I shoved open the French doors at the back of the house.
Cool night air rushed over me — sharp against my heated skin — like a slap trying to wake me from rage.
Ahead of me stretched the pool.
It was long, turquoise, illuminated from beneath by submerged lights that cast wavering reflections across the stone patio. Gas torches lined the perimeter, flames bending gently in the breeze, throwing golden light over water and shadow alike.
And there—
On a wide chaise lounge positioned just beyond the pool’s edge—
Ruslan.
He lay half-propped.
His shirt was gone, exposing bandages wrapped tightly around his torso. Fresh red had already begun seeping through the white layers, staining them dark.
His right leg was elevated on stacked pillows — thigh bandaged thickly.
His right arm rested across his chest, also wrapped, an IV line taped carefully into the inside of his elbow.
A doctor knelt beside him — older, silver-haired, focused — securing the final dressing with steady hands.
The scene looked almost controlled.
Almost calm.
As if this man hadn’t orchestrated the destruction of my sister.
The doctor glanced up first.
His eyes widened the moment he saw me.
Gun raised.
Face streaked with dried tears and burning fury.
He swallowed.
Quickly leaned toward Ruslan and whispered something urgent.
Ruslan’s eyes shifted.
He lifted his good hand — slow, deliberate — dismissing the doctor with a silent command.
One gesture.
Power without effort.
The doctor nodded once.
Gathered his medical kit.
And left without another word.
Coward.
I stepped forward.
