Chapter 17: Alexei

"Are you both okay?" Katya's voice buzzes in my ears.

I don't respond immediately, catching my breath from the chaos that just unfolded. Next to me, Irina is silent, too, staring blankly at the rooftop, her body stiff.

"Please respond," Katya's voice comes through again, more urgent.

I tap my earpiece, forcing a smirk even though everything feels like it's spiraling. "Don't cry, we're good."

"Fuck you," Katya snaps, but I can hear the relief in her voice.

I take a deep breath and scan the rooftop, the smoke from Sergei's little stunt still hanging in the air. I can't see him, but I know he's not far. Not with that shot I put in his leg.

Katya's voice crackles back in, more composed this time. "He's on the move, but not fast. I've tracked his signal—looks like he's limping toward a warehouse about thirty minutes from here."

I turn to Irina, who's still slumped on the ground, staring into space as if the world around her has ceased to matter. Her shoulders droop, her hands limp in her lap, and the fire I'm used to seeing in her is gone.

I clench my jaw.

I can see the way doubt clings to her, but this isn't the time for her to falter. We're too damn close to let everything slip away now.

"We're going after him," I say firmly, standing up and brushing the dust off my jacket. "We finish this."

Irina doesn't move. She just sits there, still as a stone, her face pale and her eyes distant. Like she's checked out completely.

Damn it! Not now.

I kneel down in front of her and grab her arms, pulling her up to her feet. She's like a rag doll, barely standing, so her weight is heavy in my hands.

"Irina," I snap, holding her face between my hands and forcing her to look at me. "This isn't over. You hear me? Until you see your brother, until you see for yourself that he's beyond saving, you don't get to give up."

She blinks slowly, her eyes trying to focus on mine, but I can see the exhaustion pulling at her. I tighten my grip on her face, making sure she hears every word. "He's still somewhere out there. We're going to find Sergei, and we're going to get your brother. You understand?"

For a second, nothing. Then, a small nod.

"No." I shake her lightly. "I need to hear you say it. Do you understand?"

Her lips part, and she finally breathes, "Yes."

"Good," I say, releasing her face and stepping back. "We move now. Thirty minutes isn't far."

She straightens, though I can still see the weight pressing on her shoulders. But at least she's standing, and right now, that's enough.

I tap my earpiece again. "Katya, keep tracking Sergei. We're heading out now."

"I'm on it," she replies. "I've got eyes on the route. He's not moving fast."

I glance at Irina, making sure she's steady enough to walk. We make our way off the rooftop and into the shadows of an alley. The city around us is dark, quiet in the way cities never really are.

As we hit the street, Katya's voice crackles again. "I've got a vehicle parked two blocks away. Get in, and I'll guide you straight to the warehouse."

"Got it," I mutter, steering Irina in the direction Katya pointed out.

I catch the way Irina winces with each stride, her arm still cradling her ribs where Sergei's fists landed. The bruises are fresh, purpling her pale skin, and every step looks like it's costing her.

We find the old sedan Katya stashed away and slip inside. I take the driver's seat, glancing at Irina as she settles into the passenger side. She leans back, eyes half-closed, her breathing shallow, and I can tell she's fighting through the pain. Her hands tremble slightly in her lap, and she hasn't spoken a word since we left the building. I want to reach out, to tell her it's going to be okay, but words feel hollow right now.

Katya's voice clicks on through the dashboard GPS. "Keep to the back streets. I've mapped out a route that'll get you there fast without attracting attention."

I nod and start the engine. The rumble of the car feels loud between us. Irina doesn't flinch; she just stares out the window, her face set in a blank, distant expression. I push the pedal down, speeding through the narrow streets, focusing on the road ahead.

By the time we approach the warehouse, the tension in my gut is coiled tight.

"Katya, we're here," I whisper into my earpiece. "Any movement?"

"None," she responds quietly. "But be careful. The building's huge. He could have anything set up in there."

"Copy," I reply, then glance at Irina. "You ready?"

"Yes."

The warehouse is a hulking shadow at the edge of the industrial district. I pull the car to a stop a block away and kill the engine. We move in silence, slipping through the shadows until we reach the back entrance Katya had pointed out.

The door creaks as I push it open, and we step into the darkened space. The air is thick with the smell of old paint and dust, and the walls are covered in shadowy canvases. My eyes adjust, and as I take in the surroundings, a chill runs down my spine. The paintings, at first glance, are stunning masterpieces, the kind you'd expect to find in the world's finest galleries. But as I look closer, the beauty twists into something grotesque. The images are disturbing—warped faces, twisted bodies, and scenes of violence that make my stomach churn. It's like staring into someone's worst nightmares, captured in vivid color.

"What the hell . . ." Irina whispers, barely audible.

I don't respond. I can't tear my eyes away from the horror in front of me. It's like someone painted madness and cruelty onto every canvas. And somehow, he's made it art. Each painting seems to tell a story of suffering, of fear, of madness.

Irina sucks in a sharp breath beside me, her gaze locked on one of the paintings.

A laugh echoes through the warehouse, sharp and cruel, and I snap my gaze toward the sound. Sergei steps out from the shadows, limping slightly but grinning like a man who knows he's already won.

"You came," he says. "I wasn't sure if Dmitri had it in him to send you after me again. After all, he's already taken everything from me."

Irina tenses beside me, but I step forward, cutting off any retort she might have had. "He didn't take anything, Sergei. You let go of it all by yourself, and that includes Valentina. You lost everything because you're a coward. You let it slip through your fingers, all because you were too afraid to face what was coming. And now you're playing servant to the Broker."

Sergei's laughter deepens, almost hysterical. "Coward? I'm alive, aren't I? I left to fight another day. Dmitri is a fool. You should know better by now. There's no loyalty in this world. No family. Only survival."

"You were ready to kill your own daughter," I say, my voice cold. "And your grandchild. I don't think you're human anymore."

He laughs again, louder this time, the sound bouncing off the walls. "Of course, I was. I don't care about anyone but myself. Why would I? Sentiment is a weakness, Alexei. You think I'm like Dmitri, who's endlessly clinging to family and honor? I want to keep on living, and if you wanted to live as well, you should not have come here."

Sergei whistles sharply, and from the far side of the warehouse, a door creaks open. A figure steps out—tall, broad, and moving with the stiffness of someone who isn't fully there. His movements are slow, and as he steps into the light, I see the gun strapped to his arm. His eyes are empty, lifeless. Like he's not really seeing us at all.

Irina inhales sharply beside me. "Ivan . . .."