“You’ll die for him.”
“If I have to.” My arm tightens around Roman’s waist. “But I’d rather live with him, so let’s focus on making that happen.”
She nods once.
“Then let’s go end this.” She releases Roman’s face and turns toward the passage leading up into the estate proper. “I know where he keeps his soldiers stationed, I know which passages are guarded and which have been forgotten, I know the layout of every room we’ll pass through.” Her head turns, eyes finding Roman over her shoulder. “Let me lead you to him, vnuchok. Let me watch you take back what he stole.”
Roman’s hand finds mine in the darkness and squeezes hard.
“Stay close to me,” he says against my temple, his lips brushing the skin when he speaks. “Whatever happens up there, Anya, you stay close to me, ponimayesh?”
“Ponimayu.” I understand.
We follow Galina up.
The wine cellar opens around us —bottles lined up in neat rows, climate systems humming softly to maintain optimal aging conditions, two of Vadim’s guards smoking cigarettes bythe stairs leading up into the main house with their weapons holstered and their attention on a phone screen glowing between them.
They don’t see us until Roman is already moving.
His Makarov coughs twice, suppressed fire barely louder than the climate control, and the first guard drops with his cigarette still burning between his fingers, body crumpling against the stone floor.
The second guard turns toward the sound, and I’m the one who takes him, a single shot through the space where his skull meets his spine, the recoil traveling up my arm.
Roman’s eyes find mine across the wine cellar.
“Moya devochka,” he breathes, so quiet the words barely reach me. “My girl knows how to shoot.”
“Your girl knows how to do a lot of things.” I eject the magazine, check my remaining rounds, slam it home again with hands that don’t shake anymore because the shaking stopped somewhere in the river, and I don’t know if it’s ever coming back. “Now focus, Roman, we’re not done yet.”
His mouth curves at the corners, and he gestures for Galina to continue leading.
She takes us up stone stairs, through service corridors lined with damask wallpaper and paintings that belong in museums, past doorways leading into rooms I’ll never see because we’re moving too fast.
Gunfire erupts ahead of us, and I drop to a crouch on instinct, pressing my back against the wall while Roman moves forward to engage, his Makarov barking in rapid succession as he takes down two of Vadim’s soldiers who stumbled onto our position from a side corridor.
Return fire clips his Kevlar, and he staggers but stays dangerous in ways that shouldn’t be possible given the damage his body has already taken. I understand now why men followhim, why they swear blood oaths and die for him—he refuses to fall when any reasonable person would have surrendered to the darkness hours ago.
One of our soldiers goes down, a bullet through his thigh, and I’m beside him, my hands finding the wound, while Roman and Luka clear the corridor ahead.
“Femoral artery is intact,” I tell him, pressing gauze against the entry wound. He hisses through his teeth. “You’re going to live, but you can’t walk on this, Peter, you need to stay here and keep pressure on—”
“Nyet.” His hand closes around my wrist with surprising strength for a man bleeding on expensive marble. “Keep moving, Tsaritsa, I’ll manage, just keep moving and end this.”
Roman appears above me, his hand finding my shoulder, pulling me gently but firmly to my feet while his eyes stay fixed on the corridor ahead, where more of Vadim’s men could appear at any moment.
“He’s right,” Roman says. “We have to keep moving, Anya, we don’t have time to—”
“I know.” I squeeze Peter’s hand once, quick and fierce, and then I’m up and moving again, following Roman deeper into the house where his uncle waits.
The service kitchen opens before us, and I count three people in civilian clothes before I’ve fully processed the room—commercial appliances gleaming, prep stations cleared for the night, the smell of bread that was baked hours ago still lingering in the air.
A cook, middle-aged woman with flour dusting her apron, hands flying up in surrender before anyone speaks.
A maid, young enough to be in university, already crying with fear that has nowhere to go.
And a boy.
He’s maybe seventeen, probably younger, with dark hair falling across his forehead and brown eyes that don’t understand what’s happening, don’t understand why armed people have invaded his kitchen.
