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“Look how he reacts.” My father's breath hits Natasha's ear. “The great Dmitri Ivanov, undone by a museum curator.”

Natasha's eyes remain locked on Dmitri's hand remain wrapped around my wrist—a casual gesture he probably doesn't even realize he's making. I can see her putting the pieces together, drawing conclusions about what my presence here means.

The color drains from her face. Her eyes move between Dmitri and me, cataloging details and making connections.The woman is clearly intelligent—I can practically see her reassessing every interaction she's had with Dmitri through this new lens.

“You're just like him,” she whispers, her voice rough. “Both of you treat people like chess pieces.”

Dmitri's jaw clenches, but he doesn't deny it. His hand remains on my shoulder, perhaps unconsciously, as he faces this confrontation. The weight of it feels heavier now that I understand its significance to Natasha.

I remain silent, an unwilling witness to this moment of truth between them. Whatever they had—whatever they thought they had—is unraveling before my eyes. And somehow, I've become evidence of Dmitri's betrayal.

I see my father's smirk fade as I step forward into the open space between the two groups. The warehouse air reeks of oil and rust, making my stomach turn.

“Release her first,” my father demands, his hand gripping Natasha's arm tightly.

“Together,” Dmitri counters, his voice calm but edged with steel. “On three.”

I move with measured steps, my heart hammering against my ribs. One. Two?—

One of my father's men raises his gun from the shadows.

“Down!” Dmitri shouts, shoving me roughly toward my father as he dives for Natasha.

Chaos erupts in an instant. The warehouse explodes with gunfire, bullets punching through metal and concrete all around us. I stumble forward, nearly falling as my father's hands grab me, pulling me away from the center of the firefight.

“This way!” he barks, dragging me toward a metal door at the back of the warehouse.

I twist in his grip, catching a glimpse of Dmitri yanking Natasha behind a shipping container as shots ping off the steel.More of my father's men emerge from the shadows, weapons drawn.

“Katarina, move!” My father's voice cuts through the chaos as he shoves me through the doorway.

A bullet ricochets off the metal frame inches from my head, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. I duck instinctively, heart in my throat.

The heavy door slams shut, cutting off my view of the warehouse floor. My father pushes me down a dimly lit corridor, his grip bruising on my arm. Behind us, the gunfire continues, muffled by concrete and steel but no less terrifying.

“You promised them a clean exchange,” I gasp.

“Plans change,” he replies coldly, pulling me toward a service exit where I can see a black SUV waiting, engine running.

As we burst through the exit into the night air, I cast one final glance back at the warehouse, wondering if I'll ever see Erik again.

24

ERIK

Ipush through the door to our private medical wing. The smell of antiseptic hits me first, then I see him—Dmitri propped up in the hospital bed, his left shoulder wrapped in pristine white bandages.

“What the hell happened?”

Dmitri's head turns toward me, and despite the pain medication, his eyes remain sharp. “Exchange went sideways. Igor broke the agreement and shot at us.”

I move closer to the bed, cataloging the damage. Bullet wound, clean entry and exit from the positioning of the bandages. His color looks good, and he is breathing steadily.

“Katarina?”

The question escapes before I can stop it. Dmitri's eyebrow arches slightly, that knowing look he gets when he's reading people.

“She's fine, Erik. Her father wasn't about to shoot his own daughter.”