I look at Damian, still standing guard by the door, and wonder if that might be true. A week ago, I never could have imagined being here, in this situation, with this man. But despite the terror of themoment, I feel safer than I have in years. Protected in a way I've never been before.
Damian glances back at me, and there’s a flash of something in his face as his eyes meet mine—something I can’t entirely read. His gaze drops to Adam, and that look intensifies, something that almost looks like pain, although that makes no sense to me.
“I need to go join Konstantin,” he says gruffly. “Stay here with Valentina. Listen to her. I’m sure she’s armed,” he adds, with the smallest amount of humor in his otherwise cold tone. “I’ll be back when this problem has been routed.”
He looks at me for a split second, and something crosses his face, some emotion I can’t define or name. And then, before I can begin to guess at what he was thinking, he’s striding out of the door, closing the heavy steel behind him.
I hear the beep of the lock, closing us in. And I wonder, for the first time, if I’ll ever see my husband again.
14
DAMIAN
Ipunch in the code and slip out, sealing them in behind me. The house above, when I reach the main floor, is a war zone—furniture overturned, glass scattered across the marble floors, bullet holes in the walls. The acrid smell of gunpowder hangs in the air, mixed with something else. Blood.
Nothing about this is new to me. None of it fazes me in the slightest. Sienna and Adam are safe, behind steel and a hidden door, with one of the few people I’d trust them with unquestioningly. I push them to the back of my head, focusing on the fight ahead, on something that’s become so ingrained in me that it’s like muscle memory.
I move through the hallways quickly, using routes I've memorized during my years living here. The main fighting seems to be concentrated in the east wing—I can hear Konstantin's voice barking orders, the sharp crack of semi-automatic fire.
A shadow moves at the end of the corridor. Not one of ours. I raise my weapon and put two rounds in his chest before he even knows I'm there. He drops without a sound, his rifle clattering across the floor. I step over his body and keep moving.
The attackers are good. These men move with military precision, coordinated tactics. They might be Russo’s men, or they might behired mercenaries. We won’t know until it’s over, and we find out who’s responsible for letting this happen. But we will get answers, one way or another.
I’m going to make sure of it.
There’s an anger simmering in my blood, a feeling that I’m unfamiliar with, like this is suddenly personal. Like these men have come after something that belongs to me, threatened something that’s mine. I feel more than just the usual, rote violence that comes with a fight like this.
I feel like I want them dead.
I round the corner and see Konstantin pressed against the wall near the library, reloading. Three of his men are with him, all sporting various wounds but still fighting. The smooth businessman façade, the diplomat, is gone now, replaced by the cold killer his father trained him to be. The man who, sometimes, I wish he’d let out more often.
"About fucking time," he growls when he sees me. "They came in through three points—front, back, and the east terrace. Professional team. At least fifteen men."
"I was getting Sienna and Adam down to the panic room. How many are left?"
"Six, maybe seven. Holed up in the study." His jaw tightens. "They executed Mikhail when he tried to surrender. I came around the corner and saw it."
Mikhail was young, maybe twenty-two. Konstantin's newest recruit, eager to prove himself. The cold rage that floods through me is welcome. It makes everything else fall away except the need to end this.
"They want to make a statement," I growl, checking my ammunition. "Show that they can reach us anywhere."
"Then we'll make one back." Konstantin's eyes are ice-cold. "No survivors."
“Good.” There’s no room for being more civilized tonight, no room for diplomacy and negotiation. Some messages can only be delivered in blood.
“What’s the plan?”
“They're barricaded behind the desk and bookshelf.” Konstantin moves forward, motioning to three of his men to cover him. “Two at the windows, the rest covering the door.”
My finger brushes against the side of my trigger. “If all those entrances are covered, then we flank the side entrance. Catch them by surprise. Lay down enough fire that they can’t recover quickly enough.”
Konstantin nods. “That’s why you’re my right hand. My thoughts exactly.”
We move quickly, silently, boots thudding as softly as we can manage as we spill out of the room. We filter toward the door that will lead out and let us flank the French doors that lead out of the other side of the study. Clearly, what remains of the men knew they were overwhelmed, if they holed up. We’re about to show them just how much.
There’s a moment, right before something like this, where the world narrows down. I can feel the warm air brushing against my face as we move into position, see the glint of moonlight, smell salt. Then we move as one, crashing through the doors as we open fire, and chaos erupts.
The flash of gunfire fills the room. The noise is deafening: the sound of gunshots, the impact of bullets hitting bodies, the grunts of pain. It's brutal, efficient, over in seconds. When the echoes fade, six bodies lie scattered across the Persian rug, their blood seeping into the ancient fibers.
