Page 4 of Fate and Family

A shadow moves behind her, silent and deliberate, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand as I watch his hand reach out.

She doesn’t see him.

“Uri! BACK DOOR!”

I’m already out of my chair, grabbing my gun and sprinting through the back hallway. The sound of my boots pounding against the floor echoes in the narrow space. The steel door looms ahead, stubborn and heavy. I slam my shoulder against it.

Nothing.

“Fuck!” I hiss under my breath. I told Anton to grease the damn hinges weeks ago.

One more full-body tackle, and the door gives way, screeching open. The cold punches me, almost blinding me to the scene in the alley. Viktor has Katya pinned against the wall,his hand gripping her throat, a knife hovering dangerously close to her eye.

“Katya!” I shout, my voice raw and desperate.

She twists, trying to break free, but Viktor’s hold is ironclad. Her breath comes out in frantic gasps, visible in the frigid air.

“I told you there would be consequences,” Viktor growls, his voice a low, menacing rumble. “But your family never listens.”

“Let her go.” I raise my gun, but my hands are trembling. The barrel wavers, because I know if I take the shot, I’ll hit her. My blood runs cold.

Katya squirms, trying to kick him, but her movements are restricted. Did he bind her hands and feet? How the hell did he do that so fast? Her face glistens under the dim streetlight—tears, sweat, maybe both. But he’s keeping her pinned to the wall, watching her squirm.

“Viktor,” I growl, my voice trembling with barely contained rage. “If you hurt her, I swear to God, I will hunt you down and rip you limb from limb.”

Her struggles weaken. His grip tightens. Katya gasps, a high-pitched squeak, and my stomach twists violently.

Then an explosion rips through the alleyway.

Viktor’s body jolts, a hole torn through his head. The force launches him forward, nearly crushing Katya. She screams as he collapses against her, his weight dragging her to the ground. Blood smears her coat as he slides lifelessly to the pavement. Rude ass bastard couldn’t even die without making a mess of her.

I turn, my breath catching in my throat. Uri stands a few feet away, his gun still smoking, his eyes blazing.

“Uri,” I exhale, relief and gratitude mixing in my voice. He doesn’t respond, already stepping toward the destruction he’s made.

I sprint to Katya, dropping to my knees beside her. “Are you okay?” I ask, my voice frantic. Her lip quivers, her body frozen. I pull her into my arms, cradling her trembling frame against my chest. My heart pounds so hard it drowns out everything else. “Let’s get you inside.”

Uri approaches, gun still in one hand while the other gently squeezes Katya’s shoulder. “Go. I’ll take care of this.”

He nudges Viktor’s corpse with his boot, flipping it over. The lifeless eyes stare blankly at me. Uri hums thoughtfully. “Huh. Headshot. Didn’t think I aimed there.”

Katya's eyes dart toward the body, but I block her view. “Don’t,” I murmur softly, scooping her into my arms. Her weight feels insignificant, but her fragility—that’s crushing.

I carry her back inside, my pulse pounding in my ears. Every step feels like an eternity. “You’re safe now,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out, and her apology tears through me like a blade.

“No. This was my fault.” I never thought he’d strike so fast. I should’ve sent her home as soon as they walked in the bar, but retaliation is never this efficient.

Inside my office, I set her gently on the desk. She’s shaking uncontrollably, her breaths coming in shallow bursts. I unzip her coat, scanning for injuries. My hands work methodically, brushing over her arms, her shoulders. Soft fabric, cold skin. No blood. No swelling. Just fear and the early hints of bruising around her neck.

“Thank God,” I whisper, cupping her cheeks. My thumbs wipe away her tears as I let my forehead linger against hers. “You’re not hurt.”

Katya nods, but her eyes remain unfocused, darting past me. “I didn’t see him,” she murmurs, her voice small. “I had my earbuds in. I was listening to the new Amanda Chase album.” A faint laugh bubbles up. “Damn you, Amanda,” she mutters,shaking a fist weakly. “With your heartbreaking yet danceable songs.”

She’s making jokes. She’s okay. The tension in my chest eases.

“You should give her album a one-star review. Dangerously distracting,” I tease softly.

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