As the car pulls away, I realize with a strange clarity that this is only the second time I’ve used my position like this; not as a shield, but as if it’s truly mine. As if I’m Kazimir Baranov’s and can command his empire at my whim.
The city blurs past the window, and all I can think is that if Kazimir is hurt, or if I get there too late, I will never forgive myself for every moment I pretended this wasn’t real.
Nika’s text comes through when we’re halfway across the city, the car cutting through traffic with a single-minded urgency that mirrors my pulse.
Bringing him home. He’s alive. Badly hurt.
I read it three times, each word landing harder than the last.
“What do you mean, home?” I mutter aloud, my hands curling into fists in my lap. The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, his expression carefully neutral, and presses the accelerator a little harder. He takes a sharp corner, course-correcting without me asking. Thankfully, he doesn’t say,Silly girl, the leader of the Bratva wouldn’t dare step foot in a hospital.
The building is thin, concrete giving way to trees and long stretches of road that feel suddenly endless.
Anger burns through the fear, hot and unmanageable. Of course Kazimir would refuse a hospital. Of course he would decide that bleeding out on his own table is preferable to letting strangers see him weak. The arrogance of it makes my chest ache.
When the house finally appears, looming and familiar, I don’t wait for the car to fully stop before I’m opening the door. With Kazimir and me out for the evening, the lights are dim—except for one stretch of three windows. Shadows hurry back and forth behind them.
He’s there! He’shere,and I can feel him, and I’m scared.
I’m halfway up the steps when I hear my father’s voice.
“Alyona.”
Liev stands just inside the entryway, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, his face drawn in a way that makes him look older than I’ve ever seen him. Relief flickers across his expression when he sees me, followed quickly by concern. A smear of blood near his belt makes my breath catch.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says gently, like he’s trying to soothe a wild animal. “He’s being taken care of.”
“I know,” I snap, pushing past him. “I want to see him.”
His hand closes around my wrist, not hard, but firm enough to stop me. “He doesn’t need?—”
“Don’t,” I cut in, whirling on him. “Do not tell me what he needs right now.”
He blinks, clearly startled by the force of my reaction. We stand there, locked in place, the house around us humming with quiet, purposeful movement. Somewhere deeper inside, I hear low voices, the clink of metal, the murmur of instructions.
“This isn’t about you and me,” Liev says carefully. “This is about keeping things calm.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “Calm left the building the moment he decided to take on a cartel himself.”
Something shifts in his face at that, a crack in the careful composure. “That’s what happened, isn’t it?” I ask. “Was Hinto at that hangar? Did Kazimir go after him to end this?”
My heart aches with the possibility. If Kaz were successful, this reallycouldbe the end of this façade we’ve held up. The one that feels too real, too intimate.
My father studies me, really looks at me, and whatever he sees there makes him go quiet. His grip loosens.
“You’re worried about him,” he says slowly.
“Yes,” I say, the word tearing out of me with a sharp exhale.It can’t end, not yet. I haven’t told him—“I am.”
For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he steps aside. “He’s in the dining room.”
Leaving him behind, I march down the hallway, my steps echoing against the stone floor, every step fueled by a volatile mix of fear and fury. The smell hits me first when I reach the room, antiseptic layered over iron.
Kazimir is laid out on the long dining table, shirt gone, skin pale beneath the harsh lights. The tattoos that cross his broad chest, run down his arms, and scatter across his knuckles look darker than ever before. Like curses carved into him.
Blood stains the wood despite the towels pressed against his side, and the sight of it makes my stomach lurch. He’s staring straight up at the ceiling, seemingly unaware of the people bustling around him. A man who can only be a doctor, despite the jeans and t-shirt he wears and his unshaven face, is working with efficient calm, his hands steady as he cleans and stitches.
Kaz’s head turns at the sound of my entrance, his eyes finding mine instantly. Even like this, even broken and bloodied, there’s something infuriatingly solid about him.
