More shots ring out, followed by muffled curses, and then the screech of tires as the SUV speeds away. The silence that follows is even more terrifying than the gunfire, a ringing void punctuated only by the frantic pounding of my own heart.
Iliya shifts, his body a heavy weight on mine. “Are you hurt, Leah?” His voice is rough, urgent.
I shake my head, still dazed, my ears ringing. “I don’t think so.”
He pushes himself up, his movements quick and precise. He’s already assessing the damage, his eyes scanning the bullet-riddled cars, the shattered glass. He pulls me up, his grip firm, almost bruising.
“We’re leaving.” It’s a statement, the command in his voice leaving no room for argument. He doesn’t wait for my response, practically dragging me across the asphalt to a dark sedan that seems to have appeared out of nowhere. Another one of Viktor’s men is already in the driver’s seat, engine running.
I’m shoved into the back seat, Iliya following close behind, his body a protective barrier between me and the outside world. The car speeds away, leaving the wrecked sidewalk behind, a stark monument to the violence that just erupted.
My mind is reeling. Shooters. Live rounds. They wanted me dead. Why? Who? The questions swirl, a chaotic vortex in my head. And Iliya was there. Was he always there? Watching? Protecting?
Just another sign that Viktor’s reach is terrifyingly long. He wasn’t bluffing about the danger his world could bring to my doorstep.
“Eliza,” I gasp, my whirling mind coming to a screaming halt on the thought of my daughter, in school only a few blocks from where someone just tried to kill me.
“She’s safe. My men are watching over her.”
I want my daughter in my arms, but she’s probably safer where she is, under the watchful eye of the men who serve the man sitting beside me with such a terrifying look on his face that even I want to crawl away.
The rest of the ride is a blur. I stare out the window, the familiar streets rushing past, but they seem alien now, tainted by the recent horror. My hands are shaking uncontrollably, and I press them against my belly, a desperate need to protect the life within me.
We pull up to what is supposed to be an Upper East Side “townhome,” but is clearly a Gilded Age mansion from the grand limestone façade. The property even has a wrought-iron gate and fence. When Iliya shepherds me out of the car and through the gate, I realize it’s guarded by two men with bulletproof vests and enormous guns, who stand just inside the sculpted hedges. There must be more men, hidden out of sight, because the crawling on the back of my neck indicates I’m being watched.
This is a fortress nestled amid the crowded city streets, grand high-rises, and the sprawl of Central Park.
This is Viktor’s world.
The front door opens, and he stands there, framed by the ornate doorway. His face is grim, his eyes burning with an intensity I’ve never seen before. He takes one look at me, at my disheveled appearance, the lingering shock on my face, and his jaw tightens.
“Come,” he says, his arm curling around my shoulders as he takes over leading me up the steps and inside. I lean on him because my legs are still wobbly, and I’m still trembling so hard my teeth chatter.
“Are you unharmed?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous, barely contained fury simmering beneath the surface.
I nod, unable to speak through the shock, but also because the sheer opulence of the place is overwhelming. Stretching in front of me is a high-ceilinged palace with mahogany accents, marble paneling and floors, and carved crown molding, all topped off by a dome of glass and crystal at least two or three stories above us, spilling light into the entryway.
“Leah.”
I drag my thoughts away from the pattern in the glass to Viktor, who is gripping my upper arms and looking into my face, his forehead creased with concern.
“Leah, tell me you’re okay. Take a breath. Focus on me.”
I do as he says, oxygen flooding back into my lungs and washing away a small bit of the fog.
“I’m okay,” I manage.
Viktor watches my face for a moment longer before he pulls me into his arms. It’s not a gentle embrace, but a possessive, protective hold that crushes me against his chest. I can feel the raw power in him, the controlled rage.
“They tried to kill you,” he states, his voice a guttural growl against my hair. It’s not a question, but a declaration. I knew it as the truth when the bullets were flying, but to have it confirmed sends me into another spiral of terror.
I pull back slightly, looking up at him. “Who? Why?”
“Let me deal with that,” he says, his eyes cold and hard. “What matters is you’re safe. And you will remain safe.”
He leads me inside, through a vast, marble-floored foyer that echoes with our footsteps. The silence here is different from my apartment, a heavy luxurious quiet.
We stop in a grand living room filled with rich furnishings and expensive art. He turns to face me, his hands on my shoulders, his gaze unwavering.
