Page 39 of Mission Shift

Braxton was silent for a long moment before he finally spoke. “You’ve been through hell, but you’re still standing, still fighting. That says a lot about who you really are. Yes, what you did was wrong. But what makes you different is that you have changed. You’ve dedicated your life to rectifying the atrocities you were a part of. It doesn’t make it right, and it’s something you’ll suffer with for the rest of your life, but you’re a soldier. Morality—right and wrong—they get twisted in the hands of those making the decisions.”

He inhaled deeply. “It makes me sick to say this, but in war, it’s your job to kill. You don’t have a say in the matter. Yet you found a way to alter your destiny. And in the bigger scheme of things, your defection has probably saved more lives than you ever took.”

A tear rolled down my cheek. I hadn’t cried since the day they lowered my mama’s casket into the ground. I let out a slowbreath, unsure of how to respond. Not once since my mother died had anyone spoken to me like this—like I was more than a weapon or a pawn, like I mattered as a human being.

The silence between us thickened, the enormity of what I had disclosed settling like a fog. I stared at the water jug in my hands, running my thumb along its rough surface. It was strange—liberating but terrifying—to have told him so much. I wasn’t the kind of person who let people in. But there was something about Braxton that set me at ease. Maybe it was that, even after knowing what I’d done and acknowledging that it was horrific, he still believed I was worthy of redemption. He wasn’t shunning me; he didn’t think I was undeserving of a future.

I cleared my throat. “I’ve never told anyone any of that before,” I admitted softly. “No one. Not even my Ukrainian handlers. You’re the first to know the truth—about my father, my mother…all of it.”

Braxton leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his eyes locked intently on mine. He gave a slight nod, silently signaling he was right there with me—listening, understanding, ready to shoulder the weight of whatever I might say next. He didn’t press me for more or offer empty reassurances. He just waited, letting me find the words at my own pace.

“Maybe it’s because I have no choice now,” I continued, letting out a bitter chuckle. “There’s no going back. The Russians will hunt me down. They’ll torture me, kill me. And after my Ukrainian handlers were killed the other night, I dragged Zelenko into that house you were hiding in, and…” My voice faltered. “Now I have no one. No plan. I’m lost.” I sighed. “Or maybe this is a chance to start over—find a new life in a new country.”

I picked at my nails. “Could you see me living a quiet life somewhere far away? Maybe on some island. An artist. A writer.Just me, some paints, and solitude.” I shook my head. The thought was laughable.

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” Braxton said gently. “You protected me. You could’ve walked away—hell, it would’ve been easier—but you didn’t. Most people wouldn’t have had the nerve to do what you did. If anyone can start over and survive, it’s you.”

I studied him, his kindness making something ache inside me. God, how easy it was to open up to him. I wished I could find someone like him to share my life with someday—someone good, someone who saw more in me than just the scars of my past. But men like him didn’t belong in my world. They’d get swallowed whole.

I pushed the thought away and sighed, my mind circling back to Zelenko. “You know, Zelenko…he was my friend. A fellow double agent. And I still killed him.”

Braxton stiffened. His face instantly became shrouded in discomfort. He didn’t understand. Of course he wouldn’t. He wasn’t from this world.

“I had to,” I continued, my voice steady but hollow. “He was dying—bleeding out from wounds neither of us could save him from. You know that. You saw how bad he was. He would’ve suffered for hours. And if the Russians had found him alive, or even dead, they could’ve identified him using his fingerprints, his face… And that would’ve tied him to me and our remaining fellow agents; it could have possibly exposed every operation we worked on. He knew the risks. We all did. Giving him a quick death was a mercy. And yes, I blew up the house because I had to protect myself—but it was also for him.”

Braxton’s jaw tightened. He nodded slowly. The conflict was apparent in his eyes. He wanted to understand, but he wasn’t ready for this level of darkness.

The tension between us eased slightly, though it was clear he was still grappling with what I’d said. I didn’t blame him. Mercy killings weren’t exactly part of the Boy Scout code.

Braxton shook the bag of nuts absentmindedly as he stared past me, lost in thought. His eyes narrowed slightly—not in judgment but in deep thought, the golden flecks darkening in the dim light. I braced myself for whatever he would ask next.

Taking a slow breath, he rested his arm on his bent knee, draping his fingers loosely over it. “You’ve mentioned a rival Russian mafia syndicate—the Volkovi Notchi. What did your father want with them?”

My body went rigid. Hearinghimspeak that name made my stomach twist. “He wants them gone,” I said bluntly. “Out of Russia, out of his way. He’s already got moles in their organization—people with access to their finances. It’s only a matter of time before millions, if not billions, are siphoned from their accounts. My father wants to crush them financially, to strip them of any power they have left.”

Braxton’s brows drew tight, and he flinched slightly, nostrils flaring in silent reaction before he schooled his face into an unreadable calm expression. His reaction wasn’t subtle, and I frowned, wondering why talking about the Russian mafia made him so uneasy.

“But why?” he asked carefully.

“Because my father and Viktor Volkov were locked in a brutal power struggle their entire lives, and if there was one man he wanted dead more than anyone, it was Viktor. He was a threat. But now that Viktor’s dead, Alexey wants to make sure his children—Nikolai and Anastasia—never gain control of the organization. Apparently, they’ve turned their backs on Russia and prefer living in the US. My father sees that not only as a betrayal of our country but also as an opportunity. He’s obsessed with wiping them out completely.”

Braxton looked away from me. A worried frown appeared on his face as he slid his finger across his lip and rested his chin on his thumb in serious contemplation. Odd. Most people reacted with fear or disgust at the mention of mafia wars, but this…this was something else.

“You okay?” I asked, arching a brow.

He gave me a tight smile. “Yeah. Just…processing. That’s a lot to take in.”

I nodded. The world of mafia Bratvas was a dark place, and most civilians struggled to comprehend how profound the corruption was. “You learn to live with it,” I muttered.

Silence fell again as I leaned back against the trench wall. Braxton shifted closer and pulled me against him, wrapping his arm around me. My body relaxed in his embrace. I wasn’t used to anyone caring about my feelings, much less understanding me. And the way he looked at me—like I was more than my mistakes—made my heart squeeze.

“Hey,” he said softly, pulling me more tightly into his. “I want to help you, Daria, be there for you. I know we can figure this out. You’re not the unforgivable soul you’ve convinced yourself you are. You’re strong, powerful, and yeah, maybe a little terrifying, but you’ve got a heart in there, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

I swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. I refused to cry. I couldn’t—not now, not in front of him. But damn it, his words were ripping my heart out.

I let out a slow breath and leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder. Maybe, just for tonight, I could let myself believe him. Believe that I wasn’t beyond salvation. Believe that I was safe in his arms.

Chapter fifteen

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