I've spent my whole life keeping people at arm's length. Control has always been my armor—calculating every move, anticipating every outcome. But somewhere between that first chess game and now, she slipped past every wall I'd built.
And I let her.
No—I wanted her to.
The realization hits me like a blow to the chest. This isn't just desire. It isn't possession or obsession or the thrill of something I shouldn't have. This is something I've spent thirty-four years avoiding. Something I watched destroy my father and swore would never touch me.
I love her.
I love her, and she's in danger because of me. Because I was too much of a coward to walk away when I should have, and too selfish to tell her the truth when I could have.
Viktor takes a corner too fast, and I grip the door handle, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. If Sergei has hurt her—if anyone has touched a single hair on her head—
“Dmitri.” Alexei's voice cuts through the haze. “Stay focused. We get her back first. You can fall apart later.”
I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. He knows. Of course, he knows. He's seen that same look in his own reflection—the desperate, wild terror of a man who's found the one thing he can't afford to lose.
“I won't fall apart,” I say, my voice cold and steady despite the chaos inside me. “But if she's hurt, there won't be a piece of Sergei left to bury.”
Alexei holds my gaze for a moment, then nods once.
The car speeds on through the night, and I make a silent promise to whatever god might be listening: Let her be safe. Give me the chance to tell her the truth—all of it. And I swear I'll spend the rest of my life deserving her.
By the time we reach the Turner house, my pulse feels like it’s going to break my ribs.
Viktor kills the lights a block away. “We go in quietly,” Alexei says, his tone all command, no hesitation. “Sergei’s unpredictable. Turner’s armed and trained.”
I nod once. “I’ll take the back.”
The house is dark except for the faint light coming from the dining room window. I can hear muffled shouting, angry, overlapping voices.
Alexei and I slip through the side gate, boots silent on the damp grass. The back door is locked, but not for long. Alexei picks it with practiced precision.
Inside, the air smells like tension and whiskey. I can hear them more clearly now.
“You never said she was your daughter, Bill!” Sergei roars.
“You never said you’d kidnap her!” Turner fires back.
Hearing her father’s voice confirms it—Mireille is here. Something loosens in my chest, even as everything else tightens.
Mireille.
I motion to Alexei and move closer, weapon drawn. We reach the doorway just as Sergei slams his hand down on the table.
“You were supposed to keep this quiet,” he snarls.
Turner squares his shoulders. “You’ve already made enough noise to bury both of us.”
They don’t see us until Alexei steps out of the shadows. “That may be the only honest thing you’ve said. Turner.”
Both men spin around, reaching for their guns, but we’re faster. Alexei’s aim is already leveled at Sergei’s chest. Mine’s locked on Turner.
Then I see her—Mireille, standing behind her father, pale and trembling, eyes wide with something between terror and hope. Relief hits me so hard it’s dizzying.
“Dima…” she whispers.
“Moya kukolka,” I breathe, never taking my aim off her father. “You okay?”
