24
DIMITRI
The factory erupts into chaos around me, but all I can focus on is reaching Alina. My men move with practiced efficiency, taking down Viktor's soldiers with controlled bursts of gunfire. Bodies fall. Blood sprays across concrete. The acrid smell of gunpowder fills my lungs with every breath.
But none of it matters. Only her.
I fight my way through the main floor, my weapon an extension of my arm. A Popov soldier appears from behind a stack of crates, and I put two rounds in his chest before he can raise his gun. Another comes at me from the left, and I drop him with a headshot. The eight-pointed star tattoo on my chest feels like it's burning through my tactical vest, a reminder of who I am, what I've become. Maybe what I’ve always been.
A monster.
Through the smoke and chaos, I hear it—a gunshot from the back of the building. Different from the automatic weapons fire. Singular. Deliberate.
My heart stops.
"Alina!" Her name tears from my throat as I sprint toward the sound, leaving my men to handle the remaining guards. My boots pound against concrete, and every second feels like an eternity. Images flash through my mind of her red hair spread across my pillow, her green eyes blazing with defiance, and the way she felt in my arms just hours ago.
I hurdle over a body, barely registering the Kozlov colors on his jacket. An office door blocks my path and I kick it open, the frame splintering under the impact. The corridor beyond is narrow, lit by flickering fluorescent lights that cast everything in sickly yellow.
My pulse hammers so hard I can feel it in my temples. I've faced death more times than I can count, walked into ambushes knowing I might not walk out. But this terror is different—sharper, more visceral. It's not my life on the line.
It's hers.
And if Viktor has hurt her, if I'm too late?—
No. I can't think like that. Won't think like that.
I round a corner and nearly collide with one of Viktor's men. He's young, barely twenty, with panic written across his face. He tries to bring his weapon up but his hands are shaking too badly. I could shoot him, should shoot him.
Instead, I slam the butt of my gun into his temple and keep moving, leaving him unconscious on the floor. I don't have time for this. Don't have time for anything except getting to her.
The corridor opens into a junction, three paths splitting off in different directions. I pause for half a heartbeat, listening,calculating. The smell of gunpowder is stronger here, mixing with something else—fear, sweat, and blood.
Left. The shot came from the left.
If she's hurt, if Viktor has touched her, I'll make what I did to Pyotr look merciful.
I burst through a doorway into a narrow corridor, and the scene before me freezes me in place.
Alina stands five feet away, her back to me, a gun gripped in both hands. Her arms are extended, steady despite the trembling I can see in her shoulders. Her red hair is wild around her face, and even from behind, I can see the tension radiating through her body.
Viktor Popov leans against the far wall, one hand pressed to his shoulder where blood seeps through his fingers, staining his expensive shirt. His silver hair is disheveled, his face pale with pain and rage. But his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—are fixed on his daughter with something that looks almost like pride.
Or perhaps satisfaction. Even now, even bleeding and in pain, facing his daughter who’s holding a gun on him, he's found a way to manipulate the situation, to turn this moment into a lesson, a test, a final act of control.
"Alina." I keep my voice soft, controlled, as I take a slow step forward. "Put the gun down."
She doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge that she's heard me. Did she even hear me, or is she so lost in revenge that she's solely focused on her father? The gun remains pointed at hischest, unwavering. Her stance is good—feet planted, weight distributed properly.
I move closer, careful not to startle her. One wrong move and that trigger finger could twitch. "It's over. My men have secured the building. Viktor's soldiers are dead or surrendered. You don't have to do this."
"Don't I?" Her voice is steady, cold in a way I've never heard before. It reminds me of winter ice cracking over deep water. "He killed my sister, Dimitri. He deserves to die."
I can't argue with that logic. I've killed for less—for insults, for territory disputes, or just for looking at me the wrong way. Viktor Popov has committed crimes that demand blood payment in our world. If Alina lowers that gun, I'll put a bullet in him myself without hesitation.
But I also know what pulling that trigger will cost her. I've lived with the weight of every life I've taken for decades. Some nights, I still see their faces—the first man I killed, the one who looked surprised that a seventeen-year-old boy could be so ruthless. The soldier who begged. The traitor who died cursing my name. Some mornings, I wake with blood on my hands that isn't really there, phantom stains that no amount of washing can remove. I've made peace with what I am, with the monster I've become.
I don't want that for her.
