Page 35 of Her Darkest Possession (Baryshev Bratva #2)

I turn around at Amara's voice and see her pointing at one of the security monitors mounted on the wall. The screen shows the mansion's front entrance—or what's left of it. The massive double doors that once guarded the entrance have been reduced to splinters.

My blood runs cold as I see who's walking through the wreckage.

Lola.

She strides in with the confidence of someone who believes they've already won, her blonde hair gleaming under the chandelier light. A savage smile curls her lips as she surveys the destruction around her. Several armed men flank her on both sides, their rifles at the ready.

"No," I whisper, my fingers gripping the edge of the console until my knuckles turn white.

I quickly scan the other monitors and fight back the nausea threatening to overwhelm me. The images make my heart sink further. Volkov men are everywhere. They move through the main hall, charge up the grand staircase, and are kicking down doors to look for us.

"There are so many of them," Amara whispers, her voice trembling.

My eyes dart frantically from screen to screen. What few guards remaining are fighting back, but they're hopelessly outnumbered. I watch as one of them takes down two Volkov men before a third shoots him in the back.

Then my heart stops completely.

"No, no, no," I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth.

On one of the screens, I see several men bursting into a room with pale yellow walls—our half-finished nursery.

The room Anatoly and I were painting together just hours ago.

The paint cans are still there, brushes laid carefully across their tops.

One of the men kicks over a can, sending pale yellow paint spilling across the floor like sunlight.

Another man drags his knife along the wall, cutting through the fresh paint and leaving a jagged scar in its wake.

"Bastards," Svetlana's voice tightens with rage. But there's nothing she can do.

My eyes are frantically searching every monitor, looking for the one person who matters most right now. For the one person who might be able to save us.

"Where is he?" I whisper, panic rising in my chest. "Where's Anatoly?"

Then, I see a blur of motion on another screen. For a moment, I think that my prayers have been answered and that Anatoly is here.

But when I look at the screen, I realize that I'm looking at Vassily.

He has the rifle shouldered and he's firing at the intruders with deadly precision. One falls, then another. His movements are fluid and practiced, like he's been training for this moment his entire life.

But even as I watch him take down another Volkov man, my heart sinks.

I can see what Vassily can't.

He's surrounded. They're coming at him from all sides, emerging from doorways and corridors like water through a sieve.

"Behind you!" I shout uselessly at the screen, knowing he can't hear me.

He turns, but it's too late.

One bullet after another rip into his body, and send him jerking backwards. Blood blooms across his shirt like crimson flowers. Yet somehow, he stays on his feet.

He staggers, steadies himself, and then raise his rifle again to fire off a few more shots.

More bullets impact him, punching holes through his chest and shoulders. But he refuses to fall. Refuses to stop fighting.

"Vasya..." Svetlana whispers, her voice cracking with grief.

Her fingers reach out toward the screen as if she could somehow pull him to safety.

Finally, Vassily's legs give out. He collapses to his knees, then falls forward onto the marble floor.

That's when Lola walks into the frame. She kicks his rifle away from his outstretched hand and says something to him.

Even in his dying moments, Vassily doesn't surrender. He spits up a mouthful of blood at Lola's feet and tries to lunge at her.

But his hand barely brushes her ankles when several Volkov men step forward and kick him back, their boots connecting with his already bullet-riddled body.

Lola extends her hand, and someone passes her a gun. She aims it at Vassily's head, her face twisted in a cruel smile.

My stomach turns to ice as I realize what's about to happen.

Amara cries out and I pull her tighter into my arms, turning her face away from the screen.

"Don't look," I whisper into her hair.

Amara obeys, turning her face into my chest as her tears soak into my shirt.

Then, I see Lola pulling the trigger, and Vassily's head snaps back.

I can't tear my eyes away from the screen as Vassily's body slumps to the floor, blood pooling beneath him. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a reminder that I'm still alive while he's gone.

He died protecting us.

Lola kicks Vassily's lifeless body. Her face twists in a satisfied smile. She starts shouting orders at her men, her hands gesturing wildly.

"What are they doing now?" Amara whispers, still pressed against me.

"I don't know," I answer, my voice barely audible.

But then I see more Volkov men start streaming into the house, carrying large red containers. My breath catches as I realize what they are.

Gas cans.

"Oh my God," I gasp, watching in horror as they begin splashing the liquid throughout the mansion. The fluid soaks into furniture, drips down walls, and puddles on the marble floors.

"They're going to burn this place down," Svetlana says. "And us with it."

I watch as they douse every room, every hallway. The dining room where we shared meals and confessions. The nursery we were painting just this morning.

There's no way out.

On the main screen, a man approaches Lola with what looks like a makeshift torch—a piece of fabric wrapped around a wooden handle—already burning at the end.

He says something to her, and she gestures at him.

He nods and starts looking around. Then, his eyes land on the security camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling and he looks directly at us.

He points up at it.

Lola's face lights up with cruel delight. She turns her gaze and in that moment, it seems like her eyes are able to pierce through the screen and find me even though I know she can't actually see me.

A slow, vicious smile spreads across her face. She blows a kiss toward me.

Then she throws the torch onto the gasoline-soaked floor.

The flames catch instantly, racing across the marble in hungry orange tongues. But Lola doesn't run.

Not yet.

She picks up one of the red gas cans and twirls amidst the dancing flames, laughing as she dumps more fuel on the fire.