Chapter 5: Warm. Wet. Blood
1194 Words
Chapter 5: Warm. Wet. Blood.
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Lazar’s office smelled of stale smoke and expensive leather. He leaned back in his chair, watching me like a man who had already decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.
“Damn. He really did marry you, the bastard.”
“Nice to meet you too, Lazar.” I spat and tossed all the files across the table.
“You’re relentless,” he finally said, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “I’ll give you that.”
I folded my arms. “Tell me the truth, Lazar. It wasn’t Nikolai who orchestrated my father’s fall, was it?”
He exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “No. It was his father.”
The name hit like a slap. Nikolai’s father. The true puppet master.
But… that didn’t make sense. Lorenzo had been the only one who had shown me kindness. He gave me the key. He told me to find the truth. Why would he do that if he was the reason my father was dead?
“Nikolai didn’t know?”
Lazar shook his head. “Not at first. Lorenzo was dying, Lyra. He wanted to see both families united before he went, thought it was the only way to keep the Callahans from wiping us all out. Your father… he hesitated too long. Lorenzo sped things up.”
I swallowed, my mind racing. My father had never stood a chance.
And yet, Lorenzo had handed me the very thing that exposed him. Why? Guilt? A final attempt at redemption? Or had it all been another game?
“Why tell me this now?”
Lazar shrugged. “Because you were going to find out anyway. And because Nikolai... despite what you might think... he isn’t Lorenzo.”
***
The first thing Lyra noticed when she stepped into Matteo’s room was how pale he looked. His once-athletic frame was thinner, his face gaunt. The bruises had faded from deep purples to sickly yellows, but the weight of what had happened to him lingered in his tired eyes.
“Matteo,” she breathed, stepping closer.
He turned his head slightly, his jaw clenching. “So, the Volkovs finally let you out of their sight?”
Her stomach twisted at the resentment in his voice. “I came as soon as I could. I needed to see you.”
“Why?” His tone was sharp, cutting. “To see if I was still breathing? Or to make sure I was too weak to fight back?”
Lyra recoiled, but she forced herself to steady her voice. “Matteo, you almost died.”
He scoffed. “Yeah, and whose fault is that?”
She stepped forward, ignoring the way his fingers twitched, as if resisting the urge to shove her away. “The last time I saw you, you were barely conscious. I carried you into Nikolai’s car, praying you’d still be breathing when we arrived.” Her voice cracked. “Nikolai made sure you had the best care. If he hadn’t... ”
“I’d be dead,” Matteo finished coldly. He sat up slowly, wincing as he shifted against the pillows. “But at what cost, Lyra? You think I should be grateful?”
“I think you should be alive,” she shot back. “And you are.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “Alive in the lion’s den. You married into the family that ruined us. How the hell am I supposed to accept that?”
Lyra took a shuddering breath. “Do you think I had a choice?”
Matteo’s gaze darkened. “There’s always a choice.”
She clenched her fists. “No, Matteo. There wasn’t. Not when our family was bleeding. Not when our father was already dead. Not when they would’ve killed you if I hadn’t gone with them.”
Silence stretched between them. His expression wavered, but he refused to let it break. “You still betrayed us.”
“No,” she whispered. “I survived for us.”
Matteo looked away, his hands tightening into fists. “The others don’t see it that way.”
Lyra frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The Valenti loyalists,” he muttered. “They haven’t given up, Lyra. They want revenge. Some of them are planning to strike against the Volkovs. And they expect me to stand with them.”
Her heart pounded. “Matteo, no. You can’t... ”
“What would you have me do?” he snapped. “Bow to the man who destroyed our father?”
“Nikolai didn’t kill him.”
Matteo’s eyes flashed. “But he wanted to. Don’t act like he’s innocent.”
Lyra hesitated. Nikolai had wanted to see their father fall. But he hadn’t ordered his death. And now, the war that had started long before their marriage was reaching its boiling point.
“I don’t trust him,” Matteo continued, voice raw. “And I don’t trust you either.”
Her breath caught. “Matteo... ”
“Get out,” he muttered.
***
Lorenzo Volkov died two days later.
The news spread fast. Whispers in the halls, murmurs behind closed doors. Some claimed it was his heart, others said it was poison. No one dared say it too loudly, not with Nikolai listening.
The house felt different after his death. Colder. Heavy with something unspoken. And Nikolai... Nikolai was a ghost of himself. He barely spoke, barely ate. I’d seen him cold, furious, even cruel. But this? This was different.
Still, the funeral had to happen. And in our world, funerals weren’t just about grief. They were about power.
The church was packed with men in dark suits, women in black dresses, all eyes watchful, all voices hushed. It was a battlefield disguised as mourning. Everyone was here. The Volkovs, the Valentis, the Callahans... people who wanted to pay respects and people who wanted to watch the fall.
Nikolai stood at the front, unreadable as ever. I watched him, wondering what was going through his mind, what it felt like to carry a name that people feared and respected in equal measure. But my thoughts broke apart when I noticed something... security was too tight. The wrong kind of tight. Guards shifting too often, hands itching too close to weapons.
Something was wrong.
I scanned the crowd, trying to find the danger before it found us. That’s when I saw him.
Matteo.
My brother stood near the back, his face hard, his posture stiff. But it wasn’t just him. He was with Valenti men.
And he was holding a gun.
Everything slowed. My pulse slammed in my ears.
Was he aiming at the Callahans? At Nikolai? At me?
Before I could move, the first shot rang out.
Screams tore through the church. People ducked, ran, shoved their way toward the exits. My breath hitched as I saw Nikolai move... fast, precise... but then another shot fired.
And he went down.
“Nikolai!”
I ran. I didn’t think, didn’t stop, didn’t care that bullets were still flying. I dropped to my knees beside him, my hands pressing against his chest. Warm, wet. Blood.
- Writer
