I don't wait to hear it. I put a bullet in his head and move on.
The greenhouse looms behind me, its glass walls reflecting the fires burning across the estate. Some of the panes are shattered now, casualties of the fighting. Bianca's sanctuary, damaged by my war.
I think about her hands in the soil, coaxing life from dead things. I think about her face when she found my father's letters, the way she looked at me like I was something worth saving.
I don't let myself think about that for long. There's still work to do. There's always more work to do.
***
By four in the morning, the assault is over.
Sergei's forces are pulling back across all fronts, their coordinated strikes dissolving into scattered retreats. The estate is battered but standing. The perimeter held. Bodies litter the grounds—theirs and ours—but the defensive lines are intact.
I return to the command center, covered in blood—none of it mine except for the shallow cut on my arm—and find Alexei and Lenkov still at their consoles, coordinating the final stages of the defense.
"Casualty report," I demand.
"Six dead, nine wounded," Alexei says. "Three critically."
Six men. Six families who will get the worst news of their lives because they chose to work for me. I file the number away, along with the guilt. I'll deal with it later. I always deal with it later.
"The attackers?"
"Thirty-two confirmed kills. We've captured four, wounded."
"Internal security maintained throughout," Lenkov adds. "No breaches of the main house."
A decisive victory, on paper. But something doesn't sit right. The assault was fierce, but not overwhelming. Sergei committed significant forces, but not everything he had.
It's like he was testing us. Probing our defenses rather than trying to break them.
And Sergei himself was never spotted. His lieutenants led the attack. Where was he?
The question nags at me, a splinter I can't dislodge. Sergei is many things—cruel, obsessive, dangerous—but he's not a coward. He wouldn't send his men to die while he watched from a distance. Not unless he had a reason.
Not unless he was somewhere else. Doing something else.
The realization creeps over me slowly, like ice forming on still water.
What if the assault was a diversion? All of it—the south wall, the east gate, the north breach. All of it designed to keep us occupied. To keep me occupied.
While Sergei did what he really came here to do.
"I'm going to check on Bianca and Anna," I say, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears. Tight. Controlled. The voice of a man trying very hard not to panic.
Alexei nods. "I'll coordinate the cleanup."
Lenkov glances at me, his expression unreadable. "I'm sure they're fine, sir. Petrov is reliable."
I don't answer. I'm already moving, heading for the basement, my boots echoing through the damaged corridors. The estate is quiet now—the eerie stillness that follows violence, broken only by distant shouts as my men secure the perimeter and tend to the wounded.
The stairs descend into darkness. The emergency lighting is flickering, casting strange shadows on the concrete walls. I pull out a flashlight and continue down, the beam cutting through the black.
The corridor stretches ahead of me. Cold. Silent. Wrong.
Something is wrong.
Petrov should be here. Standing guard at his post, weapon ready, waiting to report. He should have heard me coming, should be calling out a challenge or a greeting.
