Page 66 of Shadows of the Past
“Maybe you won’t put a bullet in this one’s head,cousin!”
Chapter 23
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Julia
We're almost to the car when Aleksandr's voice slices through the air behind us.
“Maybe you won’t put a bullet in this one’s head,cousin!”
My body locks up for a fraction of a second. It can't be true.
I know about Vera, at least the fragmented details Akim fed me, pieced together with what I’ve pried from Max himself. My soldier, the protector of innocents…he couldn’t have been the one to pull that trigger. But when my gaze snaps to Maksim, any trace of light has bled from his eyes, leaving behind something empty and vast.
I say nothing, just slide into the car beside him. The air inside crackles, thick with unspoken words. Even if I tried to form the questions burning my tongue, they’d die in my throat. All his desperate warnings for me to be careful, the walls he built against loving anyone—it all stems from that. Being forced to kill the only person who offered a shred of comfort in this hell, and the thought alone is a physical ache. It must have shattered him.
"Maksim," I whisper, reaching for him. His entire body goes rigid at the near contact.
I don't dare push further, not when he looks like this, coiled tightly with ghosts. When he’s ready—if he ever is—I just prayhe doesn't shove me away in his self-destructive need to pay for others' sins.
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The house ahead is swallowed by ivy, looking ancient and imposing. Three men in sharp suits stand guard at the entrance, the bulge of weapons beneath their jackets unmistakable.
"Your boss is expecting us," Max's voice is chillingly detached, devoid of the emotion that should follow Aleksandr's barb. But I guess in that house, you learn early how to bury feelings deep and fast.
A curt nod from one of the guards, and we're led inside, down a hall and into an office. Dark wood furniture is swallowed by shadows, appearing almost black in the dim light.
In the center, behind a massive desk, sits a man around fifty. His hair is short, receding slightly, contrasting with startlingly light green eyes. His beige suit stretches across a frame that rarely sees exercise, and dark circles smudge beneath his eyes, a sign his nights are spent awake.
"Give me one reason I shouldn't put a bullet in each of your skulls right now." Our host's voice aims for boredom, but there's an undercurrent beneath it…curiosity, maybe suspicion, sharp and dangerous.
My mind races for escape routes, my hand inching toward my weapon.How the hell do we get out of this if it's a trap?
"Maybe the simple fact that you want your daughter back," Maksim counters, his voice flat ice.
At his words, Vlad slams his fists on the desk, surging to his feet. "How dare you mention her? You, your kind, are the reason for everything she's suffered!" Color floods his face, his mouth twisting in a snarl of revulsion. But beneath the rage, I see it—a desperate flicker of hope, a heartbroken man clinging to the slimmest possibility regarding his child.
Maksim turns slightly, his gaze sweeping the room almost casually before his eyes meet mine. The message is clear:Run if this goes south.
I want to scream at him. If he thinks I'm leaving him behind, he's insane. I don't give a damn what he's done, how many demons cling to his soul. Too many people have abandoned him. I need to show him that someone can choose him. Stay for him, even when running is the only sane option.
"She's alive," Maksim states, cutting through the tension. "And if you want her back, we're going to need to come to an understanding."
On the drive over, Akim had confirmed it: Vlad's daughter, Andrea, is alive, held in the house of one of Ivan's associates. A fresh wave of guilt washes over me, thinking of her, of all the others whose trails went cold. It claws at my insides. That's why we have to dismantle Rastovski's entire empire. The network, the auctions, the hidden accounts…Ivan's failing health has only fed his paranoia, making him more erratic, more dangerous.
The next instant is chaos. Vlad whips a pistol from behind his back, the crack echoing as he fires. Max grunts, staggering as blood blossoms on his arm. Instinct takes over—my pistol is up, sight trained on Vlad—but before I squeeze the trigger, Maksim yells, "Gun down, Julia!"
Has he lost his mind?I'm not letting this bastard turn us into target practice out of some misplaced vengeance. Weapon stillraised, I advance on Vlad, hissing through clenched teeth, "You used to call her Dulci. Because she always stole the caramels from the kitchen."
My words hit him like a physical blow. Something cracks in his rigid mask. His eyes film over and the hand holding the pistol lowers, trembling slightly.
I rush to Maksim's side. The wound looks superficial, but the sight of his blood ignites a primal urge in me to paint the walls red with Vlad's.
"Were you…imprisoned with her?" Vlad asks, his voice breaking on the last word.
Was I?In a way.Trapped in the same hell but spared the specific horrors she endured. "Partially," I answer, the word weak, choked with shame for every girl like Andrea I couldn't save, every time I looked away. I know the brutal math and the fact that we can't save them all. I know how many girls we do manage to pull out from that hell. But it's never enough. It feels like playing Russian roulette with their lives, waiting until we have the power to burn it all down.
