Mireille’s eyes dart between us, her expression a mixture of confusion and fear. Turner still has his gun raised, but his hand has started to shake.
Alexei’s voice is quiet but sharp as glass. “You’ve been plotting against us all this time. Because of something you believe happened over thirty years ago.”
“I don’t believe,” Sergei growls. “I know. And tonight, the Balshovs fall.” He raises his gun and begins to wave it around, his eyes wild, unfocused. “I'm going to kill every one of you. No one's going to question the death of a bunch of criminals in thehome of an FBI agent. It's going to be ruled as a home invasion, and I get to walk free.”
Turner steps in front of him, his hands fisted in rage. “What the hell do you think you're doing? Put the damn gun down.”
“No.” Sergei shakes his head, swinging the gun from Alexei to Turner. “It's all over. There are too many loose ends.”
Turner lunges forward as if to snatch the gun out of Sergei’s hand.
Wrong move.
Sergei’s finger curls around the trigger. I see his intention even before he moves, the deadly resolve. Instinctively, I shove Turner out of the way, just in time to hear the gun go off.
The sound echoes through the room, pierced by a high pitched, terrified scream. A resounding silence follows.
And then I feel it—fire blooming in my gut, a terrible fatigue pulling at me. The darkness rushes up fast. As I sink to my knees, I mutter a prayer for the first time in my life;
“Lord, keep my little doll safe.”
Then, there is nothing.
Chapter Five
Mireille
My head echoes with the sound of the gunshot.
Too loud.
I stare in horrified shock at Dmitri’s body on the floor, the blood soaking through his shirt.
My legs start to move even before my brain can completely process what's happened. I drop to my knees beside him, my heart hammering so hard I can barely breathe.
“Dmitri!” My hands press over the spreading red on his shirt, blood slicking my trembling fingers. “No, no, no—stay with me. Please…”
He gasps, his eyes finding mine. “Mireille…”
Another shot cracks through the air, echoing in my ears. This one comes from behind Sergei. His body jerks, the gun clatters to the floor, and he drops heavily to his knees before collapsing. Viktor stands behind him, arm extended, smoke curling from the barrel of his gun. His expression is blank, composed—the kind of calm that only comes from years of knowing how to survive.
Everything is still for a heartbeat. Then my father raises his gun, aiming it straight at Viktor.
“Put it down,” Viktor warns quietly.
“Dad, don’t,” I choke out, still pressing my hands against Dmitri’s wound. “Please, don’t!”
My father’s eyes flick from Viktor to Dmitri to me. His jaw works, torn between fury and something that looks like shame.
“Dad, he literally just saved your life,” I whisper, my lower lip quivering from the shock. “Please just help him. Help me.”
For a moment, I think he won’t.
Then he lets out a rough exhale and lowers the gun.
“Call an ambulance,” Alexei orders. His voice is sharp, controlled, but I can see the fear in his eyes when he looks at his brother.
My father is already pulling out his phone. “I’ll call it in. I can control how this goes if it comes from me.”
