He stands as a silhouette against a stack of crates, one arm firmly locked around Sasha. Her head is turned to the side; her hair fans out like a flag. A gun presses against her temple—close enough that the barrel’s metal catches the faint light. His face is calm, as if he’s reading a page, as if this is a theater and not a woman’s life. I can feel Sasha’s gaze, but I deliberately avoid it. I can’t afford a distraction.
“I heard the commotion outside,” he says, voice oily with false warmth. “So predictable.”
Something in me goes perfectly quiet. My hands loosen on the Glock; I don’t raise it yet. I don’t move like an animal—this is not the time for hunger. This is the time for calculation. For patience that has teeth.
Christos tightens his elbow a fraction. Sasha’s fingers scrabble at the cuff, a tiny, furious motion I hate because it’s all she can do. Her eyes flick to me—wide, burning—and for a second the warehouse narrows to the arc of her cheekbone andthe gun’s cold muzzle. I see the bite of panic and, beneath it, the ember of her stubbornness.
“I gave you a choice,” Christos continues, conversational, as if we’re discussing wine. “You know our ways.”
“You’ve got the wrong leverage,” I say, voice low, even. Close enough for him to hear the thread of iron. “Give her to me, and no one else needs to get hurt.”
He chuckles—short, ugly. “You think I don’t know what you are, Lev? You already made your choice when you married this girl.” His thumb rubs the gun’s grip. “You brought me to this stage.”
I take two measured steps forward. The distance kills his smile. “Let her go. Now.”
Christos tilts his head, curiosity more than fear. “And why would I do that? You’ll come at me—Rusnaks don’t bargain without blood. We both know how this works.”
I don’t interrupt him. I don’t let him bait me into a soundbite. I watch the tiny betrayals in his posture—the shift of weight, the micro-angle his wrist makes when he thinks he has the moment. I am looking for that one, clean seam.
He adjusts the gun, just the fraction I’ve been waiting for, and I pull the trigger.
The report cracks like a snapped tendon. Christos’s scream rips the air as his knee collapses outward; his foot slides on the concrete, and the pistol tumbles from his hand into the dust with a dull clatter. He goes down hard, the world folding under him, a ragged cry shredding into a curse.
For a second, everything stops—the warehouse, the heat-stutter on the drone feed, even my own breath—and then motion floods back in.
At the sound of my gunshot, Roman and Mikhail charge into the warehouse. Roman smiles when he sees Christos writhing on the floor.
“Mikhail, take him alive,” I bark, and the command snaps the room into motion. “We’re taking him back to Chicago for questioning.”
Mikhail answers with a stiff nod and moves in, practiced and brutal in the way that keeps things clean. He cuffs Christos, strips him of phones and weapons, and hauls him to his feet like a prize to be inspected. The relief I feel is sharp and immediate.
I turn to Sasha. For the first time since I found her, I allow myself to really look. She’s a mess of hair and grime, cheeks streaked with salt and whatever else the night handed her, eyes blown wide and luminous in the gloom. There’s a bruise blooming along her jaw where a cuff dug in; there’s a cut at her knuckle from when she fought. She looks like war and beauty rolled into one fragile, furious human form.
I drop to my knees and slice through the ropes that bind her wrists, careful but fast, my fingers trembling only with relief. The moment they’re free, I pull her into my chest, feeling the tension in her body dissolve against mine.
For a heartbeat, the warehouse, the gunfire, the danger—it all disappears. It’s just us.
She presses her forehead to mine, breath catching, and whispers, “I knew you’d come.”
I tighten my hold, letting the weight of every promise and threat we’ve ever faced settle between us. My voice is rough, low, and unwavering: “Always.”
She clings to me, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself just be here—her shield, her anchor, her chaos and her calm all at once.
Chapter 25 – Sasha
I stir awake to the insistent shaking and groggy sunlight spilling through the curtains. Blinking, I see Lev looming above me, a tray balanced expertly in his hands.
“Breakfast in bed,” he announces, voice rough but teasing.
A grin tugs at my lips, and I sit up, tugging the covers around me.
“I cooked it myself,” he adds, and my eyes widen as I take in the spread. “And I won’t leave until you clear everything on that plate.”
I laugh softly, a sound that feels lighter than it has in days. We’ve been back in Chicago for almost a week now, and I’m starting to wake up without the tight coil of fear in my chest. I’m fully back, fully me again—no more flinching when someone moves too close, no more jumping at shadows. Lev’s presence feels like a shield now, steady and unshakable.
I take the tray from him, the warm weight of it grounding me. Lev slides into the chair across from me, eyes softening the moment they meet mine. He leans forward just slightly and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, careful, deliberate, like I’m fragile porcelain.
“Eat,” he murmurs, his voice low but firm, a gentle command I can’t refuse.
