“Harper Ignatov assisting Anton’s laundering channels. Who could have imagined such betrayal so close to home? Tragic, really.”
Harper exhales a strangled sound. She steps closer to the screen, eyes narrowing, scanning code, metadata, timestamps; they are all forged with surgical precision.
Kiro curses behind us. Mikhail shouts into a comm channel. The entire room erupts in overlapping voices.
Harper only looks at me, her gaze expectant. As if she expects, even now, that I might doubt her.
How could she even think—after all we have been though—
“I know these are fake,” I state matter-of-factly.
Her shoulders loosen by a fraction, as if the air itself gives her back a piece of herself.
Then the alarms scream.
Loud shouts toget that redhead quickfill in the room as law enforcement and federal agents burst in to arrest her. The screens flash red with perimeter breaches, incoming orders, warrants already filed.
The room spins, voices rising in panic, guards drawing weapons.
“Seal the gates,” I snarl, loud enough to carry over the panic.
Kiro’s stormy eyes narrow as he hesitates.
“Damian—”
“Now!”
My voice thunders through the room like a nuclear blast. The guards freeze as their shouting cuts off.
The words leave me, full of conviction, the final gong before the cavalry is released in a war—“Any hand raised against my wife will answer to me directly.”
Silence.
Harper stares at me, something wide and raw flickering behind her eyes.
The ground beneath my feet shakes, a deep reverberation echoing through all of us.An explosion.
Anton’s mercenaries have arrived.
My legs jump into action without a second thought. Smoke climbs the windows as we move.
The ground vibrates with precise and well-timed concussive blasts.
Fucking hell.He knows the estate layout too well. He knows where we run and where we hide.
Kiro barks orders into comms while escorting Harper ahead of us. Mikhail curses in Russian as he fires back toward the collapsing east wall. Alarms howl as sprinkler systems activate, spraying mist through the corridor like artificial rain.
Through this Armageddon, Harper pushes against her escort, breath sharp.
“Damian—”
“Keep going,” I tell her, placing a hand on her back, guiding her forward. Her spine trembles beneath my palm, the only sign she’s afraid.
We sprint through the emergency tunnel beneath the estate, the sound of distant gunfire echoing like metal thunder overhead. At the far exit, one of our armored vehicles waits, engine running, lights off.
We pile inside and the driver floors it.
A painful vibration and a piercing shatter makes me look through the glass. Like the scene of an action movie, the house of generations, the home I rebuilt from ashes once before, erupts in fire.
