My gaze flicks to him briefly. He leans against the doorframe, quiet as always. Too quiet. Watching everything, saying nothing. He’s been here for months, ever since he came back from Greece, and I haven’t asked questions. Haven’t needed to. He told me not to tell the others he’s returned, and I’ve kept the secret.
Lukyan doesn’t do anything without a reason.
“We’re under attack,” Misha says. No preamble. No hesitation. “We’re containing it, but—”
That’s all I need.
My chair scrapes back as I move, already reaching for the drawer. The weight of my gun settles into my hand like instinct, like muscle memory. My body shifts instantly—calm, focused, lethal.
This is what I understand.
This is what I’m built for.
Gunfire echoes faintly through the house, distant but closing. Voices shout orders. Boots move fast across marble floors. The entire estate shifts into motion like a machine snapping into place.
I step out of the office with them—
Then stop.
A thought hits. Sharp. Immediate.
Valeria.
I don’t think. I don’t explain. I just move.
Breaking off from them, I take the corridor at a faster pace, my steps silent but urgent as I head straight for the guest wing.
For her room.
Because if this attack is connected—if this is about her—
Then she’s the target.
And I’ll be damned if anyone gets to her before I do.
By the time I reach her corridor, the damage is already clear.
The floor is torn open—blown apart by an explosive charge placed from outside the building. The impact crater cuts through marble and steel like it’s nothing. Glass litters the ground, crunching faintly under my boots as I slow just enough to take it in.
Bodies.
Guards.
Men I placed on this floor.
Dead.
Blood stains the walls in violent streaks, the air thick with smoke and the sharp, metallic scent of gunpowder.
This wasn’t random.
This was calculated.
Clean. Precise. Brutal.
Whoever came here knew exactly where to hit and how hard.
Not amateurs. Not desperate men.
