I drag the heavy table across the room—swearing the entire time because apparently, rich people furniture weighs approximately one million pounds—and position it as cover. I crouch behind it and brace the gun on top, aim at the door with hands that won’t stop shaking.
“Last chance, Vera!” Alexei’s voice is triumphant. “Come willingly or by force!”
I take a breath and think of Dimitri and the way he looks at me, the way he holds me. The promise he made.
“Hey, Alexei?” I call out, my voice assertive. “Remember when you used to tell me I was too nice? Too soft? That I needed to be more assertive?”
Silence.
“Consider this me taking your advice.”
The cutting stops and the circle of glowing metal falls inward with a crash. An arm reaches through covered in a tactical glove and body armor, groping for the lock. My heart is in my throat.
The gun feels too heavy and too light all at once, but I don’t lower it.
Because I’m not running. I’m not surrendering. And I'm sure as hell not letting them win.
The deadbolt slides back and the door opens.
And I, VeraVolkov, raise my weapon.
24
DIMITRI
The SUV crashes through the estate but it doesn’t slow down. I don’t a fuck about the screaming tires or the way the vehicle fishtails when I take the corner too fast. My left shoulder is on fire, blood soaking through my jacket and shirt, but pain is secondary to the terror driving me forward.
I’ve been trying to reach Mikhail for five minutes, but there’s no response. The security frequency is chaos—gunfire, shouting, then silence. That terrible, ominous silence that means people are dead.
Mypeople.
And Vera is in there. Alone. Trapped in the safe room with God knows how many of Konstantin’s men trying to breach it.
I’m too late. I’m going to be too late. She’s going to be?—
No.
I can’t think like that. She’s alive. Shehasto be alive.
Once we reach the circular drive, I abandon the SUV and grab my weapon and move, ignoring the way my shoulder screams in protest with every motion.
The front door is open, hanging crooked on its hinges like someone kicked it in. Heart in my throat, I go in, weapon raised, moving through my own home like it’s a war zone.
Because it is. The foyer looks like a massacre. Bodies are sprawled across the marble floors in spreading pools of blood. Some are mine. To my horror, I recognize Pavel’s face, eyes staring sightlessly at the crystal chandelier, a bullet hole in his forehead. He’s still gripping his weapon, having died fighting like a hero.
Others are Konstantin’s men in tactical gear and body armor. At least four of them are down, with multiple gunshot wounds. My men didn’t go down quietly, they fought with honor.
The north wing is shot to hell. Windows are shattered with bullet holes stitched across the wallpaper. A Monet painting I paid six million is torn to shreds by automatic weapons fire.
I don’t care about any of it. My sole focus is getting to the basement. To Vera.
I follow the sound of machinery—the high-pitched whine of a cutting torch, metal shrieking as it’s torn apart—down the staircase to the basement level.
And there, outside the reinforced door of the safe room, are six of Konstantin’s men.
They’ve…they’ve cutthrough. The door is breached, a jagged circle of molten steel cooling in the dim emergency lighting and armed men in tactical gear prepare to go through.
Going forVera.
