Behind us, Konstantin’s voice echoes through the house. Taunting and confident.
“You can’t protect her! She’s ours! The baby is ours! You’ve already lost!”
I grit my teeth at both the pain in my shoulder and the fear that’s coursing through me.
But I don’t stop running. I don’t stop fighting.
We burst through the front door into the pre-dawn darkness. My men are already at the SUVs, engines running, and providing covering fire.
I dive into the backseat. Viktor slams the door and we're moving, tires screeching as we speed down the driveway.
Bullets ping off armor plating. The rear window spiderwebs but doesn't shatter.
And then we're through the gate. Away. Escaping.
But all I can think about is Konstantin's voice echoing in my head.
The baby is ours. You've already lost.
The drive back feels endless.
I’m bleeding heavily, vision starting to blur at the edges. I press my fingers against the gunshot wound, trying to slow the bleeding, but blood pours between my fingers.
Too much blood.
“Faster,” I grit out.
“We’re already doing ninety, sir,” Dmitri says tightly, but the engine roars louder anyway.
All I can think about is getting back to Vera. I need to warn her. Protect her.
Konstantin has revealed his hand. He’ll make his final move soon. He has to. He can’t let me regroup.
How much time do we have? Hours? Minutes?
I don’t know.
But I know one thing with absolute certainty. I will die before I let Konstantin and Alexei take Vera and my baby.
23
VERA
If someone had told me three months ago that I’d be spending my Monday night locked in a luxury panic room while my psychotic ex-boyfriend tried to kidnap me and my crime lord husband hunted down his treacherous uncle, I would have suggested they seek professional help.
Yet here we are.
I’ve been in the safe room for two hours and I’m losing my goddamn mind.
It’s a reinforced room in the basement—essentially a bunker that's been decorated by someone who thought “surviving a siege” and “Architectural Digest” weren’t mutually exclusive concepts. There’s supplies, communications equipment, and a weapons locker that Mikhail pointed out with a meaningful look when he first brought me down here. “Just in case,” he’d said.
I hope there wouldn’t be a “just in case.”
The room is comfortable enough, I suppose. There’s a couch and a kitchenette with an espresso machine because God forbid theVolkovs suffer through a siege without quality caffeine. There’s even a bathroom withheatedfloors.
Nothing says “imminent danger” quite like luxury tile warming your feet.
But comfort doesn’t matter when you’re waiting for news about whether the man you love is alive or dead.
