I follow her to bed and settle beside her on top of the covers. She turns toward me, careful of her injuries, and rests her head against my shoulder.
"Tell me about where we go after," she says softly. "Tell me what our future could look like."
So I do. I describe the cabin tucked into the mountains of Montana, the lake stretching cold and clear, the way morning fog rolls through valleys like something out of a painting. I talk about silence that isn't threatening, about stars visible without city lights drowning them, about the possibility of days that don't include violence.
Her hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers threading through mine with surprising strength. "I want that," she whispers. "I want it so much it terrifies me."
"Then let's make it happen." I squeeze her hand gently. "Let's finish this and get the hell out of this life."
Her breathing evens out as exhaustion claims territory pain had been holding. But before she falls asleep completely, I know one thing is true.
Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.
We survive tomorrow. Together.
CHAPTER 19
Sofiya
SONG: LITTLE GIRL GONE BY CHINCHILLA
The mansion risesfrom the hill like the eyesore it is. I stand at the edge of the tree line with Volk beside me, studying the structure that once housed everything I loved and everything I lost. The same imposing columns and oversized windows, which let morning light flood the breakfast room whereMamochkawould brush my hair while I ate, and the same heavy doors that swung shut behind me the day I walked into Father's office and watched my world end. Different guards, though. Father's paranoia has multiplied since Volk put those bullets in him. The perimeter teams have doubled , and dogs patrol the fence line, their handlers keeping them on short leashes while they snarl and sniff the ground.
"Seventeen exterior guards," Volk murmurs beside me, his voice barely disturbing the night air. "Four teams of three plus the handlers. They rotate every twenty minutes."
"The gap?"
"Northwest corner. The camera has a blind spot where the oak tree blocks its view. Twelve seconds to cross from cover to the servant entrance."
Twelve seconds. An eternity when armed men are looking for any excuse to shoot.
I check my weapons one final time. The Sig sits comfortably in my thigh holster. Two knives, one at my ankle and one strapped to my forearm. The garrote wrapped around my thigh again like a macabre charm. My body still aches from yesterday's injuries, ribs protesting every deep breath, knee throbbing with each step. But pain is just information. I've learned to file it away and keep moving.
"Ready?" Volk asks.
The question carries weight beyond the single word. Am I ready to finish what started ten years ago? Am I ready to kill the man who murdered my mother? Am I ready to become whatever I'll be when this is over?
"Yes."
We move.
The first guard dies without sound. Volk appears behind him like smoke taking human form, one hand covering the man's mouth while the other draws a blade across his throat. The body folds silently into the bushes. I don't look back. Can't afford sentiment for men who chose to work for a monster.
The northwest gap materializes exactly where Volk promised. I count heartbeats as we sprint across open ground. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. The servant entrance looms and then we're through, swallowed by shadows that smell like industrial cleaner and old wood.
It’s clear that the servants have been sent away. Father’s paranoia useful for once. The empty hallways twist through my memory like ghosts. I know this place. I walked these floors as a child, played hide and seek with the cook's daughter in these very passages. The familiarity makes everything worse. Makes the violence we're about to commit feel like desecration of something sacred.
But sacred things died here long before I returned.
Volk signals. I follow his line of sight and see two guards ahead, stationed at the junction that leads to the main house. I nod and slip into an alcove while he continues forward, his footsteps silent on the polished floor.
The first guard notices him too late. Volk's knife finds the soft spot beneath his jaw and the man crumples with a wet gurgle. The second guard manages to turn, mouth opening to shout, but I'm already there. My garrote loops around his throat and I pull, throwing my weight backward. His fingers claw at the wire cutting into his flesh and severing his pinky fingers as I pull tighter and tighter. His feet kick, and his body jerks with desperate, animalistic panic.
Then stillness.
I lower him to the ground carefully, avoiding the blood pooling beneath his ruined throat. It would help no one if I started leaving a trail of blood through the house. Volk catches my eye and nods once. Approval. Acknowledgment. Something more complicated that we don't have time to examine. We keep moving.
The security hub sits on the second floor, buried in what used to be an old, oversized storage closet. Father converted it years ago, replacing shelving with monitors and comfortable chairs with tactical stations. Two technicians work the screens, their backs to the door, utterly unaware that death has just entered the room.
