Whatever happened next, I wouldn't be helpless.
***
The gunfire started without warning.
One moment, silence. The next, the crack of weapons, sharp and distant, somewhere on the ground floor. Shouts followed—men yelling, running, the chaos of unexpected violence.
Rodion. He was here.
I jumped to my feet, heart pounding. The sounds of battle grew louder—more gunshots, the crash of breaking glass, a scream that cut off abruptly.
Footsteps thundered in the hallway outside my door. I heard someone shouting orders in a language I didn't understand—Serbian, probably. The Petrovics mobilizing to meet the threat.
I pressed myself against the wall beside the door, the metal pin gripped in my hand. If anyone came through, I would be ready.
Minutes passed. The gunfire continued, punctuated by silences that were almost worse than the noise. I tried to track what was happening, but it was impossible. Too many sounds, too much chaos, everything blurring together into a symphony of violence.
Then footsteps in the hallway. Closer this time. Coming toward my door.
I raised the pin, my hand trembling but steady.
The lock clicked. The door flew open.
Branko stood in the doorway, wild-eyed, a gun in his hand. His perfect suit was disheveled, his hair falling across his forehead, his civilized mask completely gone.
"Your husband," he spat, "is even more stubborn than I expected."
He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed my arm, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise. I tried to twist away, tried to stab him with the pin, but he was too fast. His other hand caught my wrist, squeezing until I cried out and dropped my makeshift weapon.
"Nice try," he said, kicking it away. "But you're going to need to do better than that."
He dragged me toward the door. I fought him—kicking, scratching, using every ounce of strength I had—but he was bigger, stronger, fueled by fury. He pulled me into the hallway like I weighed nothing.
"Let me go," I gasped.
"Not a chance. You're my insurance policy now."
We reached the top of the stairs. Below, the sounds of fighting were closer—gunshots echoing up the stairwell, men shouting, the chaos of battle. Branko paused, assessing, then started down.
We made it to the second-floor landing when a figure appeared at the end of the hallway.
Rodion.
He was covered in shadows, gun raised, his face a mask of cold fury. Blood spattered his shirt—whether his or someone else's, I couldn't tell. He looked like death itself, come to collect what was owed.
"Let her go." His voice was ice.
Branko laughed and pressed the gun to my temple. The metal was cold against my skin, the barrel digging in hard enough to hurt.
"One more step," Branko said, "and I paint the walls with her brains."
Rodion froze. I saw his finger twitch on the trigger, saw the calculation behind his eyes. The shot was there—I could see him measuring it—but too risky. Too close to my head.
"It's over, Branko," he said. "Your men are dead. You've got nowhere to go."
"I've got her. That's all I need." Branko's arm tightened around my throat, cutting off my air. "Drop the gun or I kill her. Right now. Right in front of you."
Rodion's eyes met mine. I saw the fear there—the same fear I felt, reflected back at me. We were so close. So close to the end of this nightmare.
