Page 35 of Fire and Silk
The glass shattered before I registered the sound fully. It came from the far wall—my bedroom window. Not a crack. An explosion.
Large, jagged shards burst inward, catching the moonlight like knives. My instinct kicked in a half-second too late. I rolled off the bed and onto the floor just as two dark figures crashed through the opening, landing with the grace of men who had done this before.
They didn’t speak. No warning. No demands. Just violence.
One of them grabbed me by the shoulders, slamming me against the marble floor. The other followed with a swift kick to my ribs. The air punched out of my lungs and my arms flailed, still tangled in the bed sheets. I caught a glimpse of black gloves, glinting metal, the hilt of a curved blade.
They pinned me. One drove his knee into my chest while the other pressed the knife against my throat, slow and cruel, letting me feel the cold bite of the blade. I could smell the leather of his gloves, feel the pressure tightening.
I thrashed beneath them, teeth clenched, trying to roll my weight sideways. One of them leaned closer, forcing my head to the marble. My cheek scraped against it. The blade moved. Not off me—intome.
A sharp burn tore across my collarbone as the knife slashed down in a shallow diagonal. It wasn’t deep enough to kill, but it was deep enough to remind me I was seconds from dying.
I braced for it. I actually did.
Then—gunfire.
Close. Deafening. Controlled.
The weight on top of me shifted. One man collapsed to the side with a grunt, his blood spattering the edge of my pillow. The other turned just in time to catch a bullet to the chest. He dropped without grace.
I rolled over, panting, vision blurred from pain and blood loss. That’s when I saw him.
Matteo.
He stood just inside the broken window, his stance calm, shoulders squared. Back then, he wasn’t my second. Just a perimeter guard—quiet, loyal, and unremarkable. I barely knew his name.
He didn’t speak. He stepped forward and tossed a pistol to me. I caught it by the grip and rolled to my knees.
Another figure emerged from the hallway. Masked. Armed. Matteo shot him in the leg. He collapsed screaming.
Then came another wave—four or five more intruders. We fought side by side, back-to-back, no need for commands. He covered me while I reloaded. I took a man’s knee while he caught the throat. We moved like we’d done it a thousand times.
Blood painted the walls. A night lamp fell. One of the curtains caught fire.
Eventually, the last man standing dropped his weapon and begged. Matteo shot him in the shoulder.
I walked over to him, shirtless and bloodied, the cut across my chest still dripping onto the floor.
He was gasping, his face half hidden by the mask.
“Who sent you?” I demanded.
He looked up, eyes glassy, mouth trembling.
He said it softly.
“Maksim.”
That was the moment something in medied.
Whatever part of me wanted to live a quiet life, eat slow breakfasts, and leave all of this behind—it turned to ash.
From that night on, I made a vow.
I would take everything from Maksim and Mina. Not just out of revenge—though that was part of it. But because they’d tried to erase me and failed.
They poked the sleeping beast. Now I’d nest in their throats.
