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“I have a plan. Find my son and kill anyone who stands in my way,” I counter, checking the ammunition in my gun.

“She's got a point,” Oz manages, wincing as the effort sends pain shooting through his ribs. “We didn't come this far to wait.”

Alex returns to our group, wiping his hands methodically on a handkerchief. There's blood under his fingernails, but his expression is calm, almost satisfied. “Mikhail has been secured. We can drop him off on our way to get your son. Does the estate have a dungeon?”

Oz and Zaire glance at each other. “Would a holding cell do?”

Alex considers their answer before nodding. “I can make it work.”

“What about the mess?”

Alex smiles, opening his mouth. “I have a…”

“The fuck you do,” Talon interjects. “We are on the other side of the planet right now, and you are telling us with a straight face that you have someone who can clean up this mess. Dude, I know you’re like some technological god, but there is no way.”

Alex's smile widens. "You underestimate the reach of proper planning, my friend. I've had assets in place across three continents for years.”

“This particular contact is a former Spetsnaz. Very discreet. Very thorough.” Alex looks around the chapel. “Good thing he offers bulk discounts.”

"Of course he is," Talon mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. "Next, you'll tell me you have a helicopter waiting on the roof."

"Helicopter, no." Alex smiles back at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a Learjet at Pulkovo. I can get a helicopter if you’d like, though.”

Talon throws his arms up in exasperation. "Why am I even surprised? What else are you hiding? A submarine? A secret moon base?" His voice rises with each suggestion, the stress of the day finally cracking his usually unflappable demeanor.

I can't help the small smile that forms despite everything. There's something oddly comforting about Talon's indignation in the midst of all this blood and chaos.

"I think we should focus on the task at hand," I interject, watching as Z struggles to stay upright. The blood loss is taking its toll, his face growing paler by the minute. "My son is waiting."

Oz clears his throat, wincing as the movement jostles his broken ribs. "The hunting lodge has a panic room," he says, his voice strained but clear. "Victor had it installed after an assassination attempt in the early 2000s. Biometric scanner for access. Victor's handprint or retinal scan is the only way in.”

My focus drifts to Victor's corpse. “Then we'll bring Victor with us.”

Z lets out a short, harsh sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t ended in a grimace. “That’s my queen. Always thinking.”

“We need to be practical,” Oz cuts in, voice steady despite the strain. “Everyone’s bleeding, we’re exhausted, and storming a secure location with half-dead men isn’t a strategy—it’s suicide.”

I turn to argue, but he lifts a hand.

“The mansion is fifteen minutes away. We regroup there. Patch ourselves up, gear up properly, and go in with enough blood in our veins to actually fight.”

“He’s right,” Talon adds. “Victor’s estate is fully stocked—armored vehicles, weapons, medical supplies. Everything we’ll need.”

My instinct screams at me to run, to tear the world apart until my son is safe. But logic wins out. I glance around—the blood, the bruises, the way Z can barely stay upright. We won’t save anyone if we die on the way.

“What about Victor’s loyalists?” I ask. “His staff, the guards. We can’t show up like this and declare he’s dead. The ones protecting my son—those are his elite. They won’t just fall in line. If they suspect he’s gone, they’ll disappear with the kid.”

A slow smile creeps across my lips as the pieces click into place.

Z raises a brow. “What are you thinking,moya koroleva?”

“Victor’s dead. So is Dmitri. By their own rules of succession, everything passes to me—through my son. And until he’s of age...I hold the crown.”

Talon’s brows knit as he works through it. “So what you’re saying is?—”

“What I’m saying is, we don’t go in as rebels.” I meet Oscar’s eyes, steady and sure. “We walk in as rightful heirs. And we take what belongs to us.”

Oscar studies me for a beat, pain and pride written across his face. “You or Z want it?” I ask.