Chapter 4: Irina
"Focus, Irina," my father's firm voice cuts through the late afternoon air with the sharpness of a command. His eyes, always so intense when he's in training mode, are locked on mine, waiting for my response.
"I am focused," I reply, trying to hide the frustration in my voice.
It's not that I don't appreciate these lessons—I do. But after hours of practice, my muscles are aching, and the sweat dripping down my back makes my shirt cling to my skin in the most uncomfortable way. I just want to finish, but I know better than to complain. Dad doesn't tolerate whining.
"Good," he says, stepping back into a defensive stance. "Now show me what you've got."
I take a deep breath, plant my feet firmly on the grass, just like he taught me, and raise my fists. The backyard is quiet; the only sound is the distant chirping of birds and the occasional rustle of leaves. It's peaceful here, away from the noise of the town, but I can't afford to let my mind wander.
I glance over at Ivan, sitting on the porch steps with his sketchpad balanced on his knees. He's focused on his drawing, completely absorbed in whatever he's working on. His pencil moves quickly, with the precision of someone who's done this a million times. He doesn't even look up when I block Dad's first strike.
"Eyes on me, Irina," Dad snaps, pulling me from my brief distraction.
"Sorry," I mutter, bringing my attention back to him.
I block another strike, then another, my movements more automatic now, driven by muscle memory. Dad is faster than me, stronger, too, but I know his patterns. I've been doing this for years, after all.
"Better," he says approvingly. "But don't let your guard down."
"I won't," I promise, even as my arms start to tremble from the effort.
I shift my stance, trying to anticipate his next move. He steps forward, aiming a low kick at my legs, but I'm ready this time. I sidestep, catching his arm and using his momentum against him, just like he taught me. He stumbles, just for a second, and I take the opportunity to press my advantage, pushing him back.
"Nice," he says breathless with the exertion but full of pride. He's grinning now, that rare smile that makes the grueling hours of practice worth it. "You're getting stronger, Irina. Faster, too."
I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. Praise from my dad is hard to come by, so when it happens, it feels like I've just won a gold medal. "Thanks, Dad."
"Don't thank me yet," he replies, though his words have no real bite. He steps back, signaling the end of the session. "You've still got a long way to go."
I straighten up, wiping the sweat from my brow. "I know."
"Good," he says, and his tone softens as he ruffles my hair, the way he's done since I was a kid. "You're doing great. Keep it up, and you'll be tougher than anyone out there."
I laugh, pushing his hand away. "Tougher than you?"
"Definitely," Ivan chimes in, looking up from his sketchpad with a teasing grin. "But that's not saying much. Dad's getting old."
"Watch it, kid," Dad growls, but there's a playful gleam in his eye as he strides over to the porch. "I can still take you down."
"Sure you can," Ivan replies as he closes his sketchpad. "Right after you catch your breath."
Ivan's always been like that, quick with a joke. He never takes anything too seriously. At nineteen, he's already taller than Dad, but he'll always be the baby brother in my eyes, even though he loves to pretend he's the one protecting me.
"Come on, let's head inside before your mum yells at us for being late," Dad says, slinging an arm around Ivan's shoulders and giving him a playful shake.
"I'd like to see her try," Ivan jokes, but he's already standing, tucking his sketchpad under his arm. "She's too nice to yell at me."
"Don't count on it," I say, smirking as I join them. "She's got a mean glare when she wants to."
"Only when you're involved." Ivan nudges me with his elbow. "You're the troublemaker, not me."
I roll my eyes, but I can't help the warmth that spreads through my chest. This is how it always is: teasing and joking but with a foundation of love as strong as steel. It's something I never take for granted, even if I pretend not to notice.
As we head inside, the scent of roasting chicken hits me like a wall, making my stomach growl in anticipation. The smell of my mum's cooking alone makes my mouth water. I can already hear her bustling around in the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans mingling with the soft hum of her favorite radio station.
"About time you three got here," she calls out as we enter the kitchen, her back turned as she pulls a tray of perfectly roasted chicken from the oven. "Dinner's almost ready."
"We were just finishing up." Dad leans over to kiss her cheek. "Irina's getting stronger every day."
"She's got a good teacher," Mom replies, warm with affection, as she sets the tray down on the counter. She turns to face me, a smile tugging at her lips. "How was practice, sweetheart?"
"Tough," I admit, though there's a note of pride in my voice. "But I'm getting better."
"I'll bet you are." She gives me a nod of approval. "Your father doesn't go easy on anyone."
"Not even himself," Ivan adds with a grin, earning a mock glare from Dad.
"Watch it, Ivan," Dad warns, though he's smiling as he grabs a plate from the counter. "Or I'll make you join the next session."
"Please don't," Ivan groans, dramatically clutching his chest. "I'm allergic to exercise."
"Sure you are." I hit him as we gather around the table. "But you're not allergic to eating, right?"
"Never," he replies, already reaching for a piece of chicken. "I've been waiting for this all day."
Mom swats his hand away with a laugh. "Wait until everyone's seated, young man."
"Yes, ma'am," Ivan grumbles, but he's grinning as he takes his usual seat.
Dad sits at the head of the table, as always, with Ivan and me on either side of him. Mom places the last of the dishes down, her face glowing with that contented smile she always gets when we're all together. It's a look that makes my heart ache with happiness, even though I'd never admit it out loud.
"Everything looks amazing, Mom," I say, my eyes widening at the spread in front of us. There's roast chicken, potatoes, green beans, all the good stuff.
"Thank you, sweetheart," she replies, sitting across from me. "I'm glad you think so."
Dad starts carving the chicken. "So, Ivan, how's the dragon coming along?"
"It's pretty awesome," Ivan says, his face lighting up as he talks about his latest creation. "Three heads, with fire coming out of each one. It's going to be my best one yet."
"You say that about all your drawings," I point out, reaching for a potato.
"That's because I keep getting better," Ivan retorts with a smug grin.
"You're both getting better," his eyes are filled with pride as he serves us all generous portions. "And that's exactly what I want to see."
Dinner continues like that, easy, filled with laughter and light teasing. We talk about everything and nothing, our voices mingling with the soft sounds of the radio playing in the background. It's the kind of evening that's so normal, so comfortable, that it lulls you into thinking everything is right with the world.
But then, just as I'm reaching for another helping of green beans, I hear the sound of glass shattering. The noise is so sudden, so out of place, that it takes a second for my brain to catch up. I freeze, my hand hovering midair as the sound echoes through the room.
"Stay here," Dad says sharply, cutting through the stunned silence like a knife. He's on his feet in an instant, the chair clattering to the floor behind him as he strides toward the front door.
"What was that?" Mom asks, trembling as she stands, her eyes wide with fear.
"Stay with the kids," Dad orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.
My heart is racing, pounding in my chest so hard I can barely hear anything else. I glance at Ivan, who's sitting as still as a statue, his face pale. His eyes meet mine, and I see the fear in them. Fear that mirrors my own.
Then, everything happens at once.
The front door bursts open with a deafening crash, and suddenly, the house is filled with strangers. Men with hard faces and guns drawn, their voices loud and harsh as they shout commands I can't understand. My body moves before my mind can catch up. I jump to my feet, my heart screaming for me to do something, anything.
Dad reacts instantly, grabbing the first man by the arm and twisting it behind his back in a move that would have impressed me if I wasn't terrified out of my mind. But there are too many of them, and before he can take down another, one of the men shoves a gun into his side, freezing him in place.
"Where is it?" the man growls with menace. "You know what we're here for. Hand over the document, and we'll let your family go."
"I don't have it," Dad says, "You're wasting your time."
"Don't bullshit us," another man snarls, stepping closer. "We know you've got it. Sergei doesn't like being lied to."
Dad's eyes narrow. "I don't know what you're talking about. Sergei's been misinformed."
The man with the gun sneers, pressing the barrel harder against Dad's side. "Wrong answer, old man. Don't make this harder than it has to be."
"You think threatening me will change anything?" Dad's voice is calm, unyielding. "I don't have your document. You think I don't have superiors I report to?"
"We're not here to play games. You're going to tell us where the document is, or we'll start with your family. Let's see if that gets you talking."
"Don't touch them," Dad says. "You're making a mistake."
"Oh, I don't think so," the man replies coldly, his eyes sliding over to Mom. "I think we'll start with her."
"Please, don't do this," Mom pleads. "He's telling the truth. We don't have anything."
"Your husband's not cooperating, lady," the man says. "And we're out of patience."
"Don't you dare touch her!" Ivan shouts, stepping forward with his fists clenched. "We don't know what you're talking about! Just leave us alone!"
But before Ivan can get any closer, one of the men grabs him, holding him back as he struggles. "Stay out of this, kid," the man growls, pushing Ivan back roughly.
And then, before I can even comprehend what's happening, the man raises his gun and shoots. The sound is deafening, and everything seems to move in slow motion. Mom's eyes widen in shock, her hand reaching out toward Dad, but she never makes it. She crumples to the floor, the life draining from her eyes as blood spreads across her chest.
"Mom!" Ivan and I scream in unison, our voices overlapping in horror and despair. I'm shoved down to the floor, the pain of hitting it sharp and all-consuming.
I look up at Dad, and what I see shakes me to my core. His face crumbles as he watches Mom fall, the strength I've always admired in him shattering in an instant. It's the first time I've ever seen fear in his eyes, the first time I've seen him truly broken.
"No! You bastards!" Ivan's voice is raw, filled with rage and grief as he tries to break free from the man holding him. "You'll pay for this!"
But then Dad grits his teeth. "I don't have it. You've already killed her for nothing."
"You expect us to believe that?" the man snarls, his gun still trained on Dad. "We know you're lying."
"I'm not," Dad insists, but he sounds hollow, the fight drained from him. "There's nothing here."
The man's expression hardens, and he steps forward, pressing the gun to Dad's chest. "Wrong answer again"
Another shot rings out, and I watch, helpless and horrified, as Dad's body jerks and falls to the ground, lifeless beside Mom's. The two people who meant everything to us, gone in the blink of an eye.
"No! Dad!" Ivan's scream echoes in the empty space, filled with the unbearable pain of loss.
"No," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the chaos. "No, no, no . . ..."
I feel a hand on my arm, pulling me up, but I barely register it. All I can see is Dad's body, lying there like a broken doll. He was so strong, so invincible, and now he's gone. Just like that.
"Irina!" Ivan's voice breaks through the fog in my brain, and I turn to see him struggling against one of the men, his face twisted in anger and fear. He's trying to protect me, trying to fight them off, but it's useless. They're too strong, too many.
"Don't touch her!" Ivan shouts as he throws himself at the man holding me. "Leave her alone!"
"No, Ivan!" I scream, but it's too late. The man backhands him across the face, sending him crashing to the floor. Before he can get up, two more men grab him, dragging him away from me.
"Run, Irina!" Ivan yells. "Run and don't look back!"
But I can't run. I can't leave him. I try to reach for him, try to stop them, but I'm too slow, too weak. They're already dragging him out the door, his screams echoing in my ears, mingling with the sound of my own sobs.
"Ivan!" I scream, struggling to break free from the man holding me, but he's too strong. "Ivan, don't go! Please!"
But he's gone. They've taken him, just like they took Dad, just like they took everything from me.
And then, it's over. The men are gone, and the house is silent once more. The only sound is the harsh, uneven rhythm of my breathing and the soft crackle of the radio still playing in the background, completely out of place in the aftermath of destruction.
I'm alone. They're gone—my family is gone.
I don't know how long I sit there, staring at the empty doorway, my mind numb with shock. The pain in my back is sharp and hot, a constant reminder that I'm still here, still alive, even though I feel like I'm dying inside. I can't move, can't think, can't do anything but sit there and let the horror wash over me.
They're gone. Mom, Dad, and Ivan. They're all gone. And with them, everything that ever mattered, everything that ever made sense, has been ripped away.
***
I'm trying to focus on the task at hand, but the steady, rhythmic beat of Alexei's breathing is distracting. He's sitting in front of me, shirtless, the muscles of his back tense and glistening with sweat under the dim light of the safe house. The bullet had only grazed him, but it was deep enough to cause serious pain, and the wound needs cleaning.
"Hold still," I mutter, dipping a cloth in antiseptic.
He doesn't respond; he just gives a slight nod, his body stiffening as I press the cloth against the wound. He hisses through clenched teeth, and I feel a twinge of guilt. I'm not trying to hurt him, but there's no gentle way to do this. He's tough—he can handle it.
He's trying to put on a brave face, but I can see the pain etched into the lines around his mouth, the way his muscles twitch involuntarily with every touch.
"Come on, Romanov," I say, rolling my eyes as I press the cloth a little harder than necessary. "Suck it up like a man."
He winces, his body jerking slightly against my hand, but there's a glint of amusement in his eyes. "If this is your idea of bedside manner, I'd hate to see you on a bad day."
"This is a bad day," I reply, smirking as I reach for the bandages. "You're just lucky I'm in a generous mood."
He chuckles, the sound low and warm. "Maybe I should get injured more often. I'm enjoying all this attention."
"Don't push your luck," I warn, though I can't help the small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "I might just let you bleed out next time."
"Oh, you wouldn't do that… You're too soft-hearted."
I snort. "You have no idea who you're dealing with, do you?"
He turns his head slightly to look at me, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "I'm starting to get a pretty good idea. And I've got to say, I like what I see."
"Focus," I say sharply. "You're the one with a bullet hole in your side."
"And you're the one who keeps poking it," he retorts, though there's no real bite in his words.
He's quiet for a moment, his eyes searching mine, as if trying to figure out what's going on in my head. Then, out of nowhere, he says, "Do you want to hear my story?"
I don't answer. I don't want to hear his story. I don't want to know anything about him. The less I know, the easier it'll be to keep my distance. But Alexei, being who he is, doesn't seem to care about what I want. He just starts talking.
"It was a normal day," he begins as if he's speaking to himself rather than to me. "I was sixteen, coming home from school. Just a regular, boring day."
He winces again as I press the antiseptic deeper into the wound, and I find myself softening my touch slightly. I don't know why—maybe because of the way he's talking, so openly, so . . . vulnerably.
"I didn't see them coming." His words are sharp and bitter. "They grabbed me, threw me into a van before I could even scream. I was scared out of my mind, didn't know what was happening."
I swallow, forcing myself to remain focused on the wound. I shouldn't care about his story, but the words are getting under my skin.
"They kept me in a basement, tied up, scared out of my mind," he continues. "I didn't know why they'd taken me, who they were, or what they wanted."
My hands still for a moment, hovering over his shoulder. I can't imagine what that must've been like—being so young, so helpless.
"But they weren't after me," he says, his tone flat. "They were after my parents. Turns out, they were drug traffickers. They'd been planning to get out, start a new life. But the men who took me weren't going to let that happen."
I glance up at him, but he's staring straight ahead, his expression distant, as if he's somewhere else entirely. I know that look—I've seen it in the mirror more times than I can count.
"My parents came to save me," he continues quieter now. "They tried to negotiate, but the men weren't interested in talking. They wanted to send a message to the others who were thinking of leaving as well. So they killed them, right in front of me. Just like that. Two bullets, and they were gone."
I tighten the bandage around his wound.
I should stop him from talking, tell him it's over, but I can't. There's something in his voice that keeps me from shutting him down.
"They were trying to protect me," he says. "But in the end, all they did was show me the truth. They were criminals, and they paid the price for it."
For a moment, the room is silent except for the sound of my hands working and the soft rustling of the bandages. I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't this. Not from him.
"Do you ever wonder," he says suddenly, breaking the silence, "if things could've been different? If they'd made different choices? If you had?"
I hesitate, my hands stilling on his skin. "All the time," I admit before I can stop myself. It's the first time I've spoken since he started his story, and the words come out rough, like they've been dragged from somewhere deep inside.
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and for the first time, I see something in his eyes that I recognize: pain. The kind that doesn't go away, no matter how much time passes.
"Yeah," he says softly, his voice carrying a weight that matches my own. "Me too."
I finish the bandage, tying it off with a tight knot. I don't know what to say, don't know how to respond to the emotions swirling in the room, so I keep it simple: "You're done."
"Thanks," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine.
I stand, wiping my hands on a towel, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing.
"You should get some rest," I say, turning away from him. "You need to heal."
He doesn't argue, just nods. I can tell he's drained, not just physically but emotionally. He's said more than he intended, I think, and it's taken a toll on him.
I move to the small, rickety bed in the corner of the room and pull back the worn blanket. "Lie down," I tell him, keeping my voice neutral.
He does as I say, wincing as he lowers himself onto the bed. He's trying to be tough, but I can see the pain etched into his features. I don't know why it bothers me so much, seeing him like this. I should be used to it; I should be used to seeing people hurt, seeing them vulnerable—but with him, it's different.
"Do you want to know something funny?" he slurs with fatigue as he settles onto the mattress.
I don't answer, just look at him, waiting.
"When I first saw you," he says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "I thought you were the scariest person I'd ever met."
I blink, surprised by the admission. "Good," I say, my tone a bit sharper than I intended.
"But now," he continues, his eyes half-closed as sleep starts to claim him, "I think you might be . . .."
He doesn't complete his statement, and I watch his eyes drift shut and breath even out as sleep takes over.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring down at him. His brow is relaxed, and the hard lines around his mouth have softened. With his lashes brushing against his cheeks and his lips slightly parted, he looks almost boyish. So peaceful, so . . . innocent. I don't know what to make of it, don't know what to make of him.
I pull the blanket up over his chest, making sure he's covered. It's a small gesture, but it feels like the right thing to do.
I've always been alone. It's safer that way. No attachments, no complications, no one to worry about but myself. But with Alexei . . . it's different. I can feel him starting to get under my skin. And that terrifies me.
I can't afford to let anyone in. Not now, not ever. There's too much at stake, too much that could go wrong. I've seen what happens when you let yourself care about someone, and I'm not willing to risk that again.
I turn away, moving to the small, cracked window on the other side of the room. The night is dark and still. I lean against the wall, staring out into the darkness, trying to get my emotions under control.
I glance back at him, sleeping soundly on the bed, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He looks so vulnerable, so . . . human. It's not the first time that thought has crossed my mind tonight, and that's what unsettles me. I'm not used to seeing him or anyone in that light. It's dangerous, and I know it.
Right now, I need to stay strong, stay focused. Because in this world, letting your guard down can be fatal. And I'm not ready to risk everything I've worked for.
Not yet. Not ever