Mikhail
I glance at my watch-seven hours and thirty-seven minutes left. Time’s running out. Rurik, Pavel, and Zakhar take off to look for Alexander, and their determination is evident in every stride. As I search through his abandoned house in Maryland, my heart pounds in my chest as I kick down the front door. The stench of sweat and fear assaults my senses, making me hold my breath in disgust.
“Mercy?” I call out, my voice betraying the urgency I want to suppress. And then I see her.
She’s tied to a chair, face bruised and battered, but otherwise very much alive.
“Get away from her!” I shout at the man towering over her, his hand raised, ready to deliver another blow.
“Who the hell are you?” he snarls, turning towards me. I don’t hesitate. I pull the trigger and watch as the life drains from his eyes. His body collapses to the floor, and blood pools around his head.
Mercy looks up, defiance still strong in her eyes. When she speaks, her sarcastic voice is shaky yet defiant. “Took you long enough.”
I ignore her remark and quickly untie the ropes binding her. As soon as she’s free, she collapses into my arms, tears streaming down her face. Her body trembles violently against mine, and I hold her tight, promising her that she’s safe now.
“Thank you,” she whispers through her sobs. “I owe you.”
“Let’s get you out of here.” I help her to her feet, and we make our way out of the house. “Your father’s looking for you in the woods,” I tell her as we step into the sunlight. She blinks back tears, overwhelmed by the thought of being reunited with her dad after everything that’s happened to her.
“Mercy!” Vito rushes forward suddenly and pulls her into a tight embrace. I watch their tearful reunion and smile with joy and relief. Finally, the good guy wins, and Mercy will be going home.
“Are you hurt, sweetheart?” Vito asks.
“Not as bad as the other guy.” Mercy smiles at me and then squeezes her dad tight.
Vito claps me on the shoulder and grins from ear to ear. “I’ve got one hell of a daughter,” he says, and I agree. “Thank you,” Vito murmurs, clasping the hand of Rurik, who joins us. “I don’t know how to repay you both.”
“Go back to New York,” I reply. “This isn’t over yet.”
Vito wavers, but Mercy needs him more than either the Lanzzare or the Ivanov at the moment.
“C’mon, sweetheart.” Vito helps Mercy to the SUV. “We’re going home.”
“Go with them,” I tell Rurik, and he’s about to complain, knowing that we need the manpower. “Zakhar and Pavel are here. You need to see her safely returned. There are bigger issues at play.”
He nods. Together, they begin the ride to the airport and the journey back to New York. I smile at this victory, but deep down, I know this is just the beginning.
I turn my focus back on finding Alexander as I face the house. Its dark windows stare back like lifeless eyes, and I have no idea if he’s watching us. Zakhar and Pavel appear at my side, their expressions grim as we stare at the ramshackle Victorian home miles from the closest neighbor.
“Let’s split up,” I say. “We’ll cover more ground that way.”
Zakhar nods, his eyes hungry for vengeance. “Just make sure you leave some of Alexander for me.”
“Likewise.” I clap him on the shoulder before we part ways.
I navigate the dark hallways. The silence sharpens my senses, and every creak resonates in my ears. I can’t shake the sensation of being watched, though I can’t see any signs of an inhabitant. No fingerprints or footprints in the dust, which is an inch thick on every surface.
A shrill scream cuts through the silence, and then an ear-splitting shot. I run to the back of the house toward a loud struggle.
“Got him!” Pavel’s urgent whisper comes through the earpiece, and I rush to his location. I find Alexander slumped against awall, blood oozing from a gunshot wound in his thigh. A chair tumbles over as Alexander falls to his knees onto the floor. His face is pale and twisted in pain, but he remains rebellious.
“Hello,” he spits, his voice dripping with contempt. “Kolya.”
“Shut up,” I snap, grabbing him by the collar and hauling him to his feet. “You’re going to tell me everything.”
“Or what?” Alexander sneers, a trickle of blood on his lip. “You’ll kill me? That’s inevitable, isn’t it? But go ahead, ask your questions.”
I toss him backward into a chair and wait until he stops groaning. “Why did you betray the Bratva?” I ask in a menacing tone. “Why did you betray my father?”
“Betray?” Alexander chuckles weakly. “Would there have been betrayal if you’d simply listened to us? Everything would’ve run like clockwork if you had let us carry on doing what we were doing.”
“What about Desmier?” I demand. “What could he have done to offend you?”
“He wasn’t you, Kolya.” A twisted smile shows his bloodied teeth.
“Me?” I ask, my heart hammering in my chest. “Why me?”
“Because you were soft. Sensitive. You hated being the head of the Bratva. Always with your nose buried in a sketchbook or sighing over useless old paintings. You were what Desmier never could have been,” Alexander explains, coughing up blood. “Pliable and easy to mislead. But you proved us wrong in the end, didn’t you?”
The truth hits me like a truck with no brakes, and I struggle to process it. They wanted me as their pawn, and they killed Desmier to make it happen. Guilt and rage churn together, building into a storm inside me. I hold my head in my hands to keep the pain from making me insane, but his gurgling laughter snaps my head back up again.
“Satisfied?” Alexander asks, his eyes defiant, challenging me to do something about it. “It’s nothing personal, Kolya. It’s just business.”
With the weight of Alexander’s confession hanging heavy over us, Zakhar’s voice slices through the tension like a knife. “Who killed Aria?”
Alexander’s bloodied face contorts into a pained grin as he shrugs. “We all had a hand in it, old friend. But does it matter? Ippolit is dead, and I will be soon as well. I’m sure in due time, Gunsyn will be dead too.”
Zakhar’s eyes narrow, and I feel his grip tighten on the gun in his hand. He doesn’t drop the point. He must know, no matter how much it will gut him.
“I can give you a choice, Sasha.” Zakhar kneels down before Alexander and whispers the man’s diminutive name. “I can end your life quickly, or I can end it painfully. If you care at all about who you once were to me, who I once was to you, then you will tell me what happened that night. And spare me none of the grisly details.”
Alexander’s eyes lock with Zakhar’s, and for a moment, I think he might say no. But he blinks, and the defiance in them dissolves into something different. Something I never thought I’d see in them.
Regret.
Sadness.