I finish the drink in one long pull, the last of it carving a clean, searing path down my throat. I set the glass down on the side table, the soft clink against wood final, almost ceremonial. The vodka burns only for a second before it settles in my chest, a low, steady heat anchoring me in the moment.

I stand slowly, not because I’m tired, but because there’s purpose in every movement. I smooth the front of my shirt, fingers brushing down the crisp black fabric. I adjust my cuffs with deliberate precision, each button aligned perfectly, every fold neat. There’s discipline in the ritual—ritual in the control. This is how I prepare. This is how I contain the storm.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that hums just beneath the surface, like a held breath before a scream. It’s not peace—it’s the air before a strike, the tension before glass shatters. Even the flickering sconces seem to know it, casting pale yellow light that quivers along the stone walls.

I leave the study without a glance back.

The hallway stretches ahead of me, long and dim, carved in cold marble and shadow. Each step I take sinks into the silence, swallowed by thick rugs and stone. My reflection ghosts across the tall windows. Outside, fog curls against the panes like smoke. I move with intention, the estate watching me the way animals watch a predator—still, wary, waiting.

Downstairs, the shift is immediate.

The atrium hums with quiet activity. My men are already in position. The long oak table is covered with maps, red ink scrawled in tight lines across key locations. Printed photos. Coordinates. Surveillance shots of Ortega’s territory, his clubs,his known safehouses. Every weapon is accounted for—laid out like offerings. Pistols, rifles, blades. Silencers lined in perfect order. Ammunition boxes stacked with care. Tools of precision. Instruments of war.

Dima stands at the head of the table, back straight, coat open but neat. He’s calm, but I see it in the tightness of his jaw. The barely there clench in his shoulders. He doesn’t rattle. That’s what makes his quiet tension ring loud.

War isn’t coming. It’s here.

I step onto the landing. I don’t speak.

My presence alone cuts through the noise. Backs straighten. Conversations die midsentence. Heads bow slightly in reflex. Even the sound of the wind outside seems to pause. I descend the stairs slowly, steadily, my gaze sweeping the room once. That’s all it takes.

Dima meets me near the foot of the stairs, a phone already in his hand, screen lit.

“The club’s quiet,” he says, voice low. “Security rotation hasn’t changed in two hours. Ortega’s nephew is confirmed inside. Back lounge. Usual time. No one new.”

I take the phone, scan the message. The photo confirms it. Miguel Ortega. Cocky. Spoiled. Arrogant in ways that make him sloppy.

“Good,” I say. I hand the phone back.

That’s all that needs to be said.

Dima doesn’t ask questions. He steps aside.

Chapter Fifteen - Alina

The room is too quiet.

I pace in slow, measured circles, the soles of my feet soundless against the marble tile. Every detail in here is expensive—opulent, even—but it feels cold. Lifeless. Like a museum curated by someone who values power more than comfort. Gold accents catch the low light from the chandelier above, throwing sharp reflections onto polished surfaces. I could count the corners of the room, the seams between panels, just to give my hands something to do.

Instead, I clench them at my sides.

This is for my father.

I repeat it like a prayer, over and over, until the words hollow out in my mouth. If I give Andrei what he wants, my father will live. He has to. That’s the deal, isn’t it? The unspoken, unconfirmed bargain I’ve let myself believe exists. That I can offer myself in exchange for mercy. That I have anything left to offer at all.

It should feel like control.

It doesn’t.

My heart beats so hard it stutters. I sit for a moment on the edge of the velvet chaise, fingers trembling as I reach for the robe I left draped nearby. It slides over my skin like water—useless, sheer. I tie it tightly, twice around the waist, like it might hold me together. The knot feels clumsy. My hands won’t stop shaking.

I tell myself this is survival. That I’m choosing to do this. That I’m not walking into his room like a lamb—but the lie is thin, stretched too tight to believe. Something inside me fidgets beneath the surface, something sharp and humiliated.Not from the fear. From the shame of how my skin tingles when I remember his hands on me. From the way I don’t completely hate the way he looks at me.

Like I belong to him. Like he already knows I won’t resist.

My feet move before my thoughts do. Down the hallway, slow but deliberate. The house is quiet. His men keep their distance, and that makes it worse. Like they already know what’s about to happen. Like it’s already decided.

I stop in front of Andrei’s bedroom door.