Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Roman

Blood clings to the air, thick and pungent. It could be mine, could be from anyone of a dozen bodies back there. The stink roots itself in every breath I take.

Every step feels like a mile, each breath a labor. My body”s screaming, every inch of me aching with the kind of pain you only get from cheating death.

Grigori”s arm tightens around me, his strength surprising given the circumstances. The guy I thought would see me as a traitor is now the one saving my ass, hauling me out of this godforsaken warehouse with a grip that says he”s not letting go. It”s messed up.

We shuffle through debris, our steps slow, measured, while Luca catches up, his face a mask of strategy and concern. ”What the hell is Roman doing here?” he demands, breath puffing white in the chill air.

Grigori doesn”t even break stride, his voice a gruff bark. ”Long story. We need to get the fuck out first.”

Luca doesn’t argue; instead, he slips under my other shoulder, a solid presence that steadies my uneven gait. ”Move faster,” he mutters, eyes darting to the dark corners and back.

The metal and broken glass beneath our feet make a treacherous carpet, and every step is a gamble. I feel every jolt, every tug against my battered ribs, sparking fresh waves of pain.

Suddenly, Grigori stumbles, a strangled grunt escaping him as he nearly drops to his knees. His face goes white, eyes tightening. He”s been hit; I notice now the dark stain spreading across his side.

”Fuck, Grigori!” I hiss, grabbing him before he hits the ground. Luca’s hands are swift, supporting him from the other side.

Grigori”s breath is ragged, his usual stoic mask shattered by pain. ”Just a scratch,” he lies blatantly, trying to straighten up.

I glance back towards the warehouse, paranoia nipping at my heels. ”We can”t stop here, too exposed.”

Luca nods grimly, scanning the perimeter. ”We drag him if we must, but we don’t stop.”

Grigori will heal; it”s just a scratch. I keep telling myself that, trying to believe the lie that slips through clenched teeth. He”s tough as nails, always has been. But shit, it should”ve been me taking that bullet, not him.

Ten years back, the scene was different. Bratva syndicate were buzzing with the controlled chaos that only the likes of Lana’s father could orchestrate. I was a fresh recruit, a cocky kid with more guts than sense, thinking I owned the place. That was until Grigori walked in. He wasn”t just some new muscle; he had a stare that would freeze you where you stood, a real ice-cold son of a bitch.

I remember the first time we really talked. He caught me off guard, outside the crowded noise of the bar where the others were celebrating some dirty deal gone right. The cold nipped at my skin, but I was too drunk on youth and vodka to care.

”You”ve got fire, malchik,” Grigori had said, smoke curling from his lips as he offered me a cigarette with a blood-stained hand. ”But fire without discipline is just waiting to burn out. You want to last? Learn control.”

I”d laughed it off then, tossed his advice aside like I did with most things that didn”t fit my view of the world. But now, staggering through this wasteland of glass and metal with Grigori bleeding out beside me, I realize how much those words had actually sunk in. He”d been my unwavering constant, a mentor when I least expected it.

He was more than that too. A brother in arms, a comrade in the darkest of times. He”d seen me through backstabs and double-crosses, through the death matches of loyalty and the blood-baths of betrayal. We were cut from the same cloth, survivors by nature, thrivers by sheer defiance.

”Stay with us, man,” I can”t help the shaking of my voice.

Grigori”s eyes, though glazed with pain, meet mine with a fierce intensity. ”Not planning on checking out yet,” he grunts, the Russian accent thicker with his stress. ”Too much work to be done.”

Luca keeps us moving, his own intensity a silent force driving us forward. I can see he”s doing the calculations in his head, plotting our route like we”re just another one of his intricate plans. But even the best-laid plans have a way of unravelling when blood and bullets are involved.

As we weave through abandoned stacks of shipping containers, I find myself scanning for threats automatically, despite the throbbing reminder of my injuries. If Grigori is still standing and fighting through his wound, then I have no excuse to let my guard down now.

We stumble through the final stretch, the harsh exterior door of the warehouse groaning as it swings open, vomiting us into the biting cold outside. Relief floods through me, a premature taste of freedom. It”s over, I think. Just a few more—

Then I see them. Perez and his crew. They”re too many, too ready. My heart slams against my ribs, a frenzied drumming as my eyes lock on the most horrifying detail: one of Perez”s goons, gun trained directly on Lana.

Blood turns to ice in my veins. The scene narrows, tunnel-vision sharp. Lana, her face pale in the moonlight, her body tense, a statue of defiance. Everything else fades to a blur—the pain, the cold, the weight of Grigori”s arm over my shoulder. Instinct and adrenaline hijack my body, and I”m moving before I can think.

I let go of Grigori. He collapses with a grunt beside Luca, who throws me a look of raw, unspoken questions. No time. I”m already sprinting, closing the distance, my hand finding the cold grip of the knife tucked in my belt.

Perez doesn”t see me coming. He”s too focused on Lana, a smug grin distorting his features. Rage, hot and blinding, consumes me. I tackle him to the ground, the impact sending shocks through my already battered body. Concrete bites into my skin, but I barely feel it. I”m above him now, my arm swinging wildly, knife glinting under the street lamps.

He tries to fend me off, but the fear in his eyes tells me he knows it”s too late. The knife plunges down, again and again, each thrust a release of every pent-up emotion—the betrayal, the pain, the relentless pressure to survive. I hear him gasp, a choked sound that barely registers over my own ragged breathing.

Then, amidst the fading sounds of struggle and heavy breaths, it comes-- The sharp crack of a gunshot, surprisingly loud. A sound I know all too well. It slices through my frenzy as cleanly as my blade did through Perez”s flesh.

Pain explodes in my abdomen, searing and profound. I falter, vision swimming as I”m shoved backward. The ground rushes up to meet me, and I hit the asphalt hard.

Time slows to a crawl. I turn, feeling the sting before I even see the muzzle flash. Lana”s eyes are wide with terror. The pain is distant at first, a dull throb somewhere on the outskirts of my consciousness that grows louder with every thudding heartbeat.

I”m on my back now, staring up at a sky splattered with careless strokes of stars. Grigori and Luca, never far behind, have caught up just in time.

Luca”s shouting something, voice distant over the ringing in my ears. I strain to look past them, to see Lana, but she”s a blur, moving frantically behind them. ”Lana!” I try to shout her name, but it comes out as a whisper, breath hitching with effort. ”Lana!”

Gritting my teeth against the pain, I reach out with a shaking hand, trying to grasp onto something—anything—that might anchor me to this rapidly fading reality.

With each passing second, the cold seeps deeper, encasing me in an icy shell. Sounds become muffled. I feel a strange peace. Perhaps this is what it”s like to float away, to leave behind the burdens and the battles.

But before the darkness claims me completely, a final thought anchors me to the tangible: I hope my last act wasn’t in vain. I hope Lana makes it. I hope Grigori forgives me.

Then, with a final sigh, I let the night take me.