The knowledge that this was always how it would end.
“Where is he?” My voice sounds like gravel. Like the bodies I’ve left behind.
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes drop.
The study.
I move toward the hallway.
The shot cracks through the air.
Fire explodes in my back, punching through muscle and lung. I stumble forward and catch myself on the wall.
Behind me. The bastard shot me in the back.
Coward.
Rage fills my lungs, hot and insistent.
I turn, I lunge, and the second shot takes me in the chest.
The world tilts.
My knees hit marble.
When did I get this far?
The impact reverberates up my spine, joining the fire spreading through my torso. But I’m still moving. Still crawling.
My vision’s red now. Everything’s red.
Blood in my eyes or just pure fucking hatred—I don’t know which.
Father steps into view. His expensive loafers click against the floor. Not a speck of dirt on them, because he never does his own dirty work.
Until now.
“You never know when to stop, little juggernaut.” His voice is calm, measured. Like he’s discussing quarterly earnings.
I cough. Taste iron. More blood.
“Fuck you.”
His face doesn’t change. No remorse. No regret. Just calculation.
He raises the gun again. Points it at my head.
This is it.
This is how it ends.
Not in glory. Not in victory.
On my knees like every other poor bastard who crossed Nikolai Korsakov.
But I’m smiling.
Because I see it now—the tremor in his hand. The sweat on his brow.
