Page 36

Chapter 36

Closure

Vasiliyi

T he factory is a warzone.

Gunfire ricochets off steel beams and broken machinery. The air stinks of gunpowder and blood—thick, metallic, and familiar. I keep Galina close, one arm firm around her waist as we move, not dragging her, but shielding her. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shrink.

She’s locked in, alert and steady beside me.

Ahead, Katya and Katarina fan out, weapons drawn—pipe and pistol—cutting through the chaos like they were born for it.

“Right flank,” I call out, spotting movement behind a pile of rusted crates.

Katya doesn’t hesitate. She swings the pipe with a crack that sounds like bone. The man drops hard.

The main doors blow open with a thunderclap, dust and smoke swirling as Igor’s men storm in. I recognize the shape of him through the haze—broad, furious, relentless. Beside him, Nikolai’s team crashes through the west entrance like clockwork.

The trap we laid is finally springing shut.

“Down!” I bark, pushing Galina behind an overturned workbench just as another volley of bullets tears through the air.

She ducks low, but when I look at her, there’s no panic. Just pure focus. Her hands are steady on the gun. Her jaw set. She doesn’t look like a woman caught in the middle of a firefight.

She looks like she belongs here.

“We move for that door,” I say, nodding to the far side of the factory. “Nikolai’s covering it.”

Like I summoned him, he drops beside us a second later, crouched and assessing.

“Perimeter’s secured,” he says quickly. “Vladimir’s men are pinning Matvei’s crew from the north. We’ve got an opening.”

“And Yakov?” I ask, scanning the upper level. The chaos still has a center, and I know he’s watching from it.

“Last seen up top. Flanked. Not sure who’s still loyal to him.”

“He’s not loyal to anyone,” Katarina snaps, crouched near us, voice low and cold. “Never has been.”

I don’t argue. She’s right. Yakov didn’t just plan this; he orchestrated it like a performance. But now that it’s gone feral, he’s nowhere to be found. Watching while the bodies drop.

“Get the women out,” I tell Nikolai, already rising. “I’m going after Matvei.”

“No,” Galina says sharply, grabbing my arm.

Her grip is fierce. So is her glare.

“We move as one,” she reminds me. “We agreed.”

For a beat, I want to fight her on it. To force her to stay behind, safe, out of range.

But she’s right.

This isn’t about protection anymore. It’s about trust.

And Galina Olenko is not a woman who hides.

“Fine,” I grit out, eyes locked with hers. “We do this together.”

I turn to Nikolai. “Take Katya and Katarina. Get them to the rendezvous point. Ten minutes. Then circle back if we’re not there.”

He nods once and moves, leading them through the wreckage.

Galina and I turn back into the fire.

Matvei stands above it all, a raised platform in the heart of the factory like some twisted throne. His face is soaked in sweat, scars shining under the industrial lights. He’s grinning. Firing. Living for this moment.

He has no strategy now. Just chaos. Just revenge.

“I’m ending this,” I say under my breath, checking the clip in my weapon. “One way or another.”

“Together,” Galina repeats.

We move, slipping between rusted conveyor belts and crumbling machines, ghosts in a place that once breathed industry and now only echoes with gunfire and screams.

My mind goes quiet.

Every move is instinct, FSB reflexes, prison conditioning, years of violence encoded into my muscles.

I was made for this.

But I’m not doing it alone anymore.

A bullet slices the air next to my ear and slams into the concrete pillar beside me with a sharp, unforgiving crack.

Instinct takes over.

I yank Galina down, body shielding hers, and return fire in a single smooth motion. The shooter drops. We move.

Across the floor, I spot Vladimir and his men carving through Matvei’s mercenaries. Galina’s uncle moves like a man with nothing left to prove—every shot cold, clean, final. For all the history between us, in this moment, he’s not an obstacle.

He’s an ally.

And we’re both here to end this.

“Volkov!” Matvei’s voice rips through the noise, raw and manic. “Come out and face me like a man!”

I glance at Galina. She meets my eyes without hesitation. No fear. Just that unshakable fire. She nods once and raises her weapon.

“Stay behind me,” I mutter, and she nods.

I step out from cover, finding him in the open.

Matvei.

Still standing. Still grinning.

“It’s over,” I call. “Your men are dying. Yakov’s gone. You’re out of moves.”

His smile stretches across the ruin of his face—half mad, fully dangerous. “Who said I was trying to survive this?”

“Then let’s finish it,” I say, slipping my gun into its holster. “No more shadows. Just you and me. Like it should’ve ended in Siberia.”

For a breath, the factory stills. Just long enough for silence to settle, like dust in the aftermath of an explosion.

Then Matvei jumps down from the platform.

The floor shakes with his landing. His eyes are locked on mine, wild with hate.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he says, voice low, stalking forward. “The moment I end you. The moment I take everything you’ve tried to rebuild and burn it to the ground.”

I don’t respond. Anger blurs his focus. Makes him vulnerable.

He lunges first.

His fist slams into my jaw, sharp pain exploding down my neck. I pivot, drop my weight, and drive my knee into his gut. He doubles over with a wheeze, but recovers fast, circling like an animal that hasn’t decided whether to tear you apart or enjoy the chase first.

“You’ve gone soft,” he sneers. “That Olenko slut made you weak.”

The words are bait. Meant to cloud my focus.

They do the opposite. My fury sharpens to a blade’s edge.

When he attacks again, I meet him blow for blow. A quick series—strike, deflect, elbow, step back. He’s fast, unpredictable, dirty. All prison muscle and feral instinct. But I’ve fought in cleaner cages and messier wars. I’ve survived worse than him.

He draws a knife from somewhere—I see the glint too late.

The blade whistles past my throat. I twist. It kisses the skin along my bicep. Shallow, but sharp.

Pain flares. Warm blood soaks my sleeve.

“First blood to me,” he taunts, spinning the blade between his fingers. “More to come.”

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. I adjust my stance, recalibrate my breath.

Behind him, chaos reigns.

But within this circle, it’s just us.

The history. The hate. The unfinished war we brought out of Siberia and into this place.

Then I catch movement over his shoulder.

Galina.

One of Matvei’s men tries to flank us; she intercepts him without hesitation. Quick, efficient. She ducks under his reach, slides in, and fires once. The man drops.

She pivots immediately, eyes scanning for the next threat, gun still raised.

The sight of her—fighting, surviving, protecting —floods my chest with fierce pride and love. It’s a split-second distraction.

And that’s all Matvei needs.

His fist slams into the side of my head.

My vision flashes white. The floor tilts. Stars burst behind my eyes as I stumble back, disoriented. Another hit follows, then another—hammering blows I can barely block. He’s all teeth and hate now, pressing his advantage like the animal he’s always been.

I hit the concrete hard, the air punched from my lungs. My ribs scream. The world spins.

Matvei looms, knife raised, eyes glittering with triumph.

“I’ve waited years for this,” he says, breathless. “Goodbye, Volkov.”

The blade starts its descent.

But it never lands.

A blur of motion knocks him aside. Vladimir Olenko, stepping between us with steel in his eyes and fire in his blood.

“Not today,” he growls, kicking the knife away. “The Olenko family settles its own scores.”

I push myself upright, pain buzzing through my skull. Blood trickles into one eye, hot and blinding.

Vladimir turns toward me. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is low and deliberate.

“This isn’t about saving you,” he says. “This is about my niece. Her child. My blood.”

His gaze shifts briefly to Galina, who’s now at my side, gun steady, eyes locked on Matvei.

“Some things,” Vladimir says, “transcend grudges.”

I nod, the meaning not lost on me. For Vladimir Olenko to step in—to save a Volkov—means the world has truly gone to hell. But in this moment, hell is ours to own.

Matvei rises, panting. He’s seething. “You think this changes anything?” he spits. “You’re all already dead.”

But before anyone can respond, a new sounds rise above the din. Measured footsteps. A cane tapping the floor.

Sergey Gagarin.

He strides through the carnage like a ghost through fire. His face is carved from marble, eyes colder than death, flanked by security. The room stills around him. Even Matvei hesitates.

“Father?” Yakov’s voice rings out from the upper level. He stands near the catwalk, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “What are you doing here?”

Sergey doesn’t stop. “Ending this madness.” His voice cuts, clean and final. “Ana wouldn’t have wanted this.”

“Don’t you dare speak her name!” Yakov roars. His calm unravels in real time. “You let them get away with what they did to her!”

Sergey halts and looks up, eyes never wavering. “And what did this vengeance buy you? Dead men. Ruined legacies. Where does it stop, son?”

As they argue, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye—Matvei inching toward a fallen rifle.

Shit.

“Watch out!” I shove Vladimir aside as Matvei grabs the weapon.

The gun fires. A white-hot streak of pain tears across my shoulder.

I don’t wait.

I charge.

We collide in a storm of fists and fury. He’s snarling, spitting, firing wild. I knock the rifle away and hammer him back with blow after blow, adrenaline burning out the pain.

Above us, Sergey and Yakov clash—a verbal war turning physical. Yakov lifts his weapon, aiming at Igor across the factory.

“He took Ana!” Yakov screams. “He deserves to die!”

But Sergey moves like a man half his age, slamming into his son just as the shot cracks off. The bullet goes wide, embedding itself in a concrete column.

Father and son collapse in a struggle, old grief erupting into violence.

Below, Matvei and I are locked in our own reckoning.

We fight like men with nothing left to lose. He lands a vicious punch to my jaw. I drop to my knees, dazed, gasping. My arms feel leaden. My body screams for air, for mercy.

But then I hear him.

“I’ll finish what I started in Siberia,” Matvei growls, drawing a second blade from his boot. “And then I’ll carve the bastard out of her. Maybe I’ll let her watch?—”

My world narrows.

I stop hearing the battle. The shouts. The gunfire.

All I hear is that one sentence.

My body reacts before thought can.

I lunge, roaring, the sound torn from the depths of me. We crash to the floor. The knife clatters away.

I don’t stop.

I pin him, fists raining down, then wrap my hands around his throat. His eyes bulge, mouth open in a silent scream as I squeeze. Harder. Harder .

His claws rake at my arms. Blood slicks my skin.

I don’t feel it.

There’s only one truth left:

You don’t threaten what’s mine and live.

A gunshot cracks through the air, close enough to rattle my bones. Matvei’s body jolts beneath me. His hands go slack.

I look up.

Vladimir stands above us, his pistol still raised. Smoke curls from the barrel.

“He was mine,” I growl, not yet releasing my grip on Matvei’s throat.

“He was a rabid dog,” he replies. “And rabid dogs get put down.”

Matvei twitches, blood bubbling from his lips, eyes glassing over. But somehow, he smiles.

“You think this is over?” he wheezes. “You’ll never be free of me, Volkov. I’ll haunt you…from hell.”

Then he’s gone. Just a body cooling beneath my hands.

I let go and rise on unsteady legs, breathing hard. Blood slicks my palms. My shoulder throbs. The factory hums with fading echoes of war—bodies slumped, guns discarded, groans cutting through the silence.

The fight’s over.

Mostly.

“Vasiliy!”

Galina.

She runs, ignoring the shouted protests, the danger, the blood.

She crashes into me, arms tight around my waist. I grit my teeth as pain flares along my ribs, but I hold her back just as fiercely.

“I thought—” she chokes, voice cracking. “When he had you down?—”

“I’m fine,” I manage, even though it’s a lie. “It’s done. He’s gone.”

Vladimir steps beside us, holstering his weapon. His eyes move over us—me, Galina, the blood we’re both wearing.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he says flatly. But there’s something softer buried in the words. “My niece. Her child. They’re mine to protect. Don’t forget that.”

Before I can reply, a shout draws our attention upward.

Yakov.

He’s broken free of his father, standing at the upper railing, wild-eyed, bleeding fury.

“This isn’t over!” he yells, voice echoing off steel and stone. “You think killing Matvei ends this? This is just the beginning!”

His gaze locks on Igor like a missile.

“You took Ana. You kept my nephew from me. I’ll never stop. Never.”

Sergey moves toward him, hands raised in warning. “Yakov, please. It’s over.”

But Yakov isn’t listening. His face twists with hate.

“There’s not enough blood to pay for what you did.”

Then Igor steps forward, voice quiet but clear.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For Ana. For everything. I’ll carry that until I die. But this ends now. For your nephew’s sake. For all of ours.”

Yakov laughs—low, bitter, unhinged. “You think I care about peace? About your guilt? You took everything .”

He raises his gun.

But it’s not Igor who falls.

It’s Yakov.

His expression collapses into disbelief as blood spills across his chest.

Behind him—Jaromir. Gun still raised. Hands steady. Face carved from stone.

“For Ana,” he says. “The real Ana. Not the ghost you made her into.”

Yakov crumples. Sergey drops beside him, cradling him as his breathing stutters, ragged and fading.

The factory stills.

The war is over.

And all that’s left is grief.

I pull Galina back into my arms, hands trembling with the aftershock. I bury my face in her hair.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I whisper.

She leans back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are fierce.

“I told you,” she says. “Together. That means we protect each other.”

Around us, the battlefield is dissolving into the aftermath. Bodies. Blood. Silence. Igor stares at the Gagarins—father and son, locked in a moment that will scar them forever.

I look down at Galina. At the blood on her clothes. At the bruises on her skin.

At the fire still burning in her.

“It’s time to go home,” I say. The words settle something deep inside me. “Time to build something better than this.”

We move, step by step, supporting each other.

On our way out, I glance back once more.

Sergey kneels beside Yakov, holding his son like he’s trying to rewind time.

The factory is quiet now.

And somehow—somehow— Yakov is still breathing .

Maybe he’ll survive.

Maybe he won’t.

Either way, the war he started ends here.

Nikolai gathers his family close. Igor watches with tired eyes. And Galina’s arm wraps tighter around my waist.

We’ve all lost something in this war.

But maybe, just maybe, we’ve bought ourselves a future.

“Together,” she says quietly, following my gaze.

I pull her close, press a kiss to her temple, and whisper back the only truth that matters.

“Always.”