DIMITRI
The impact hits us like a freight train.
One second, we're pulling away from the hotel, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows. The next, metal screams against metal as another vehicle slams into our side. Our armored SUV spins, tires shrieking against asphalt, and my body moves on pure instinct.
I throw myself over Alina, covering her completely as the world tilts sideways. Her gasp is muffled against my chest, her fingers clutching at my jacket. The SUV rocks violently, but our driver maintains control. The vehicle straightens, engine roaring as he accelerates.
Then the gunfire starts.
The distinctive crack of automatic weapons fills the air. Bullets ping off the reinforced glass like deadly rain, spider-web cracks blooming across the windows but not penetrating. Thank God for the armor plating I insisted on for all my vehicles.
"Stay down," I growl against Alina's hair, keeping my body between her and the windows. My hand finds her stomach instinctively, protective, making sure our child is shielded. She's trembling beneath me, but she doesn't scream. My brave, fierce wife.
Through the chaos, I hear my security team responding. The two SUVs that were following us screech to a halt, and my men pour out, returning fire with disciplined precision. I trained them well. They create a protective corridor, their bodies and vehicles forming a barrier between us and the attackers.
"Go, go, go!" I shout to the driver, and he doesn't need to be told twice.
The SUV surges forward, weaving through traffic as more gunfire erupts behind us. I risk a glance through the rear window and count at least four vehicles, maybe five. This isn't some opportunistic hit. This is coordinated, planned, professional.
Ivan Volkov's work.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. The bastard couldn't accept his public humiliation at the gala, couldn't let Alina's words stand unchallenged. So he's resorted to this ambush in the middle of the city, with civilians everywhere. Sloppy. Desperate.
Which makes him more dangerous than ever.
"Dimitri," Alina's voice is muffled against my chest, shaky but controlled. "I'm okay. You can let me breathe now."
I ease back slightly, just enough to see her face. Her green eyes are wide, pupils dilated with adrenaline, but she's not panicking. There's fear there, yes, but also anger.
"Are you hurt?" I demand, my hands running over her arms, her shoulders, checking for injuries even though I know the bullets didn't penetrate.
"No. I'm fine.”
More gunfire echoes behind us, but it's growing distant. The driver takes a sharp turn, then another, his driving smooth despite the speed. He knows these streets like the back of his hand, knows every alley and shortcut. Within minutes, we've lost any potential tail.
My phone buzzes. Alexei.
"Status," I bark into it.
"We’ve got two captured alive. The rest scattered when they realized they'd failed." His voice is steady, professional, but I can hear the underlying fury. An attack on me is an attack on all of us.
"Good. Bring the prisoners to the estate. I want to know everything they know."
"Already on it, Boss."
I end the call and pull Alina closer, breathing in her scent. My heart is still racing, adrenaline flooding my system, but having her safe in my arms grounds me. Centers me.
"It was Ivan," she says quietly. Not a question.
"Yes."
"He's not going to stop, is he?"
I want to lie to her, to tell her everything will be fine, that I'll protect her from all of this. But Alina deserves the truth. She's proven time and again that she can handle it.
"No. Not until one of us is dead."
She's silent for a moment, her hand finding mine and lacing our fingers together. I press a kiss to her forehead, then her lips, tasting her fear and her determination in equal measure.
