The sounds.
Muffled at first. Desperate. Human.
They rose and fell in waves, carried through concrete and flame, through walls that had once held so many others in silence. Names were shouted. Prayers. Pleas that went unanswered.
I pressed my face into Dmitri’s chest and closed my eyes.
I didn’t watch.
I didn’t need to.
I gripped Dmitri’s hand so tightly my knuckles throbbed, the ache sharp enough to anchor me to my body. He didn’t flinch. He held me upright—solid, immovable—while the compound behind us transformed into a living furnace.
Heat rolled outward in suffocating waves, dry and merciless, carrying a stench that turned my stomach
Burning hair. Burning flesh.
I swallowed hard and forced my gaze forward.
Dmitri checked his watch, the glow briefly illuminating his face. “We have to leave,” he said quietly—not rushed, not cold. Practical. Protective.
I nodded, though my head felt full of static.
My legs trembled as we moved, step by step, away from the flames. Each pace felt like wading through deep water. The crackle of fire followed us, punctuated by distant, fading screams that burrowed into my bones even as I told myself it was over.
At the SUV, I climbed into the passenger seat on autopilot. The leather was cool beneath my palms. Dmitri slid in behind the wheel, shut the door, and started the engine. The familiar purr steadied something inside me.
We pulled away.
In the rearview mirror, the inferno shrank—an orange wound against the night sky—until it blurred into a smear of light and then disappeared altogether. I didn’t look back again.
I stared out the side window instead, watching dark trees rush past, their branches clawing at the headlights. The road unwound endlessly ahead of us, smooth and empty, as if the world had decided to give us a narrow corridor of silence.
“I’m worried this will have repercussions,” I said at last. My voice sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else. “You just shattered the truce between Lake Como and the Albanians.”
Dmitri didn’t hesitate. “Except I didn’t leave my signature,” he replied, calm and measured. There was something almost wry in his tone. “I left the Morozovs’. Every can of accelerant. Every spent casing. Every footprint and fingerprint belongs to their men. Historically, the Morozovs end things with fire. We Volkovs prefer blades and bullets. When the other Albanian clans investigate—and they will—they’ll see a pattern and draw the wrong conclusion.”
He reached over and covered the back of my hand with his, thumb brushing lightly across my skin. “I made sure of it.”
I absorbed that in silence, imagining the fallout—the suspicion, the shifting alliances, the quiet wars sparked by misdirection. It was ruthless. Elegant. So very Dmitri.
“I played it smart,” he added.
I nodded, my gaze fixed on the road. “How about the girls?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Just drove, steady and sure, letting the question stretch until my chest tightened.
Then—“Safe.”
The single word hit me like a blow.
My heart lurched violently. “Safe?” I turned toward him. “You mean—really?”
He glanced at me, a flicker of warmth breaking through the hard lines of his face. “I found them. They’re safe. Hidden. I’m taking you to them now.”
The world tilted.
I pressed both hands to my face, trying—and failing—to contain the surge of emotion crashing through me. Relief so sharp it hurt. Disbelief that left me dizzy.