. Just continuous thunder that made my ears ring and my heart try to punch through my ribs.
Anton's guards were drawing weapons but the Volkovs were faster. Dmitry and his men laying down covering fire thatsent observers diving under pews. Tables scattering as people scrambled for protection. The carefully arranged formality of the Council dissolving into absolute chaos.
My bad knee buckled immediately. Too much adrenaline. Too much weight too fast on the joint that had never healed right after surgery. The surgical screws that had ended my ballet career were screaming protest, sending sharp pains up my thigh that made my vision white out at the edges.
Kostya didn't hesitate. Didn't ask if I was okay or try to help me walk. Just scooped me up like I weighed nothing—one arm under my knees, one behind my back—and ran toward the side exit while bullets sparked off gold-plated icons and shattered stained glass worth more than my life.
I caught fragments through the chaos. Mikhail being extracted by Dmitry and Ivan Volkov, the old man moving under his own power despite his injuries. Heading for a different exit in coordinated precision that spoke to planning I hadn't been privy to. The three of them moving like a unit, Volkov guards providing cover, disappearing through a doorway near the iconostasis.
Then Nikolai was there.
Not running. Walking with deliberate purpose through the chaos like bullets couldn't touch him. His gun raised but not firing—why wasn't he firing?—his body positioning itself between me and the center of the cathedral. Between me and Anton.
Anton was screaming orders in Russian. His face purple with rage, spittle flying as he gestured at his guards to organize a response. To stop the extraction. To prevent everything he'd planned from dissolving into this nightmare of violated protocols and sacred ground being desecrated with gunfire.
He reached for me. His hand stretching out as Kostya carried me past, fingers almost connecting with my ankle. Almost catching me. Almost dragging me back into Belyaev hands.
Nikolai's fist connected with Anton's jaw in a movement so fast and brutal I barely saw it happen.
One moment Anton was reaching. The next he dropped like a puppet with cut strings, his body hitting the cathedral floor hard enough that I heard the impact over the gunfire. Not dead—I could see him moving, conscious, trying to get up—but neutralized. Stopped long enough for us to escape.
