Page 27 of His Order

Dmitri calls out through the smoke, his voice maddeningly casual. “You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic, Pavel. But dragging this out? It’s beneath you. You know what you have done, and I think it’s time you face the consequences. Both you and her shall die today.”

“Keep talking,” I shout back, peeking out long enough to fire two more rounds. One smashes into the bar counter. The other? I hope it takes off his ear. “These are your last breaths anyway—use them wisely.”

“Boss down!” Mikhail comes from around the corner, firing shots at Dmitri. He makes his way toward me, coming to seek cover behind the couch.

“Anya?”

“Stable and safe. I knew you needed me.” He says as he fires off more rounds. “We need to end him.” Mikhail’s beside me now, reloading, his face streaked with blood and sweat. “We’re running low on time and ammo. We need to finish this.”

“Then we don’t waste either.” I slide out from behind cover, low and fast, moving to the pillar just ahead. Gun up, ready.

And there he is—Dmitri. His eyes lock onto mine through the chaos. The gunfire continues to rage, a relentless storm of bullets tearing through the air, each one screaming with deadly intent. The walls tremble with the force of the explosions, and the acrid smell of gunpowder fills the room, suffocating and thick. Even amidst the violence, there's an unspoken challenge in his gaze, a promise of more bloodshed to come.

“Tell me, Dmitri, what would you like me to say at your eulogy?” I say flatly. “I was thinking of just burning your body.”

Behind me, I sense movement—a blur of low and fast.

Mikhail.

He slips from behind the overturned console and moves toward the far pillar across the open floor. He slides into cover like a shadow, knees hitting the marble silently. He doesn’t speak. u breathe loud enough to hear. Just watches.

He is going to go in for the kill shot. This is what he has been patiently waiting for. We need to all work together. I look to my left and see Roman with his gun pressed against Victor's head. He holds my stare and gives me a curt nod. I know what that means.

Dmitri’s voice cuts through again—low and patient, the way a snake coils before it strikes.

“You’re not here for the empire anymore, are you?” His eyes flick toward the blood trail Anya left. “You’re here for her.”

I don’t answer. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

He sneers. "I always suspected you had a heart in there somewhere. Even monsters have their weak points, right? It’s a shame that she will be your one downfall.”

Mikhail shifts behind the pillar, gun tight in his hand, but he doesn’t move. I can feel him studying us—waiting for a break, a misstep. Something about his silence makes the room heavier.

“She makes you weak, you know,” Dmitri continues. “You bleed for her now. And that’s how you’ll fall.”

“She’s not my weakness,” I say, my voice like steel. I ready myself for what I am about to do. “If anything, she is my strength.”

I look out from behind the pillar. My eyes are moving to Dmitri.

Dmitri’s smile falters. Just for a second. A crack in the porcelain. Shadows shift and move—reinforcements closing in. They’re not finished yet. I tense, locking eyes with Mikhail; no words pass between us, yet his slight nod speaks volumes. They're coming in a flood of imminent danger.

We can’t fire a shot, not now, not in this charged moment; one stray bullet and the whole penthouse could blow again. And still, Anya remains caught in the deadly crossfire.

Dmitri tightens his grip on the Beretta ever so slightly. “Let’s end this,” he declares, and I nudge my own aim a little higher. “I plan to,” I reply.

Time stretches taut like a drawn wire. Then, in a sudden pivot, Dmitri turns his head and locks onto Mikhail. In that instant, as though a switch has been flipped, his entire posture transforms: his weight shifts, his right-hand rises, and his gun swings toward the pillar where Mikhail crouches. I see every calculated detail—the stiffening stance, the precise angle of his wrist, the finger poised on the trigger. He’s about to shoot.

I lunge forward, calling out, “Mikhail—!” but I’m too late. A shot tears through the charged air—but not from Dmitri. Hefreezes mid-turn as the unmistakable click of a hammer slotting into place slices through the silence behind him. His body locks, and he turns slowly to face the source.

There she is.

Anya stands barefoot on a blood-slick floor, her thighs stained with crimson, one hand pressed against her side where pain commands her attention. Her other hand remains unwavering, a silver pistol aimed dead-center at the back of Dmitri’s skull. Her eyes—glassy and heavy like storm clouds—burn with a mesmerizing intensity, bleeding and searing with terror and power. She trembles, not from weakness but from a pure, icy rage that radiates with each measured breath.

Neither Dmitri nor I dare utter a word as we share this charged silence—a silence mirrored in the depths of her eyes, a declaration that she is the one in control. “Turn around,” she commands quietly, her voice low, ragged, yet edged with a razor’s precision.

Reluctantly, Dmitri shifts until he’s squarely facing her, the moment stretching until his gaze meets hers. A laugh escapes his lips, mocking: “Look who found her spine.” But Anya shows no sign of flinching. “You don’t get to talk— not to me, not ever again,” she retorts.

A sneer curls Dmitri’s lip as he taunts, “You really think you’re built for this, little girl? You think pulling that trigger makes you something?” Stepping closer, she presses the muzzle against his forehead, the cold metal biting into his skin as her lip splits in a defiant smile. “I don’t need to be something,” she murmurs, a final promise of retribution, “I just need to finish this.”

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