Analise' POV
I waited for death, for the bullet to pierce my skull and end everything. The only thought racing through my mind was Luca—who would care for him when I was gone?
But death didn't come.
Instead, a sudden crack split the air. Something warm and wet sprayed across my face, hitting my cheeks, my forehead, my lips. I tasted copper. A voice shouted something in Russian—words I couldn't understand.
I opened my eyes, not realizing I'd closed them.
Sofia's father lay beside me, a neat bullet hole between his eyes. His eyes were still open, staring at nothing. The hand that had held the gun just seconds ago now lay on the floor. The man who had threatened to kill me and my son was dead.
I screamed.
Guards poured in from every entrance, shouting to each other in russian. Some held automatic weapons, others drew handguns from holsters. The man who had dragged me back into the house earlier charged toward me, gun raised, hatred burning in his eyes. Before he could reach me, a bullet caught him square in the chest. The impact lifted him off his feet. He crumpled to the floor three feet away from me, eyes wide with surprise, mouth open in a silent question.
A sniper?
Outside, the sound of gunfire erupted. Men screamed orders, more shots fired in rapid succession. I heard glass shattering, doors splintering, the thud of bodies hitting the ground.
I remained frozen on the kitchen floor, unable to process what was happening. My mind couldn't make sense of it. One minute I'd been waiting to die, and the next—chaos. My eyes kept returning to Sokolov's corpse, to the blood spreading across the marble. Had it been seconds? Minutes? I couldn't tell.
The sketch of John lay at my feet. With trembling hands, I reached for it. The paper was damp with blood, but his face remained untouched. There he was, just as I remembered him—kind eyes, gentle smile. Not the cold killer from the photograph Sokolov had shown me. Not the man pressing a gun to someone's head. This was my John. The man who'd held me through nightmares.
"It's not true," I whispered to the sketch. "It can't be true."
I clutched the paper to my chest, ignoring the stabbing pain in my stomach where Sokolov had hit me. Glass cuts stung across my palms and knees. My forehead throbbed where he'd slammed it into the table. I could feel blood trickling down my face, matting my hair.
More shots rang out, closer now. A man screamed in pain.
I curled into a ball, covering my ears, trying to block out the violence. My entire body shook uncontrollably. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with blood that wasn't mine. I thought of Luca, his little face, his smile. I might never see him again. Never hold him. Never know if the treatments worked. If he survived.
"Please," I prayed to no one, to anyone. "Please let me see my son again."
The gunfire continued for what felt like hours but must have been minutes. Then, suddenly, silence fell. Heavy, terrifying silence.
The front door opened with a soft creak. Footsteps moved through the house, methodical and careful, crunching over broken glass. Men's voices murmured in Russian.
"Проверь правый коридор." (Check the right corridor.)
"Понял. Двое наверх." (Understood. Two upstairs.)
"Зачистить все комнаты." (Clear all rooms.)
"Доложить о выживших." (Report any survivors.)
They moved with precision, professional and calm. These weren't Sokolov's men. Sokolov's men had been brutal, crude. These men moved like soldiers, like a well-oiled machine. This was someone else's army.
I tried to make myself smaller, to disappear into the floor. Maybe if they didn't see me, they'd pass by. Maybe I could still escape, find my way back to Luca. But where would I go? How would I get past them? Most importantly, what would I tell my best friend happened to her father?
A figure in black tactical gear stopped at the kitchen entrance, spotting me huddled on the floor. He leveled his assault rifle at my face, expressionless behind his mask. Dead eyes stared at me through the slits in his balaclava.
I didn't move. Couldn't move. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I thought it might burst through my chest.
He pressed his earpiece with his free hand, gun never wavering from my head. "Босс, мы нашли её. Безоружна." (Boss, we found her. She's unarmed.)
He listened for a response, then nodded once.
More footsteps approached. The front door opened again. The footsteps of someone who knew they were in control.
"Please," I whispered to the masked man, my voice cracking, "please don't kill me. I have a son. He needs me."
He didn't even acknowledge that I'd spoken. No flicker of compassion, no hint of mercy. Just that gun aimed between my eyes.
Another man entered the kitchen. Like the others, he wore tactical gear—bulletproof vest, combat pants, boots that had tracked blood across the floor. But there was something different about him—the way the others shifted to make room, the subtle difference in their posture. The almost imperceptible nods of respect.
He reached up and pulled off his mask.
Dark hair. Strong jawline, straight nose. And those eyes—ice blue, piercing.
"Hey, hey hey, Malyshka, remember me?" he asked, kneeling beside me on the bloody floor, seemingly unconcerned about the carnage around us.
I stared at him, recognition dawning slowly through my shock. I'd met him at Sofia's wedding, the man who'd saved me from the pervert guard.
"Mikhail," I whispered in a small voice. "Mikhail Volkov."
He smiled, and something about his eyes made my heart skip. They were so familiar. Like John's eyes. The same intensity, the same shape. The way they crinkled slightly at the corners.
"Please don't kill me," I begged again, unable to stop the words. "My son needs me."
Mikhail smiled. "Oh darling, I wouldn't dream of it."
His voice wasn't what I expected—smooth, almost gentle. At odds with the tactical gear, the gun holstered at his side, the blood splattered across his vest.
He extended his hand toward me, palm up. Patient. Waiting.
I stared at it, then back at his face. Part of me wanted to run, to crawl away and hide. But where would I go? Sokolov's men might still be out there, might kill me the moment I stepped outside. And something about Mikhail felt... safe. Despite the gun holstered at his side. Despite the dead bodies surrounding us. Despite the fact that he had clearly orchestrated this bloodbath. Was he the sniper who shot Mr. Sokolov? Is he the man that saved me?
He didn't rush me. Just stayed there, hand outstretched, eyes steady on mine. Not demanding. Offering.
"Why?" I asked, my voice barely audible. "Why are you here? Why did you..." I couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't name what had happened.
"I'll explain everything," he said. "But first, we need to get you somewhere safe."
I looked at Sokolov's body, at the blood still spreading across the floor. At the guards who lay dead in doorways and hallways.
"Did you do this for me?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe. "Yes," he said simply.
Slowly, I reached out, my bloody fingers trembling. When they touched his, he closed his hand around mine. His skin was warm against mine, which felt ice cold with shock.
With surprising care, he helped me to my feet, his other hand moving to support my waist.
Where Sokolov had hit my stomach, pain exploded. Black spots danced in my vision.
"You're hurt." It wasn't a question. His eyes darkened as he took in the blood on my face, the cuts on my hands, the way I held my stomach.
My legs gave out beneath me. The room swam, everything blurring at the edges. I felt myself falling.
Strong arms caught me, lifting me easily against a solid chest. Mikhail carried me like I weighed nothing, cradling me carefully to avoid putting pressure on my injuries.
"Get the medic," he ordered. One of the men by the door nodded and spoke rapidly into his comm.
"I need to get home," I murmured, fighting to stay conscious. "Luca... my son..."
"Your son is safe," Mikhail said. "I have men watching your house. No one will harm him."
I looked up at his face, my vision going in and out of focus. For a moment, as the light caught his profile, he transformed—his features shifting into the ones I knew better than my own.
"John," I whispered, reaching up to touch his cheek. The stubble felt the same under my fingertips. The curve of his jaw, the shape of his lips.
Something flashed in his eyes—pain? It was gone too quickly to tell.
"Rest, Malyshka," he said softly. "I'll take care of you."
The sketch of John, crumpled and bloodstained, slipped from my fingers, floating to the floor like a dying leaf. I wanted to reach for it, but my arms wouldn't obey.
Darkness crowded the edges of my vision, then swept in completely. The last thing I saw was Mikhail's face, those familiar eyes watching me with an expression I couldn't read.
I gave myself to the blackness, too exhausted to fight anymore. My last thought was of Luca, and a prayer that I would wake up to see him again.