Yaromir lowers his forehead to mine, and for a few seconds, the house disappears.
There is no Kirill Volkov bleeding at the bottom of the stairs. No Dmitri curled against the wall. No men with weapons watchingus like they don’t know whether to look away. Only Yaromir’s breath against my mouth and his hands proving to himself that I’m still here.
Then Dmitri moves. I see it over Yaromir’s shoulder. His good hand slides toward the gun lying near the baseboard, half-hidden in shadow. His face is twisted with pain and hatred, eyes fixed on Yaromir’s back.
My body goes cold. “Yaromir?—”
Dmitri grabs the gun. He raises it.
I don’t even have time to scream.
A shot cracks through the corridor. But it doesn’t come from Dmitri.
Dmitri cries out, the gun flying from his hand as blood splatters across the wall behind him. He collapses sideways, clutching his wrist, face white with shock.
At the foot of the stairs, Kirill Volkov lowers his gun. He’s half sitting against the wall, blood on his face, one arm held awkwardly against his body. His breathing is heavy, but his eyes are clear.
“Enough,” he says. The word cuts through the smoke.
Dmitri stares at him, horrified. “Father.”
Kirill’s face doesn’t soften. “I said enough.”
Galina screams from somewhere behind the men on the landing and tries to push forward, but one of Kirill’s guards catches her before she can reach Dmitri.
“You shot him,” she cries.
Kirill doesn’t look at her. “He was going to shoot his brother in the back.”
Yaromir goes completely still. I feel it because I’m still in his arms.
His head turns slowly toward Kirill. For the first time since I entered the house, father and son look at each other without weapons between them.
Peace is not that easy. But something has shifted.
Kirill is bleeding on the floor. Yaromir is bleeding through his shirt. Dmitri is sobbing against the wall, and men from both factions stand frozen with guns in their hands, waiting to see whether this becomes another massacre.
Yaromir’s arm tightens around me.
Kirill’s eyes move to me. Then to Yaromir’s hand at my waist.
Then back to his son.
“She is alive,” Kirill says.
Yaromir’s voice is low. “No thanks to your son.”
Kirill’s mouth hardens. “He will answer for what he did.”
Dmitri lifts his head sharply. “Father?—”
“Quiet.”
Dmitri stops.
The command is old. Automatic. Even wounded, even terrified, he obeys it.
Yaromir laughs once, without humor. “Now you discipline him?”
