And then he bends and sweeps me off my feet with one arm behind my knees and the other supporting my back. I loop my arms around his neck as he carries me down the hallway, past Kira’s empty bedroom with its dinosaur posters and abandoned toys, then past the bathroom and the closet, where I keep the emergency bag I’ve never used.
He carries me through the bedroom door and kicks it shut behind us, sealing out the guns on the kitchen table, a warehouse waiting in Primorsky District, and a man who’s hunted me for three years and doesn’t know what’s coming for him.
Pyotr lowers me onto the bed and follows me down, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I stop counting the hours until morning.
29
Pyotr
Dmitri’s call comes at 6 a.m., and I answer it on the first ring.
“Yevgeny received the evidence.” His voice carries the flat certainty of a man delivering a verdict. “His nephew is no longer under Lebedev protection. Whatever we do from here is our business.”
I close my eyes. Three words run through my head on a loop.No more waiting.
“Understood,” I say. “Timeline?”
“Boris is already en route to you with our men. He should arrive within the hour to go over finalities. End this, Pyotr. Bring me proof it’s done, and Daria walks free.”
I set down the phone and plant my palms flat against the kitchen counter. Yevgeny Lebedev, the man who built the St. Petersburg bratva through decades of patience and political maneuvering, just handed over his nephew. Bogdan burned through his uncle’s loyalty the same way he burns through everything else. By beingreckless, greedy, and too stupid to realize the people protecting him had limits.
The bedroom door opens behind me. Daria stands in the hallway wearing my shirt. Her hair is tangled from sleep, and her feet are bare. She reads my face before I say a word.
“What happened?”
“Dmitri called. Yevgeny pulled his protection. Boris is coming with a team.”
She wraps her arms around herself. “When?”
“Within the hour.”
She gives me one curt nod before she walks past me into the kitchen and fills the kettle. Her hands are no longer shaking. The version of Daria who crumbled at the sound of a blocked number died somewhere between telling me the truth and watching me promise to destroy the man who terrorized her.
This version stands straighter and makes tea while we plan her ex-husband’s end.
I watch her move through the small kitchen, pull mugs from the cabinet, and measure loose tea into the strainer. She catches me staring and raises an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I smirk. “Get dressed. Boris doesn’t tend to knock.”
***
Boris arrives at ten past seven with six men in two vehicles. He fills the doorway of the apartment like a wall, scanning the room before settling his gaze on me.
“Tony confirmed that the warehouse is still active as of four this morning. Eight to twelve men, same rotation schedule. Nothing’s changed since last night.” He drops a duffel bag on the kitchen table containing Kevlar vests, extra magazines, and two radios. “My team is briefed and ready. They’re waiting downstairs, watching the place until we move.”
“And when will that be?” I ask.
“Dawn tomorrow. The gap between the changeovers gives us a window.”
“I want to go.” Daria’s voice comes from behind us.
We turn. She’s in the bedroom doorway, fully dressed, with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her chin is up, and her shoulders are set.
This conversation is about to be a war all its own.
Boris looks at her. “Absolutely not.”
