Chapter 11 - Blood and Silk
Z
Time dilated into agonizingly slow fragments. The Russian enforcer holding my daughter was massive, a mountain of muscle and tactical armor, his combat knife resting casually against Ava’s throat. My five-year-old daughter stared at me, her dark eyes wide with an unspeakable terror, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. The emerald silk of my gown felt heavy, sticking to the cold sweat on my skin. I held the tiny derringer pointed directly at the man’s face, my hands trembling violently. Two bullets. That was all I had. If I missed, or if the caliber wasn't enough to drop him instantly, he would slice her throat before he hit the ground.
"Put the gun down, little bird," the man grunted in heavily accented English, his voice like grinding stones. "Alexei Volkov sends his regards. He wants the bloodline returned to the motherland. The child comes with me, and I give you a clean death. A gift for Dante's whore."
The insult didn't register. The only thing that registered was the glint of the steel against Ava's skin. The old Sarah, the terrified waitress in the snow, would have dropped the gun. She would have begged. She would have traded her life for her child's. But that woman was dead. I was Sarah Callaway. I had spent five years learning the anatomy of violence, the psychology of ruthless men. I knew that begging was a currency that held no value in this world.
"You think you're walking out of here?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave, turning cold and flat. I deliberately lowered the gun a fraction of an inch, aiming not at his head, but at his unarmored thigh. "There are forty armed Callaway enforcers swarming this building right now. Reed has the stairs locked down. You are trapped in a box."
The man scoffed, adjusting his grip on Ava. "My men are butchering your guards in the lobby. I have an extraction chopper landing on the roof in sixty seconds. Drop the weapon!"
"No," I said, taking a slow, barefoot step forward on the bloody marble. I locked eyes with him, projecting an aura of absolute, psychopathic calm. "You want the bloodline? You take it over my dead body. But know this: if you hurt her, I won't just kill you. I will find your family in Moscow. I will find your wife. I will find your children. And I will burn them alive while you watch. Let her go."
For a fraction of a second, the enforcer hesitated. The sheer, venomous certainty in my voice broke his concentration. He looked at my eyes, searching for a bluff, and found nothing but the abyss. In that microscopic window of distraction, Ava, acting on pure instinct, bit down hard on the hand holding her.
The man cursed, his grip loosening just enough. Ava wrenched herself free and dropped to the floor.
I didn't hesitate. I pulled the trigger.
The derringer kicked violently in my hand. The bullet tore through the enforcer's knee, shattering the joint. He roared in agony, his leg buckling as he collapsed to the floor. Before he could raise his knife or his gun, I closed the distance. I fired the second shot directly into his right shoulder, disarming him completely. He hit the ground writhing, blood pooling on the expensive Persian rug.
I dropped the empty derringer, grabbed Ava, and pulled her behind me. I scanned the room for a heavier weapon, picking up a discarded tactical rifle from one of my dead guards. I aimed it at the Russian's head as he gasped for air on the floor.
The door burst open behind me. I spun around, finger on the trigger, but it was Reed. His tuxedo was ruined, smeared with blood and ash, his breathing ragged. He took in the scene—the dead guards, the bleeding Russian, and me standing barefoot in a ballgown with an assault rifle, shielding Ava.
"Are you hit?" Reed demanded, rushing to our side, his eyes frantic as he checked Ava for injuries.
"We're fine," I said, my voice shockingly devoid of emotion. I turned my attention back to the bleeding man on the floor. "He said Alexei Volkov sent him. They want the bloodline."
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Reed’s face darkened into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. Alexei Volkov was Dante's father. The patriarch. A man who made Dante look like an amateur. If Alexei knew Ava was alive, the war wasn't over. It was just beginning.
"Keep him alive," I ordered Reed's arriving backup, pointing at the Russian. The emerald silk of my dress was stained with the blood of my enemies, and I felt nothing but a terrifying, cold resolve. "Take him to the basement at the docks. I want to know exactly how they bypassed our security. And I will ask him myself."
