I carry her to the vehicle myself, settling her gently across the back seat, her head in my lap. The engine roars to life, and we're moving, tearing down the dark road away from the burning compound.
I brush the hair from her face, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. She looks so fragile like this. So small. But I know better. I've seen her fight, seen her survive, seen her refuse to break no matter what the world threw at her.
She's the strongest person I've ever known.
And she's carrying my child.
I press my hand against her stomach—flat still, no visible sign of the life growing inside her. But it's there. Our future. Our family.
I lean down and press my lips to her forehead.
"I've got you," I whisper. "Both of you. I'm never letting you go."
The night rushes past outside the windows. The compound burns on the horizon behind us. And somewhere ahead, a new life is waiting.
I'm not ready for this. I don't know how to be a father. I don't know how to be anything other than what I am—a killer, a crime lord, a man built for violence and destruction.
But for her—for them—I'll learn.
Whatever it takes.
Chapter 25 - Bianca
The world comes back in fragments.
The hum of tires on pavement. The warmth of Misha's body against my side. Voices—distant, muffled, speaking in tones too low for me to make out the words. I drift in and out, awareness flickering like a faulty light bulb, my mind refusing to fully engage with reality.
I killed someone today. I can still feel the recoil of the gun in my hands, still see the guard falling, still smell the copper tang of blood in the air.
I push the thought away. Can't deal with it now. Can't deal with anything now.
The SUV stops. Doors open. Misha lifts me out, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing. I want to tell him I can walk, but the words won't come. My body has surrendered, gone limp and heavy, all the adrenaline that kept me fighting finally drained away.
Bright lights. Antiseptic smell. The squeak of wheels on linoleum. A hospital, or something like one—private, probably, given the absence of crowded waiting rooms and curious stares.
Someone tries to take me from Misha's arms. He growls something in Russian, his grip tightening, and the person backs away.
Then I'm on a bed, soft sheets beneath me, and people are moving around me with quiet efficiency. Blood pressure cuff on my arm. Penlight in my eyes. Gentle hands examining my wrists, my face, the bruises I didn't even realize I had.
Through it all, Misha doesn't leave. He stands beside the bed, his hand wrapped around mine, his presence a solid anchorin the chaos. His face is still streaked with smoke and blood—he hasn't cleaned up, hasn't taken care of himself at all. He just watches, his eyes tracking every movement the medical staff makes.
"Sir, we need to examine her properly," a woman's voice says. Calm, professional. "Perhaps you could wait outside while we—"
"No."
One word. Final. The kind of voice that doesn't invite argument.
A pause. Then: "Very well. But please step back so we can work."
He releases my hand, moves to the foot of the bed. His eyes never leave my face.
***
The examination is thorough.
They check everything—every bruise, every cut, every inch of my battered body. They ask questions I don't want to answer, about what happened in captivity, about what Sergei did or didn't do. I tell them the truth: he didn't touch me. Not like that. He wanted to break me psychologically, not physically.
Small mercies.
