Page 10 of Crimson Curse
And then, through the chaos, a figure steps from the treeline as if the bullets carving through the air are beneath his notice. A cruel smile twists his mouth as he lifts his hand, and the men around him halt their advance, waiting. My blood turns to fire the instant I see him. Lucien Antonov. At last, the ghost I should have buried five years ago stands before me, very much alive, and grinning like the devil come to collect his due. The men around him fall still at a single gesture, their discipline absolute.
“Zorin,” Lucien calls out. “How many of your men are you willing to bury tonight? Come out, and maybe I’ll let the rest crawl home alive.”
My grip tightens on my gun, every instinct screaming to put a bullet through him here and now.
Lex grabs my arm, his voice sharp. “Daniil. You can't find her if you're dead.”
The words slice through the red haze of rage like a blade through silk. He's right, damn him. Naomi needs me alive, not martyred on some forest floor in Wisconsin while our enemies celebrate over my corpse. Tactical retreat is not surrender when it preserves resources for future engagements.
I signal retreat with sharp gestures, the commands cutting through air thick with cordite and the copper scent of blood. My men move like ghosts despite the chaos, covering each other as we fall back toward the vehicles in a fighting withdrawal sharpened by blood and survival.
The gunfire intensifies as Lucien realizes my intention, bullets sparking against metal as we dive into the SUVs. Engines roar to life with mechanical snarls that cut through the night like chainsaws. Tires spin against the ground, seeking purchase as we tear back down the dirt track with violence exploding in our wake.
By the time we reach the highway, silence has fallen again. But beneath it, my resolve is unbreakable. Viktor thought he could use Lucien to finish me. He was wrong. I will find Naomi, no matter how much blood it takes.
4
NAOMI
The drive feels endless. I don't know how long we've been on the road, but the landscape has transformed from wide, lonely highways to quiet neighborhoods where lawns are clipped neatly, mailboxes lean at the curb, and curtains flutter in the windows. My wrists ache from where the zip ties bite into my skin, and every bump in the road sends a jolt through my shoulders. The guard beside me hasn't spoken a word since we left the cabin, his eyes fixed straight ahead like I'm nothing more than cargo to be delivered.
Through the tinted windows, I watch ordinary life unfold around us. A woman waters her flower beds while her dog sniffs around the base of a maple tree. Two children chase each other across a front yard, their laughter carrying through the glass. An older man adjusts his sprinkler system, completely absorbed in the simple task of keeping his grass green.
It feels like a place where people grill hamburgers on weekends, kids ride bikes with streamers on the handlebars, and the worst thing that happens is a lost dog or a dented car door. The normalcy of it all makes tears sting the back of my eyes. Theyare unaware that monsters walk among them wearing expensive suits and charming smiles. But that's the trick.
I know what this is. Hiding me in plain sight. It's the kind of cover that works because no one would believe it. No one would imagine a Bratva heir would keep a prisoner in an Illinois suburb behind beige siding and flowerbeds. The genius of it makes me sick. Viktor has thought this through with the meticulous attention of a man who has planned every detail and every contingency.
The black sedan rolls to a stop in the driveway of an ordinary house. White shutters frame windows that reflect the dying light. A basketball hoop stands tall next to the driveway. A plastic tricycle abandoned on the grass catches my eye, though something in me whispers it was staged. It’s too perfect. Curtains are drawn tight across every window, making it look safe and normal, almost inviting.
It makes my stomach knot. Every detail screams of careful orchestration. This isn't a home. It's a set piece, designed to fool neighbors and passersby into thinking nothing more sinister than suburban routine happens behind these walls.
The guard beside me opens the door, and the evening air rushes in. His eyes are flat and watchful. When he jerks his chin, the silent command is unmistakable. My legs feel shaky as he pulls me out of the sedan and onto the cracked concrete, the ordinary sensation of solid ground beneath my feet somehow surreal after hours trapped in the back seat.
The smell of freshly cut grass is thick in the air, mingling with the distant aroma of someone's dinner cooking. A breeze carries the faint sound of laughter from a house across the street, where a family has gathered in their yard, completely oblivious towhat's happening here. A father pushes his daughter on a tire swing while the mother tends to something on a portable grill. Their joy feels like a mockery of my situation.
I want to scream for help, but the sight of the gun at the guard's hip holds me back. I’m certain this man wouldn't hesitate to use it if I made any attempt to alert the neighbors. No one would believe me anyway. I'd just be the hysterical woman dragged back inside, silenced before anyone could ask a question. The suburbs are good at ignoring things that don't fit their narrative of safety and normalcy.
The guard's hand settles on my elbow roughly as he guides me toward the front door. Each step across the short walkway feels like walking toward my execution. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat, and for a moment, the world tilts. I force myself to breathe, to stay upright, and keep moving. Falling apart now won't help Daniil. It won't help anyone.
Inside, the guard slices through the zip ties binding my wrists. Blood rushes back into my hands, leaving a dull, throbbing ache I try to rub away.
The house smells like bleach and something sterile that makes my nose burn. It's too clean, stripped of life. The living room looks like it's been staged for a real estate brochure, every piece of furniture positioned with cold symmetry. A beige sofa sits across from a coffee table where untouched magazines are fanned in a perfect arc. Cheap art prints hang on the walls at exactly the right height, their generic landscapes and flower arrangements chosen to offend no one and inspire nothing.
The lamp in the corner isn't even plugged in. The detail strikes me as particularly grotesque, this pretense at domesticity that doesn't extend to actual function. No one lives here. This is anillusion, a movie set designed to fool anyone who might glance through the windows or peek over the fence.
My skin feels tight and itchy, like the air is contaminated. Every surface gleams with chemical cleanliness, as if any trace of human habitation has been scrubbed away. And then Viktor appears.
He steps out of the kitchen like he's been waiting for me. He’s wearing a white dress shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, casual enough to look approachable but pressed enough to remind me he's always in control. His mouth curves into a smile that doesn't touch his eyes, his expression resembling a man who is savoring a victory he's been planning for months.
“Naomi,” he greets, his voice velvet-smooth, each syllable pronounced with the faint accent that makes even my name sound like a threat. “Welcome.”
His casual politeness makes me want to vomit. As if I'm a guest who's arrived for dinner rather than a prisoner dragged here against my will. I stiffen, my nails digging into my palms as I force myself to meet his gaze. Looking away feels like surrender, and I won't give him that satisfaction.
“Why am I here?” I ask, my words calmer than I feel.
His chuckle is soft and mocking, as if I've said something amusing. The sound raises goosebumps along my arms. He steps closer, his cologne invading my personal space.
“Do you know where Daniil is right now?” he questions.
