Dushku stares at me. Ten seconds. Fifteen. The guards on both sides are frozen — a single movement, a single twitch, and this becomes a massacre on both sides.
“You’ll regret this,” he says, his fury compressed into aquietness far more dangerous than any scream. “Belov. You will fucking regret this.”
“Take your dead,” I say. “And go.”
He holds my gaze for three more seconds. Then he turns to his men, speaking Albanian. Two guards holster their weapons and move to the body. They lift it between them and carry it to the SUV idling down the drive.
Dushku walks to the vehicle without looking back. The door opens and closes. The engine revs.
The convoy pulls away. Taillights shrink into the dark.
I stand at the gate with my gun at my side and the cold biting my face. I feel nothing except the weight of what I’ve done and the absolute certainty that I would do it again.
“Rolan.”
Alexei. Beside me. Close enough that I can hear the controlled tension in his breathing.
“Tell me you didn’t do that.” His voice is stripped of its usual flatness. Raw. “Tell me you did not execute an Albanian envoy outside your own gate after a peace negotiation.”
I holster the gun.
“You know what you started,” he says. Not a question.
“I know.”
“This is a war. Not territory games anymore. Dushku will come for blood.”
“I know.”
“Then why?—”
“Do not mistake our partnership for permission to question my decisions.”
The words land. Alexei takes the hit. He’s silent for a long moment, and I see the moment he understands. Not the full picture. But enough.
He doesn’t say her name. He doesn’t need to.
“Clean up the gravel,” I say. “Double the perimeter guard. Overnight. Until further notice.”
I turn and walk back toward the house.
With the staff dismissed, the house is even quieter than usual.
Alexei is handling the aftermath, calls to the brigadiers, security briefings, the rapid, efficient machinery of a Bratva preparing for war. Dmitri is coordinating the external response. Every mechanism is now in motion.
I take the stairs in the dark. My footsteps are silent on the carpet. The gun is still warm against my ribs.
I’m three steps from Anya’s door when it opens and Elizabeth steps into the hall.
She nearly collides with my chest. A sharp intake of breath, one hand flying up. Then she registers who I am, and the startle dissolves into a different kind of tension. Her cheeks flush.
“Mr. Belov.” She takes a step back, creating distance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you coming.”
Nobody does.
“How is she?” I ask.
“Better. The fever broke. I gave her another dose of ibuprofen at nine, and she’s been resting well since.” Her gaze drops to the floor. “I owe you an apology. For tonight. For the dinner. I never should have come downstairs. I know you told me to stay out of sight, but Anya’s temperature spiked and I panicked, and I?—”
