Chapter18:VIKTOR
1506 Words
My name is Viktor Kovac,” he said.
“Vera’s mother was my wife. Before Akindele stole her. Before she had Vera. Before she died.”
The words hit harder than Vera’s bullet.
Vera had a sister?
No.
A father.
Real father.
Not Chief.
Elias did not lower the gun.
“Chief Akindele was her father,” he said.
Cold.
Fact.
“On paper,” Viktor said.
Smile gone.
“Blood says different. DNA says different. I have the test. Want to see?”
He pulled another photo.
DNA report.
99.9% match.
Viktor Kovac.
Vera Kovac.
My knees buckled.
Elias caught me.
One arm.
Gun still up with the other.
Always protecting.
Even now.
“Sit,” Viktor said.
Pointed to the chair.
Like he owned the house.
Like he owned us.
“Please. You are pregnant. I am not a monster.”
That was a lie.
His eyes said so.
Monsters do not announce themselves.
“Why are you here?” Elias said.
Voice ice.
Lagos boss voice.
You are fired voice.
But his hand on my waist shook.
Just a little.
Only I felt it.
“Revenge,” Viktor said.
Simple.
“An eye for an eye. A daughter for a daughter. Fair, yes?”
No.
Not fair.
Not anything.
“Vera tried to kill us,” I said.
First words.
Voice shaking.
Hand on my stomach.
Rule 9.
We protect this.
“She shot me. She would have killed our baby if—”
“If you were pregnant then,” Viktor finished.
“You were not. So I do not care.”
Elias stepped in front of me.
Full body.
Blocking.
Gun between them.
“Touch her and die,” he said.
Quiet.
Promise.
Not threat.
Viktor laughed.
Once.
Sharp.
“I like you, Elias Adebayo. Vera did too. Said you were different. Said you had honor. Until her.”
He nodded at me.
“Until the secretary turned your head.”
“I turned it myself,” Elias said.
“I chose her. Every day. I choose her tomorrow. I choose her over your dead daughter a hundred times.”
Viktor’s face changed.
Smile died.
Real rage now.
Like Vera.
Like Chief.
Same blood.
Same poison.
He nodded to his men.
They moved.
Fast.
One grabbed me.
Arm around my throat.
Gun to my temple.
The other went for Elias.
Elias fired.
No hesitation.
Hit the man in the leg.
He dropped.
Screaming.
But the one holding me squeezed tighter.
“Drop it!” he shouted.
In my ear.
“Or I paint the wall with her brains!”
Elias froze.
Gun still up.
But eyes on me.
On the gun at my head.
On my stomach.
Choice.
Again.
Always a choice.
“Elias,” I whispered.
No sound.
Just lips.
He read them.
He always did.
“Do it.”
No.
His eyes said no.
Rule 3.
No one takes you from me.
“Drop. The. Gun.” Viktor said.
Slow.
Each word a bullet.
“Or I lose a soldier, but you lose a wife. And a child. Your choice, Mr. Adebayo.”
Silence.
Whole house.
Just my breathing.
Fast.
Scared.
The man’s gun digging into my skull.
Elias looked at me.
One second.
Two.
A lifetime.
Like Madrid.
Like the warehouse.
Then he lowered the gun.
Slow.
Put it on the floor.
Kicked it to Viktor.
No.
Not again.
“Elias—”
“Shh,” he said.
To me.
Soft.
“Rule 7, baby. We live.”
Viktor picked up the gun.
Smiled.
Won.
Again.
Men like him always thought they won.
“Good boy,” he said.
Like Elias was a dog.
“Now. We are going to take a trip. All of us. Back to Serbia. My home. Where Vera was born. Where she will be buried. With you watching.”
Serbia.
Not Italy.
Not safe.
Not home.
“After that,” Viktor said.
Looking at my stomach.
“We will discuss payment. For my daughter. An eye for an eye. A child for a child.”
He would kill our baby.
The second it was born.
Or before.
I knew it.
Elias knew it.
Over my dead body.
“Never,” Elias said.
Voice low.
Deadly.
“You will not touch her. You will not touch my child. You will not—”
Viktor hit him.
Gun to the face.
Hard.
Elias dropped.
Blood.
Mouth.
Nose.
But eyes still on me.
Still fighting.
“Take them,” Viktor said.
To his other man.
The one Elias shot.
He was standing now.
Limping.
But standing.
“Car is outside. We leave now. Before sunrise.”
The man holding me dragged me.
Toward the door.
I fought.
Kicked.
Clawed.
Nails on his arm.
Drawing blood.
“Elias!”
He was up.
Again.
Blood on his face.
Running at us.
No gun.
Just fists.
Just rage.
Just Rule 3.
Viktor shot him.
Not to kill.
To stop.
Leg.
Thigh.
Same place as Morocco.
Same place as Madrid.
Elias went down.
Hard.
Screaming.
Not from pain.
From watching me go.
“ELIAS!” I screamed.
Real scream.
Not silent.
“ELIAS!”
His hand reached out.
On the floor.
Blood pooling.
Toward me.
“AVA!”
The door slammed.
Between us.
I was outside.
Night air.
Cold.
Car waiting.
Black.
Like all the others.
They shoved me in.
Back seat.
Viktor next to me.
Gun on his lap.
Pointed at my stomach.
“Drive,” he said.
To the man.
“Airport. Private jet. Serbia.”
The car moved.
Italy disappeared.
House disappeared.
Elias disappeared.
But his scream did not.
“AVA!”
In my head.
Over and over.
Rule 3.
No one takes you from me.
They took me.
---
Twelve hours later.
Serbia.
Belgrade.
Viktor’s compound.
Walls.
Gates.
Men with guns.
Bigger than Chief’s.
Bigger than Damian’s.
My room was a cell.
Nice cell.
Silk sheets.
But locked.
Window barred.
Guard outside.
Day 1.
I did not eat.
I did not speak.
I touched my stomach.
“Hold on,” I whispered.
To the baby.
To nothing.
To hope.
“Mommy’s here. Daddy’s coming.”
Day 2.
Viktor visited.
“Vera’s funeral is tomorrow,” he said.
“You will attend. You will cry. Or the baby comes out early. Your choice.”
I cried.
Not for Vera.
For Elias.
For us.
For Rule 10.
We are free.
We were not.
Day 3.
Funeral.
Black dress.
Too big.
Hid my stomach.
Vera’s coffin.
Closed.
Could not look.
Did not want to.
Viktor stood next to me.
Hand on my shoulder.
Like father.
Like owner.
“Beautiful, yes?” he said.
Looking at the coffin.
“She would have been beautiful pregnant too. Like you.”
I vomited.
On his shoes.
On purpose.
He did not hit me.
Not yet.
“Save your strength,” he said.
“You will need it. Birth is painful. I hear.”
Day 7.
No Elias.
No news.
No hope.
Until night.
Scratch.
At the window.
Small sound.
I ran to it.
Looked down.
Three stories.
Ground below.
And him.
Elias.
In black.
Face bruised.
Leg bandaged.
But alive.
Climbing.
Like Morocco.
Like Cape Town.
Like always.
He saw me.
Put a finger to his lips.
Shh.
Then held up a rope.
Mouth moved.
Three words.
I read them.
I always did.
Rule 3.
No one takes you from me.
Not Viktor.
Not Serbia.
Not death.
Not ever again.
He was here.
And we were getting out.
Together.
But together meant risk.
Together meant blood.
Together meant one of us might not make it out.
I pressed my hand to the glass.
He pressed his to the other side.
Three stories up.
Bars between us.
But we were touching.
Almost.
His lips moved.
“Five minutes.”
I nodded.
Five minutes to live or die.
Again.
Always again.
He disappeared.
Down the wall.
Like a shadow.
Like the man from Lagos who climbed into my life and never left.
I ran to the door.
Pressed my ear to it.
Guard outside.
Breathing.
Heavy.
Bored.
Did not know his death was coming.
Gunshot.
Hallway.
Muffled.
Then another.
Then silence.
Then keys.
Jangling.
In the lock.
My door opened.
Elias stood there.
Blood on his shirt.
Not his.
Gun in his hand.
Eyes only for me.
“Hi,” he said.
Like we were in the bookstore.
Like we were in Italy.
Like we were free.
I ran to him.
Did not care about noise.
Did not care about Viktor.
Did not care about anything.
Just him.
His arms.
Around me.
Real.
Solid.
Home.
“You came,” I said.
Into his neck.
Breathing him.
“Rule 3,” he said.
Back to me.
“No one takes you from me. Not ever again.”
He kissed me.
Hard.
Fast.
Desperate.
Like Madrid.
But we were both alive this time.
Both standing.
He pulled back.
Hand on my stomach.
Always there now.
“You okay? Baby okay?”
“We’re okay,” I
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