It's a lie, of course. I'm going to kill him either way. But the lie is kind, and kindness is sometimes the cruelest weapon.
His grip on Alina loosens. The gun drops another inch. And in that moment of hesitation, that split second when his guard is down and his attention is divided, I move.
My hand goes to the Glock at my hip, drawing and firing in one smooth motion. The shot is perfect, honed by decades of practice and hundreds of kills. The bullet enters through his right eye, the one not blocked by Alina's head, and exits through the back of his skull in a spray of blood and brain matter.
He's dead before he hits the ground.
Alina stumbles forward, and I catch her, holstering my weapon and pulling her against my chest. She's covered in blood, Pyotr's blood, warm and sticky against her skin. She's shaking, her whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm.
"I've got you," I murmur in Russian, my hands running over her body, checking for injuries. "You're safe. I've got you."
She makes a sound that's half sob, half laugh, and buries her face in my chest. I can feel her tears soaking through my shirt, can feel the rapid hammer of her heart against mine.
"Secure the area," I bark at my men. "Check for survivors. I want a full sweep of the perimeter."
They move immediately, well-trained soldiers who know better than to question orders. Borge approaches, his face grim.
"Alexei?" I ask.
"Alive. Conscious. The doctor's with him now." Borge glances at Alina, then back to me. "The rest of the Kozlov soldiers are dead or fled. We found evidence that Viktor Popov was here earlier, but he's gone. It must have been before they took Alina, though. Maybe to set things up in advance."
My jaw clenches. Viktor. The man who sold out his own daughter, who drugged her and handed her over to his enemies. The man who's responsible for all of this.
"Find him," I say, my voice cold. "I want to know where he went, who he's with, what he's planning. Use every resource we have."
"Already on it, Pakhan."
I lift Alina into my arms, cradling her against my chest, and carry her out of the cabin into the cold night air. The clearing is littered with bodies, Kozlov soldiers who made the mistake of standing between me and what's mine. My men are moving efficiently, checking corpses, securing weapons, erasing evidence.
The SUV is waiting, engine running, back door open. I slide into the seat with Alina still in my arms, unwilling to let her go even for a second. She curls against me, her face pressed to my neck, and I feel the dampness of her tears on my skin.
"It's over," I tell her, stroking her hair. "You're safe now."
The driver pulls away from the cabin, and I watch through the rear window as the structure disappears into the darkness. Behind us, my men are already working to clean up the scene, to make it look like the Kozlov soldiers simply vanished.
We drive in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the hum of the engine and Alina's ragged breathing. I hold her close, one hand stroking her back in soothing circles, the other cradling her head against my shoulder.
Then she speaks, her voice small and broken in a way that makes my chest ache.
"What are you going to do to my father?"
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications. My silence stretches, filling the SUV with a tension that's almost palpable. Alina pulls back slightly, looking up at me with those green eyes that see too much. She's asking me to tell her I'll be merciful, that I'll let Viktor live, that I'll find some way to resolve this without more bloodshed.
But I can't lie to her. Not about this.
So I say nothing, and in that silence, she finds her answer.
The look that crosses her face, the understanding and the fear and the resignation, tells me she knows exactly what I'm going to do to Viktor Popov.
And that my mercy died the moment he put his hands on her.
17
ALINA
The estate feels different when we arrive. Colder somehow, despite the warm lights spilling from every window. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the one who's changed, who's been fundamentally altered by what happened in that cabin.
Dimitri carries me inside despite my protests that I can walk. His arms are solid around me, unyielding, and I don't have the energy to fight him. I let my head rest against his shoulder, breathing in the scents of gunpowder and cologne that cling to him.
