The gunshot echoes through the house, and the second man drops with a cry, clutching his leg. The one gripping me jerks in shock, his gaze flicking between his partner and my father, who is still on the ground, the weapon steady in his palm.
That moment of hesitation is all I need.
I drive my knee into my captor’s groin, hard. He doubles over with a choked curse, and I seize the gun in his hand, yanking it free as he tries to recover.
“You bitch!” he roars, still hunched and reaching for me.
Before he can lunge again, I fire.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
I don’t think; I just pull the trigger, the recoil jolting through my arms as the bullets slam into his stomach, groin, wherever I can get them. He stumbles backward, eyes blown wide behind the mask, then crumples over the wooden floor.
When I look at the other man, he’s still alive, bleeding heavily from his leg and scrambling backward in a panic as I kick his weapon out of reach.
“Don’t. Fucking. Move.” I lift the gun and aim it at him.
My hands are shaky, but still, he gets the message.
Mom breaks into sobs, her hands covering her mouth while Dad groans and slumps against the wall, blood wet against his temple. My fingers tremble so hard the pistol almost slips from my grip.
“Dad, are you okay?” My voice cracks as I call over to him.
He nods, though it’s barely more than a dip of his chin. “Are you?”
“I-I-I’m fine. I need to call Aleksei.”
Still holding the gun trained on the man, I fumble my free hand into my pocket and yank out my phone. My thumb shakes as I tap his name. It rings once before he answers.
“Privet, lyubov mo?—”
A strangled sob rips out of me. “Aleksei, please. You have to come to my parents’ house.”
“Tell me what happened.” His tone snaps from warm to lethal in a heartbeat.
“Two men in masks broke in.” My breath hitches. “One’s dead. He’s here in the kitchen. The other one is bleeding on the floor from his leg, and I can’t reach the guards. I don’t know if they’re…if they’re alive…”
I register immediate shuffling and voices.
“Are you hurt? Are your parents?”
“My dad’s bleeding from his head.”
“I’m fine,” Dad calls weakly.
Mom is already moving, grabbing a rag from the kitchen and pressing it firmly against the wound when she returns.
“Put me on speaker,” Aleksei says.
“Okay…” I don’t even have the energy to ask why.
His words fill the room, dark and razor-sharp. “Make sure that piece of shit is listening, okay, detka?”
“He’s looking right at me.”
