CHAPTER EIGHT
1163 Words
MIKHAIL
I didn’t turn.
I didn’t need to.
The weight of the gun told me everything. The steadiness. The confidence. The familiarity of a man who enjoyed standing this close to death.
There's only one person who can press a nuzzle of a gun into my skull, it's him. The same man I met moments ago. I knew it. Meeting him here was never a coincidence.
Chairman Hudson.
My heartbeat slowed instead of raced. That was the part Father had drilled into me since I was a boy. Panic gets you killed. Fear announces weakness.
Meeting him earlier hadn’t been coincidence. Nothing about this night was accidental. Not the bar. Not the timing. Not her.
My heartbeat slowed instead of raced.
That was Father’s doing. Years of conditioning carved into muscle and nerve. Panic gets you killed, he used to say. Fear announces weakness.
I felt my bodyguards move behind me—doors opening, guns lifting—but they froze just as quickly. What could they do? One wrong step, one wrong breath, and Hudson would paint this entire place with my blood and my brains.
Behind me, I felt him smile.
“So careless, nephew,” he murmured, his voice smooth, almost fond. “You always were too emotional.”
My jaw tightened, but I said nothing.
The city noise blurred into nothing. The night air felt thinner. Colder. Every calculation in my head shifted at once—escape routes, angles, timing. None of them worked with a gun pressed this close.
“Did you really think,” Hudson continued, “that tonight would end without consequences?”
I swallowed once.
My father’s face flashed through my mind. Blood. Chaos. Moscow in flames. One mistake—just one—and I had ruined everything he had spent his life building. What would become of the organisation now? My father, I want to see him.
I had to act. And fast.
“You shot him,” I said quietly.
A pause.
Then a chuckle.
Low.
Satisfied.
“Not personally,” Hudson replied. “But I did make the call.”
Of course he did make the call.
Something twisted violently in my chest. Not grief. Not yet. Rage—compressed, suffocating, burning so hot it hurt to breathe. I kept my face still. He couldn’t see it. Couldn’t know how deeply it cut.
“You always were predictable,” he went on. “What did I expect from a boy like you anyway?”
His words slid under my skin like poison.
“This empire,” he continued, pressing the gun just a fraction harder, “needs a man who understands sacrifice. Not you. Not your father.”
He laughed softly.
“I can’t believe your father raised such a weakling. If I were him, if I knew I had once kidn*pped my son twice, nearly killed him more than that, I wouldn’t have let me walk free.”
He leaned closer.
“But he did. Just like you.”
I closed my eyes for half a second.
Father was right.
Trust nothing you see.
Trust nothing you feel.
Because tonight, everything I had wanted—everything I had allowed myself to feel—had nearly cost me everything.
“Turn around,” Hudson ordered.
Slowly, I lifted my hands, holding my breathe, I turned.
And that was when I saw her.
Dana.
She stepped out of the gay bar, the lights spilling over her like a spotlight she hadn’t asked for. My breath seized painfully in my throat.
“Dana Monroe!” Hudson called loudly, enjoying himself. “The Boss Lapdog.”
She froze.
Our eyes collided.
Her gaze flicked to my raised hands. To the drawn guns. To the muzzle still resting against my skull.
“You’re here too?” Hudson continued, amused.
My mind reeled.
What did he mean by that?
No—
Don’t.
Don’t go there.
But the pieces snapped together anyway.
Why she had found me.
Why the disguise.
Why the New Year’s Eve kiss.
Why she was here tonight.
Dana… works for him.
The truth settled like acid.
I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t. But the evidence was merciless.
DANA
Boss Lapdog.
The name hit me like a slap.
I hadn’t heard it spoken aloud in five years—not since the night I overheard my boss speaking to Chairman Hudson, laughing about me like I was nothing more than a trained animal.
But now the voice was real. The face unmistakable.
And worse—
Kyle was at gunpoint.
My lungs locked. The man I had come here searching for, the reason I hadn’t left when I should have, stood frozen with his hands raised while Hudson smiled like a devil enjoying his own performance.
Kyle stared at me.
Waiting.
Demanding an explanation I couldn’t give from his gaze.
Fear churned violently in my stomach. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. I should have walked away. Should have left the room when pleasure swallowed me whole.
Each time I crossed paths with this Petrov, chaos followed.
“I don’t know you,” I said, forcing the words out, attempting ignorance at Chairman Hudson as I edged backward.
I needed to leave. I don't have to complicate my life again. Not tonight. Not with Anthony’s memorial tomorrow. I couldn’t let my plan ignite now.
“Don’t lie,” Hudson snapped. “You know me, Dana Monroe.”
He smiled wider.
“Should I tell you an interesting story, nephew?”
Nephew.
Don't tell me Kyle is his nephew?
My throat tightened—not at the word, but at what followed. Kyle’s stare burned. He wasn’t understanding. Of course he wasn’t. I'm stupid to think he would understand in this situation.
Why would he?
I don't even understand yet.
How I went from sitting at bar to spy and catch Chairman Hudson, release his secret as gay to the press, part of my plot for revenge. So how did I get here?
“This woman,” Hudson continued casually, “helped me gain hidden secrets of the Petrov organization. She bugged you five years ago.”
My heart slammed.
I shook my head.
“Like a sweet charm,” he went on, “she cozied up to you like she always does. Detective. Spy. Lover.”
“That’s not true,” I whispered desperately. “Kyle, I can explain.”
“Explain what?” Hudson laughed. “How you were used and discarded?”
“I didn’t—”
“Yes, you won’t,” he interrupted. “I killed your fiancée so you wouldn’t.”
The world tilted.
My ears rang.
I must have misheard.
But his eyes—gleaming, cruel—confirmed it.
Something inside me snapped.
And then—
A gunshot.
The sound ripped through the night.
Fire exploded in my stomach.
I gasped, eyes searching wildly for the shooter.
Kyle.
He had moved.
Overpowered Hudson.
And pulled the trigger—
At me.
- Writer
