Page 13

Pavel

The gunshot explodes through the hallway with a shattering roar, like the crack of a thunderous whip tearing through the air, leaving an echo of fear in its wake. Then—chaos.

Glass shatters. Bullets tear through the air. The walls scream with gunfire.

I throw myself to the side, shoulder slamming into the wall just as another round whizzes past my face and embeds itself in the plaster, inches from my skull.

“Move!” I shout, signaling to Roman. “Get under cover.”

We sprint through the relentless gunfire, dodging and diving into the penthouse with our hearts pounding in our chests. Marble chips erupt like shrapnel around us, dust and blood mingling in a suffocating haze. I slam into the wall just inside the living room, adrenaline surging through my veins.

I don’t see Mikhail and Anya, and the only thought in my mind is that she is in one of the rooms. All I need is for her to be safe, and I will handle the rest later.

I dive behind the couch, gripping my gun with white-knuckled intensity. Roman takes cover behind an overturned table nearby, the tension between us almost palpable. I squeeze my eyes shut, conjuring the vivid memory of Lilian, her warmth, and the brilliance she brought into our daughter's life, searing into my mind.

This is for her—for Lilian. She was more than collateral damage, and I swear on everything I hold sacred that this man will pay dearly for what he's done.

My Glock roars with a thunderous fury, unleashing three sharp rounds that ricochet through the hallway. One bullet slams into the doorframe, splintering wood with a violent crack. Another one grazes a darting shadow, slicing me right through with lethal precision.

Tonight, I will seize vengeance with an unyielding grip, tearing it from the shadows with a ferocity that cannot be contained.

I lift my gaze and look at the two men. They hide behind the pillars, waiting for me to return my fire.

"Come out to play, Pav! The game is just heating up, and it's about to get wild!" Dmitri’s voice bellows out loudly.

That arrogant bastard. He's provoking me, daring me to make a mistake. I must stay focused if I'm going to win this deadly game.

With adrenaline coursing through his veins, he slams his back against the cold, unforgiving concrete pillar, gun poised, eyes fixed on Roman with unwavering intensity. There's not a hint of doubt—he takes aim, and with lethal precision, he fires.

I watch with a gripping fear that holds me, hostage, as Victor comes from behind his pillar and aims his gin.

“Roman—!”

Roman dives to the right, rolling behind a marble column as Victor's bullet grazes his side. Blood smears across his shirt, but he doesn’t stop.

He fires back.

Two shots. Clean. Precise.

Victor convulses violently. His body contorts as the first bullet tears into his shoulder, followed by a second that viciously punches into his thigh. He plummets to the ground like a dead weight, his weapon clattering helplessly across the gleaming floor. His scream pierces the air—not with the anguish of agony, but with the raw fury of betrayal. It's the guttural cry of a traitor who knows, with searing clarity, that the bullet in his leg is merely the harbinger of his impending doom.

Roman doesn’t wait. He charges toward him, covering the distance fast.

“Roman!” I bark. “Cover!”

He hesitates—but only for a second. Then he drags Victor’s body toward the overturned coffee table, cursing under his breath the entire way.

“I’m going to make you bleed slowly, you piece of shit,” Roman snarls, slamming Victor against the wall. “Don’t you fucking move.”

Gunfire erupts again from the other end of the penthouse. Dmitri.

He’s used our momentary distraction to find his way behind the bar now. He’s crouched low, gun in hand, firing off calculated bursts in our direction. His face is calm—too calm. The asshole looks like he’s playing chess, not a shootout.

I take cover behind the arm of the couch, bullets thudding against the heavy wood and leather.

Every second feels like an hour. Every sound is a live wire.

Dmitri calls out through the smoke, his voice maddeningly casual. “You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic, Pavel. But dragging this out? It’s beneath you. You know what you have done, and I think it’s time you face the consequences. Both you and her shall die today.”

“Keep talking,” I shout back, peeking out long enough to fire two more rounds. One smashes into the bar counter. The other? I hope it takes off his ear. “These are your last breaths anyway—use them wisely.”

“Boss down!” Mikhail comes from around the corner, firing shots at Dmitri. He makes his way toward me, coming to seek cover behind the couch.

“Anya?”

“Stable and safe. I knew you needed me.” He says as he fires off more rounds. “We need to end him.” Mikhail’s beside me now, reloading, his face streaked with blood and sweat. “We’re running low on time and ammo. We need to finish this.”

“Then we don’t waste either.” I slide out from behind cover, low and fast, moving to the pillar just ahead. Gun up, ready.

And there he is—Dmitri. His eyes lock onto mine through the chaos. The gunfire continues to rage, a relentless storm of bullets tearing through the air, each one screaming with deadly intent. The walls tremble with the force of the explosions, and the acrid smell of gunpowder fills the room, suffocating and thick. Even amidst the violence, there's an unspoken challenge in his gaze, a promise of more bloodshed to come.

“Tell me, Dmitri, what would you like me to say at your eulogy?” I say flatly. “I was thinking of just burning your body.”

Behind me, I sense movement—a blur of low and fast.

Mikhail.

He slips from behind the overturned console and moves toward the far pillar across the open floor. He slides into cover like a shadow, knees hitting the marble silently. He doesn’t speak. u breathe loud enough to hear. Just watches.

He is going to go in for the kill shot. This is what he has been patiently waiting for. We need to all work together. I look to my left and see Roman with his gun pressed against Victor's head. He holds my stare and gives me a curt nod. I know what that means.

Dmitri’s voice cuts through again—low and patient, the way a snake coils before it strikes.

“You’re not here for the empire anymore, are you?” His eyes flick toward the blood trail Anya left. “You’re here for her.”

I don’t answer. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

He sneers. "I always suspected you had a heart in there somewhere. Even monsters have their weak points, right? It’s a shame that she will be your one downfall.”

Mikhail shifts behind the pillar, gun tight in his hand, but he doesn’t move. I can feel him studying us—waiting for a break, a misstep. Something about his silence makes the room heavier.

“She makes you weak, you know,” Dmitri continues. “You bleed for her now. And that’s how you’ll fall.”

“She’s not my weakness,” I say, my voice like steel. I ready myself for what I am about to do. “If anything, she is my strength.”

I look out from behind the pillar. My eyes are moving to Dmitri.

Dmitri’s smile falters. Just for a second. A crack in the porcelain. Shadows shift and move—reinforcements closing in. They’re not finished yet. I tense, locking eyes with Mikhail; no words pass between us, yet his slight nod speaks volumes. They're coming in a flood of imminent danger.

We can’t fire a shot, not now, not in this charged moment; one stray bullet and the whole penthouse could blow again. And still, Anya remains caught in the deadly crossfire.

Dmitri tightens his grip on the Beretta ever so slightly. “Let’s end this,” he declares, and I nudge my own aim a little higher. “I plan to,” I reply.

Time stretches taut like a drawn wire. Then, in a sudden pivot, Dmitri turns his head and locks onto Mikhail. In that instant, as though a switch has been flipped, his entire posture transforms: his weight shifts, his right-hand rises, and his gun swings toward the pillar where Mikhail crouches. I see every calculated detail—the stiffening stance, the precise angle of his wrist, the finger poised on the trigger. He’s about to shoot.

I lunge forward, calling out, “Mikhail—!” but I’m too late. A shot tears through the charged air—but not from Dmitri. He freezes mid-turn as the unmistakable click of a hammer slotting into place slices through the silence behind him. His body locks, and he turns slowly to face the source.

There she is.

Anya stands barefoot on a blood-slick floor, her thighs stained with crimson, one hand pressed against her side where pain commands her attention. Her other hand remains unwavering, a silver pistol aimed dead-center at the back of Dmitri’s skull. Her eyes—glassy and heavy like storm clouds—burn with a mesmerizing intensity, bleeding and searing with terror and power. She trembles, not from weakness but from a pure, icy rage that radiates with each measured breath.

Neither Dmitri nor I dare utter a word as we share this charged silence—a silence mirrored in the depths of her eyes, a declaration that she is the one in control. “Turn around,” she commands quietly, her voice low, ragged, yet edged with a razor’s precision.

Reluctantly, Dmitri shifts until he’s squarely facing her, the moment stretching until his gaze meets hers. A laugh escapes his lips, mocking: “Look who found her spine.” But Anya shows no sign of flinching. “You don’t get to talk— not to me, not ever again,” she retorts.

A sneer curls Dmitri’s lip as he taunts, “You really think you’re built for this, little girl? You think pulling that trigger makes you something?” Stepping closer, she presses the muzzle against his forehead, the cold metal biting into his skin as her lip splits in a defiant smile. “I don’t need to be something,” she murmurs, a final promise of retribution, “I just need to finish this.”

His smile falters the moment she whispers, her voice slicing through the tension like ice water in my veins, “This one’s for Leo.” The gun roars in response. The shot bursts through Dmitri’s skull in a brutal flash of blood and bone. His body jerks violently, staggering, and then collapses onto the marble as though a broken puppet, silent and dead.

The room plunges into stunned silence. Roman exhales deeply, a long, shuddering breath of disbelief: “Holy fuck.”

Mikhail stands rigid behind the pillar, gun still raised, his eyes locked on Dmitri’s crumpled form as if expecting even the slightest twitch. But nothing comes. I don’t dare look at his lifeless body; my gaze is fixed solely on her.

Anya remains standing—barely. Her arm trembles while the pistol dangles from her grip, blood trickling from a fresh gash on her thigh. Her soaked tank top clings to the curves of her body, and her disheveled hair sticks to a face carved with loss and fierce determination. Yet it’s her eyes—those piercing, stormy eyes—that seize my focus. She appears as a modern Valkyrie, summoned from the flames and devastation of war.

For a split second, as her gaze flickers toward me, I catch a trace of vulnerability—a glimpse of the girl beneath the burning thirst for vengeance, weighed down by loss, grief, and the unbearable cost of our shared past.

I step toward her slowly, without haste, as if I’ve always belonged wherever she stands. Gently, I reach out and lower the gun from her trembling hand; her fingers quiver but do not fight the gesture. Then, almost inaudibly, she speaks: “For Leo... For me,” her voice breaking with each word, laden with the pain of every unforgiven theft—everything he snatched from us.

My jaw tightens, and my chest twists in response. I cup her bruised face tenderly. “You did it,” I whisper, “you ended him.”

She sways precariously, and instinctively, I catch her before she falls.