Mila curls against me. Elena stands guard.
And we wait for the storm to break.
CHAPTER 28- LEV POV
Chapter twenty-eight
Lev
War comes with a plan.
I've spent the last twenty-four hours transforming the estate into a fortress designed for one purpose: kill everyone who enters with hostile intent.
I call in every favour that I am owed, and additional men arrive throughout the day. Thirty-seven total now, all veterans, all loyal, all understanding this is the fight that determines everything. I position them strategically across the grounds. Snipers on the roof. Heavy weapons teams covering approach angles. Entry points reinforced with steel plating and explosive charges.
If Patrick wants to reach Valerie and Mila, he'll have to go through hell first.
Mikhail coordinates the armory distribution. Rifles, shotguns, pistols. Grenades. Body armor. Enough firepower to hold off a small army.
Which is exactly what's coming.
Yaroslav appears with the final perimeter report. "All positions secure. Motion sensors active. Cameras feeding to central command. If a mouse crosses the property line, we'll know."
"Good." I study the tactical map spread across my desk. Red dots marking our defensive positions. Blue lines showing likely attack vectors. "Patrick will come from multiple angles. He's not stupid. He knows we're expecting him."
"So, what's his play?" Mikhail leans over the map. "Overwhelming force? Stealth insertion? Something else?"
"Both." I trace possible routes with one finger. "Coordinated assault to draw our attention, smaller team slipping through to reach the house. He’d want Valerie alive."
"We have men covering every entrance—"
That's what he'll expect, so he'll create new ones—explosives, vehicles ramming gates, whatever it takes. I look up and meet their eyes. "Patrick O'Rourke is coming here to either die or destroy me. There's no middle ground. So, we prepare for maximum violence."
I head to check on Valerie and the kids. I need to see them. Need one more moment before the violence starts.
I find her in our bedroom, packing supplies. She's four months pregnant now, the curve of her stomach visible under the loose shirt. Moving with that careful precision, pregnant women develop.
When she sees me, her face crumples. "Is it time?"
"Soon." I cross to her, pull her into my arms. "You'll be safe in the panic room. Steel walls, independent systems, enough supplies for days. Patrick can't reach you there."
"What about you?" Her hands grip my shirt. "I’ve seen that man kill my father gleefully. What if he kills you too? What if you don't come back?"
"I'll come back." I tilt her face up, look into those eyes that have seen me at my worst and loved me anyway. "I promise, milaya. I will come back to you."
"You can't promise that—"
"I can, and I am." I kiss her desperately. Pour everything into it. Love and fear and determination. "Because I'm not losing you. Not losing this baby. Not losing Mila. I've lost enough. I won't lose more."
She's crying, holding me as if she lets go, I'll disappear.
I pull back enough to kneel. Press my face against her stomach. Against the life growing inside.
"Wait for me," I whisper to our baby. "Your papa is going to end this tonight. Going to make sure you're born into safety."
Valerie's hand strokes through my hair. "We will. We'll be waiting."
I stand, kiss her once more, then force myself to leave before I can't.