“The children?” my father asks sharply.
“Being moved to Eagle Point,” I reply.
Eagle Point—our most secure safe house, carved into the cliffside fifty miles north. Accessible only by helicopter or a single winding road, it was built with one purpose: to withstand siege. Three feet of reinforced concrete, independent power and water, enough supplies to last months.
“Your mother?” he presses.
“Going with them. The first helicopter leaves in—” I check my watch, “six minutes.”
Anatoly nods once, shoulders squaring. “I should be with them.”
The old man surprises me. I expected him to insist on staying, on fighting. But at his core, Anatoly Belov has always been a protector, not a warrior. His violence was always calculated, never passionate.
“Dimitri will escort you,” I agree. “The second transport is ready.”
Viktor’s voice interrupts through the comms. “Sir, Mrs. Belov is asking to speak with you before departure.”
Something tightens in my chest. Bella. Whatever she wanted to talk about before Arseny interrupted with news of the bombing.
“Put her through,” I order.
“Not on comms,” Viktor replies. “She says it’s private.”
I meet Arseny’s eyes. He gives me the barest nod—go. This might be important.
The tactical display on the main screen flashes red. Satellite imagery shows vehicles approaching our outer perimeter. Three black SUVs, moving fast.
“First chopper needs to be airborne now,” I tell Viktor, my jaw tight. “Tell Mrs. Belov whatever it is will have to wait. Get them to Eagle Point immediately.”
Through the comms, I hear Viktor relaying my message, followed by silence.
Then Bella’s voice, distant but clear enough: “Understood.”
“Map out Volkov’s properties. Known associates. Weaknesses,” I tell the others, my focus shifting back to the immediate threat. “We plan our response now.”
“Response?” my father asks, a dark gleam entering his eyes. Not caution—anticipation. The old wolf sensing blood.
I look at him directly, our matching gray-blue eyes locking in perfect understanding. “They brought war to our doorstep, Father. We’re not going to send a strongly worded letter.”
A cold smile touches Anatoly’s lips, pride and savagery mingling on his weathered face.
“The Volkovs forgot what happens when they cross a Belov.” His hand claps my shoulder, heavy with approval. “Remind them, son.”
Dimitri steps forward, his posture rigid with urgency.
“Pakhan,” he addresses my father, “the second helicopter is waiting. We need to move now.” His hand hovers near his earpiece, eyes darting to the security feeds where the approaching vehicles have triggered another perimeter alert. “Chopper is ready.”
My father nods, his moment of bloodthirsty nostalgia giving way to the pragmatism that’s kept him alive for decades. Withone final look at me—half blessing, half command—he follows Dimitri toward the east exit.
I stride from the room, my mind spinning through permutations, plans, consequences. The corridors of the east wing are eerily quiet, staff having been sent to secure locations after the Code Red was initiated. My footsteps echo on marble, the only sound besides the distant hum of generators powering up for emergency protocols.
A shadow moves at the edge of my vision—a small figure pressed against the wall near the service entrance. I reach for my weapon instinctively, then pause.
Anya. Bella’s personal maid.
“You should be with the Mrs. Belov,” I say, not breaking stride.
“Mr. Belov,” she calls anxiously. “Please.”
