Not my family. Ivan's.
Ivan, who saved me. Ivan, who gave me purpose when I had nothing left.
And now I've just put a bullet in his brother. But he'll understand when he learns. He has to.
I stand frozen in the doorway. My ribs scream with every breath, a sharp, stabbing pain that radiates through my torso where thevest stopped the bullet. My hands are steady on the gun, but inside, I'm trembling.
Victor moves past me without hesitation, stepping over bodies like they're nothing more than furniture. He crouches beside one of the guards sprawled near the entrance and starts rifling through pockets, checking jackets, patting down belts.
"Keys," he says, his voice low and focused. "One of these guys has to have them."
My arms feel like lead as they hang at my sides. I toss my gun away, not needing it anymore.
Victor finds something in the third guard's jacket and straightens, holding up a set of keys. He presses the button on the fob once, twice, three times. Outside, somewhere, a car's headlights flash and a horn beeps.
"Got it," he says, turning to me. His gaze sweeps over me, assessing. "You good?"
I nod, but I'm not so good. My ribs hurt, and my shoulder aches from everything. Not to mention that fall out of the vent.
But I'm alive.
And that's more than Dimitri can say.
Victor comes over to me and reaches for the Kevlar vest still strapped to my chest. His fingers work the buckles, loosening the straps. I bite my lip as he pulls it off, the movement jostling my ribs.
"There you go," he says, his voice soft. "I'll take care of you soon, darling."
The promise beams through me, and I glance up at him, but he's already moving, guiding me forward, one hand on the small of my back.
The car turns out to be a black SUV sitting in the driveway, its headlights on. Victor opens the passenger door and takes my hand, his grip firm and warm.
"Let me help you in," he says.
I slide into the seat, biting back a groan as my ribs protest. Victor shuts the door gently and rounds the car, slipping into the driver's seat. The engine roars to life, and we peel out of the driveway.
I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes as the villa disappears behind us.
Victor pulls out a phone and dials, holding it to his ear as he drives. The road winds down the hill, the lights of Sanremo glittering in the distance.
"It's me," he says when someone answers. "I need a plane."
There's a pause, and then Victor's voice hardens. "No, I don't care. I need something with a shower that can get me to Brasov tonight."
Another pause. I crack my eyes open, watching him. His jaw is tight, and the blood has dried on his sleeve where the graze wound cut through his shirt.
"Put it on the tarmac for me and send me the bill."
He hangs up, and his grip on the wheel loosens slightly.
As we drive, I do something I've never done before.
I reach out and take his hand.
Victor glances down, his eyes flicking to where my fingers wrap around his, and then back to the road. He doesn't pull away.
"Thank you," I say, my voice low. "Again, for coming. If you hadn't, I'd be..."
I can't finish the sentence, but I don't need to.
