Could be nothing. Most things are nothing.
I shift gears and push a little faster, not dramatic, just enough to see if they drift off or take the next turn away from me. They don’t. The distance between us closes slightly, subtle but noticeable, and my jaw tightens before I can stop it.
I ease my left hand a little closer to my hip without making it obvious and let the road open up ahead of me, stretching longer than it needs to. If they’re just another driver, they’ll hang back. If they’re not, they won’t.
The headlights surge.
And then the night explodes.
Gunfire cracks through the dark, sharp and violent, tearing the quiet apart so fast my brain doesn’t catch up to the soundat first. The first round hits the pavement near my back tire and sparks jump in my mirror. The second shatters through metal, and I feel the vibration of it through the frame before I understand what just happened.
I yank the bike hard, trying to angle out of the line of fire, but more shots rip through the air and something slams into my shoulder with white-hot force that knocks the breath out of me. The bike fishtails under me, the back end whipping as I fight to steady it, but there’s too much speed and not enough control.
The world tilts sideways. Metal screams against asphalt as I lose it completely, and the ground comes up fast and unforgiving. I hit hard and roll, gravel tearing through denim and skin, my helmet cracking against pavement as sparks scatter past me. The bike skids ahead in twisted chrome and fire before slamming to a stop somewhere in the dark. The SUV roars past without slowing.
The road falls quiet again except for the ringing in my ears and the fading hum of their engine disappearing into the distance, and the silence feels almost unreal after the violence of it. For a second I just lie there on my back, staring up at the black sky and trying to figure out what still works and what doesn’t. My shoulder burns like it’s been branded, and there’s a deep, throbbing ache running through my ribs, but I can move my fingers, and I can breathe, and that’s enough to tell me I’m not done yet.
I roll onto my side and the pain hits full force, sharp and mean, stealing the air from my lungs for a second. Gravel grinds into my palms as I push myself up onto one knee, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from swearing out loud. It hurts like hell, but I’m alive, and that realization lands heavier than anything else.
I reach into the inside zipper pocket of my cut, my hand shaking more from adrenaline than weakness, and I pull out my phone. The screen lights up in the dark, cracked but functional, and I scroll through my contacts before hitting the call button.
NINE
ANYA
I knowthe exact moment Dmitri arrives, not because anyone announces him and not because there is some dramatic shift in sound, but because the entire suite recalibrates around his presence. The men stationed outside the door straighten. One adjusts his cuff. My father’s posture tightens by a fraction that most people would miss, but I have spent my entire life studying those fractions. The air grows heavier in a way that is specific to my younger brother. I have felt it since childhood. It is not fear. It is awareness. Like standing too close to live current and knowing exactly how much damage it can do.
But Dmitri does not come alone, Mikhail enters first.
There is nothing theatrical about him. He does not need the room to bend. It does anyway. His presence is quiet authority, measured and composed. His suit is immaculate despite the travel. His gaze moves once around the suite, taking in security positions, exits, lines of sight, before finally landing on me. It softens. Only slightly. “Anastasiya,” he says.
Then Dmitri steps through the doorway behind him. He fills it in a way Mikhail does not try to. His hair is shorter than thelast time I saw him in Moscow. There is a shadow along his jaw that makes him look older, harder. His eyes sweep the room once before locking onto me. He crosses the space in three long strides and pulls me into him. Not gently. Not carefully. His arms close around me like he is reattaching something that nearly came loose. “You look thinner,” he mutters into my hair, voice rough.
“I was not exactly being fed on a schedule,” I reply steadily. “Volkov did not prioritize balanced meals when he chained me to a wall.”
His body goes rigid. Mikhail steps closer now. Dmitri pulls back and grips my upper arms, his eyes scanning my face, my neck, my wrists. He does not ask if I am okay. He assesses damage. “Who did it?” he asks flatly.
“Volkov orchestrated it,” I say. “Security was compromised. I was taken to a warehouse outside the city and restrained. He intended to use me as leverage. To get information on Papa.”
“And he is dead,” Dmitri says.
“Yes. The Iron Reapers ended it.”
Mikhail’s gaze sharpens. “You were with them afterward.”
“I was taken to one of their homes after the hospital so I could recover properly.”
“Whose home?” Dmitri asks.
“Roman’s.”
“The one Papa insisted on speaking with,” Mikhail says quietly.
“Yes.”
Dmitri’s mouth tightens slightly. “The one who told Papa he would not be pushed.”
“Yes.”
