Page 142 of Immaculate Corruption (Romanoff Bratva)

“Can you walk?” I’m not sure how he hears me, but he does.

Dima nods. Together, we make slow progress towards the front doors. It’s a long walk and Dima is far heavier than I am. Dima groans with every step, but I keep moving.

His breathing is ragged, his eyes are bloodshot and rolling around without any clear direction. Dima looks more unlike himself than I’ve ever seen before, and I hate every second of it.

My whole world has narrowed down to this. Left foot in front of right. Right foot in front of left. Repeat. My muscles are screaming, my throat is raw from breathing smoke, my skin is baking and threatening to split from the heat.

But I can’t stop. I won’t stop.

We reach the doors. I touch the handle and hiss when it sears my fingertips. Rearing back, I kick it as hard as I can.

Nothing.

The floor behind us is beginning to crumble. Plank by plank, the hardwood is giving way and going tumbling down into the pit below. The space of floor we’re standing on won’t last much longer.

I rear back and kick the door one more time.

Still nothing.

“Fuck!” I scream, though there’s no point since I can’t even hear myself think amidst the roar of the fire.

I close my eyes and steel myself for one final attempt. This is my last shot. If this doesn’t work, the fires win. Ilyasov wins. Fate wins.

My mind flashes back almost three decades. I’m a little girl again, lying trapped beneath the roof of a destroyed house. I didn’t know it then, but my mother was dead just a few yards away from me. I found the strength back then to wriggle my way out of the wreckage. To build a new life.

I can do that again.

Opening my eyes, I let out a war cry. I load up my kick and drive into the door with my heel as hard as I can.

This time, the door bursts open. The motion carries me forward, off-balance. Dima and I tumble down into the outdoors. We collapse together on the ground, a tangle of ash and blood and sweat. I’m taking huge lungfuls of fresh air and crying, the tears scything down the ash still clinging to my face.

But we’re alive.We’re alive.

My head is swimming as hands start to lift me up, to pull Dima off of me. I want to scream, “No! Don’t take him from me!” But my throat hurts to much to speak and I’ve breathed so much smoke that I can’t distinguish reality from hallucination anymore.

All I know is this: my whole world changed when Dima kicked in the door of my clinic, almost a year ago.

It was my turn to return the favor.

Epilogue: Dima

Before I open my eyes, my throat burns.

It’s like someone slid a hot knife down my esophagus. Each swallow is like being sliced by the blade again and again.

“Dima?”

The voice is distant, watery. But I recognize it.

There’s no other person whose voice is as close to honey as hers. No one else could say nothing more than my name and still spark excitement in my chest.

Even unconscious, I recognize Arya.

And I want to see her.

My eyelids are heavy, practically fused shut, but I force them open after a few tries. My vision solidifies, the fuzzy outline of her coming into sharper and sharper focus. Until she’s undeniably in front of me. Solid and alive and radiant.

“Arya.” My voice sounds like I’ve smoked two packs a day for the last thirty years.

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