Page 107 of 10 Days to Surrender

There has to be something here—a phone, a note, some scrap of evidence linking this back to Dragan. The Serbs must have hired local muscle to do their dirty work.

But as I turn out his pockets, my certainty begins to waver. No burner phone. No orders written in Serbian. Just a cheap leather wallet containing thirty euros and a crumpled photo of some local girl. Even the gun in his hand is laughably cheap.

There’s only one conclusion to be drawn: This wasn’t some calculated strike against me. This was just a stupid kid who picked the wrong house to rob, who had no idea what kind of monster was waiting in the darkness.

I sit back on my heels, suddenly tired. All this death. All this blood. The familiar ice in my veins feels heavy now. Unnecessary. Like using a sledgehammer to kill a fly.

But what choice did I have? Even a petty thief could have hurt Ariel. Even a local thug’s bullet could have found her heart.

I straighten back upright and remind myself not to mourn for him. Who gives a fuck if he’s young? If he’s stupider than he was cruel? He ventured where he shouldn’t have and he paid the price.

I cannot and will not apologize for that.

As I stand there and look down at his face, I wait for the pain to come. My legs should wobble. My gut should sting. All the things Dragan did to me in that frigid back alley should be agonizing, the way they’ve been for eight long months now.

But the pain never arrives. More importantly, my hands didn’t shake. Not once. Not when I pulled the trigger, not when I crushed his knife hand, not even now as I holster my weapon.

There’s only one conclusion to be drawn from that, too: I am ready.

These past eight weeks of playing house in Tuscany, they were necessary. So was my time in Kosti’s safehouse in Vermont before that. The physical therapy, the rest, the careful rebuilding of damaged muscle and tissue—it all served its purpose. But that chapter is over now.

It’s time to go home. Time to take back what’s mine.

Because this is not the first wave of men who will come for what’s mine. Thug or not, there will be more after that, and more after those, until these hills are crawling with parasites who think they can steal from my plate.

No.

Fucking.

More.

No. I’m going back to my home, and when I set foot on that shore, I will be what I’ve always been: Sasha fucking Ozerov, the man who brought the Serbian empire to its knees fifteen years ago. The man who will do it again—but permanently this time.

I wipe blood from my hands with mechanical efficiency. Upstairs, Ariel sleeps peacefully, unaware of how close danger crept to our door tonight. She’ll never know—I’ll have the bodies disposed of before sunrise.

But this is the wake-up call I needed. We can’t stay here forever, playing at normal life while Dragan consolidates his power. The time for healing is over.

The time for war has begun.

I pull out my phone and text Feliks:Pack your bags. We leave for New York in 24 hours.

Then I get a rag and start to mop up the blood.

41

ARIEL

I wake to cold sheets where Sasha should be. The space beside me still holds the indent of his body, but it’s been empty long enough for the heat to fade.

My heart knows what that means long before my head does.

But it’s early in the morning, when things and thoughts are fuzzy and dreamy, so I let myself pretend for a little while that I don’t know what my bones are telling me has already begun.

When I make my way downstairs, though, each step feels heavier than the last. Down here, I won’t be able to pretend anymore. The twins are restless, turning and kicking like they’re every bit as uneasy as I am. I pause on the final stair, one hand pressed against the swell of my belly, trying to soothe them.

Or maybe trying to soothe myself.

The sound of a zipper is what draws me down the last few steps. I round the corner to see Sasha in the entryway, methodically folding clothes into a black duffel bag. His movements are precise, practiced—the routine of a man who’s packed for warbefore. His gun rests in a holster on the kitchen counter. I could swear I see a fleck of blood gleaming on the nozzle.

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