The word 'yet' makes my vision blur at the edges. "I'm two minutes out. Tell them to hold position until I arrive."
"Boss, you should let the team handle this. If something happens to you?—"
"Two minutes." I end the call before he can finish the argument.
The commercial kitchen district materializes ahead, and I see the chaos before I'm even close. Shattered glass glitters across the sidewalk like diamonds under the streetlights, reflecting red and blue from the police sirens I can hear approaching in the distance. My security team has formed a defensive perimeter around the entrance, their weapons drawn, their bodies coiled with tension.
I abandon the car in the middle of the street and draw my weapon, the familiar weight grounding me as I move toward the building with lethal precision. My men part to let me through, their expressions grim.
"Three hostiles still inside," one of them reports. "They've got the women pinned down in the main kitchen. We can't get a clean shot without risking casualties."
"Then I'll get one." The words come out cold, absolute.
I move through the entrance, my eyes scanning for threats, my body operating on instinct. The front area is destroyed, tables overturned, chairs scattered, bullet holes pocking the walls in patterns that tell the story of the firefight. Blood smears the floorin dark streaks, and I force myself not to think about whose blood it might be.
Voices echo from deeper in the building. Russian curses mixed with the sharp crack of gunfire. I move toward the sound, my weapon raised, my breathing controlled despite the adrenaline screaming through my veins.
The kitchen is a war zone. Prep tables have been overturned to create makeshift barriers, pots and pans scattered across the floor like discarded weapons. Two bodies sprawl near the walk-in cooler, Matvey's men, judging by their cheap suits and cheaper guns. My security guard lies near the door, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, blood seeping from a shoulder wound.
Then I see her.
Aria crouches behind an overturned prep table, Katya and two other Bratva wives flanking her with kitchen knives gripped like weapons. Blood seeps from a gash on her temple where flying glass caught her, the crimson stark against her pale skin. Her dark eyes are wide but focused, her body positioned protectively in front of the other women despite being pregnant and injured.
The sight makes something primal roar to life in my chest. She's alive. Breathing. Fighting.
Mine.
Movement catches my peripheral vision. One of Matvey's men emerges from behind the industrial refrigerator, his weapon trained on Aria's position. I don't think. Don't calculate. Just move.
My first shot takes him in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second catches him center mass, and he drops like a puppet with cut strings. The sound brings the other two hostiles out of hiding, their weapons swinging toward me, and I'm already diving behind a stainless steel counter.
Bullets ping off metal, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. I return fire with controlled precision, each shot placed exactly where I want it. One hostile goes down clutching his leg. The other tries to retreat toward the back exit, but my men have already breached from that direction.
It's over in seconds. The last hostile drops his weapon and raises his hands, but I see the calculation in his eyes, the way his body tenses to make a move. I put a bullet between his eyes before he can try.
Silence descends, broken only by the ringing in my ears and Aria's ragged breathing. I'm across the kitchen in three strides, my hands already moving over her body with desperate efficiency, checking for injuries my eyes might have missed.
"Are you hurt?" My voice comes out rougher than intended, my accent thick with emotions I can't suppress. "The baby?"
"I'm fine." Her hands grip my arms, steadying herself. "We'refine. It's just a scratch."
The gash on her temple is more than a scratch, blood still seeping from the wound, but she's conscious and coherent, and that's all that matters. I pull her against my chest, breathing in the scent of her hair while my heart hammers against my ribs hard enough to crack bone.
She's trembling in my arms, adrenaline finally catching up to her, and I feel the subtle swell of her stomach pressed against me. Our child. Safe. Whole.
The Bratva wives watch us with knowing expressions, these women who understand that love in their world is measured in blood and bullets. Katya's eyes are wet with tears, but she's still gripping that kitchen knife like she's ready to use it. The others look shaken but unharmed, and I make a mental note to ensure they're compensated for their courage.
"Get them out of here," I tell my security team. "Medical attention for anyone who needs it. And someone call an ambulance for my guard."
They move with efficient precision, guiding the women toward the exit. Aria tries to pull away from me, but I tighten my hold.
"You're not going anywhere without me," I say against her temple.
"Nikolai." My name on her lips sounds like a plea. "I need to check on the others. Make sure everyone's okay."
"They're fine. You're not." I pull back enough to examine the gash on her temple more closely, my jaw tightening at the sight. "This needs stitches."
"It's just glass. I've had worse." But her voice shakes, betraying the fear she's trying to hide.
