Page 75 of Shadows of the Past
The soldiers step back instinctively. Julia raises the machine gun again, the barrel unwavering.
"Hey!" Filip squeaks, his bravado evaporating, replaced by stark terror. "You said—you promised you wouldn't use that on me!" He scrambles backward, hands raised uselessly, sweat plastering his thinning gray hair to his temples, his eyes darting wildly for an escape that isn't there.
"I'm keeping my word," Julia states calmly, lethally. "I said I wouldn't empty the whole magazine." A pause, pregnant with violence. "Just half."
The roar of the automatic gun explodes in the confined space, deafening for five solid seconds. The impact of the bullets slams Filip’s body backward out into the hallway, his form jerking a few times. When the deafening noise finally stops, he looks less like a man and more like a discarded fishing net, riddled with holes, blood pooling rapidly beneath him.
Silence descends, thick and heavy, smelling of death.
"Let's go," I say, turning to Andrea, who is now curled tightly against Akim's chest, trembling. "Your father can't wait to see you."
As we move toward the exit, something about the way Akim holds Andrea, the possessive curve of his arm around her, makes me pause just inside the doorway. The others file past, heading down the stairs, but Julia waits, sensing my hesitation.
I try to pinpoint the unease coiling in my gut.
"Does something seem…off," I ask Julia quietly, nodding toward Akim's retreating back, "about the way he's looking at her?"
Julia follows my gaze, her expression thoughtful. Then she looks back at me, her eyes knowing. "He's looking at her," she says softly, "exactly the way you looked at me after Gregory tried to put his hands on me."
Fuck. If my best friend is feeling even a fraction of the consuming, territorial inferno I felt that day…we are all well and truly screwed.
Chapter 27
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Julia
Four days drag by in tense silence. No whispers about the assault on Filip’s villa. The only ripple came from Ivan himself, a dismissive scoff overheard by one of the maids. "Probably didn’t check his gas lines again. Cheap bastard. No surprise."
The official story held firm: a tragic gas leak. An unfortunate explosion at the oligarch's mansion. Everyone inside, gone.
Conveniently, no one dug deeper. Apparently, Semenov had almost blown himself up six years prior over some deferred inspection.
Vlad and Andrea are together now, tucked away safely at his estate outside the city. That's where Akim and I are heading today. Max is gone—some urgent mission in Sweden he had to “finish", leaving a void beside me that feels tangible.
Sometimes I wonder if Max ever actually sleeps. Then again, knowing him, he wouldn’t know what to do with free time. He seems to thrive in the controlled chaos of these "missions," the violence a familiar, perhaps necessary, part of his existence.
"You’re quiet today," Akim observes from the driver's seat, his voice pulling me from my thoughts. I turn to face him.
"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow, forcing a lightness I don't feel. "Were you missing my incredibly insightful commentary on the latest futbol team facing relegation?"
A sound escapes him, halfway between a snort and a chuckle. He shakes his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "God forbid we get into that debate again," he says, and I smirk, remembering the time I almost pulled my machine gun on him for daring to claim Russian futbol held more weight than Mexican fútbol. A stupid argument, but a welcome distraction.
I wish it could always be like this—easy banter about meaningless things, a brief respite from the darkness that constantly surrounds us. But the lightness evaporates, choked by the grim reality that crashed down this morning. Just today, two children arrived, plucked from some state orphanage. Scheduled for transport tomorrow. Destination: some sick fuck, a known pedophile, in Finland.
And we can't touch them. Ivan deployed his top retrieval team, brutal, efficient, loyal only to him. These guys don't mess around. Max managed to gather intel before he left: they implement total lockdown on transport routes, sweeping ahead, ensuring no civilian traffic, no interference, gets anywhere near them. It’s airtight. Too risky. Suicide. The helplessness claws at my insides.
Pulling up to Vlad's imposing gates, we're met by his security team. The pat down is thorough, professional. Of course, we're armed; going unarmed in this world is unthinkable. It takes me practically spitting threats—seven of them, I counted, each more menacing than the last—before their captain grudgingly allows us to keep our sidearms. I’m never going anywhere completely unarmed again. Leaving the machine gun locked in the car’s trunk feels fundamentally wrong, like leaving a vital part of myself behind, exposed and vulnerable.
Diosito, what have I become?Calling a weapon a part of myself.But it is. An extension of my will. My shield. My security in a world consumed by monsters.
"Julia!" Andrea’s bright voice rings out, startlingly clear, as we step into the grand foyer.
Beside me, I feel Akim go unnaturally still, his shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly. He won't admit it, not even to himself probably, but he’s definitely drawn to Andrea. There's a protective energy simmering beneath his usual calm whenever she's near.
And judging by the warm, appreciative look she sends his way now, a soft smile touching her lips, the feeling might just be mutual.
"Julia," Vlad calls out, his voice carrying from his study down the hall, amusement clear in his tone. "You're going to threaten all my men into early retirement if you keep this up."
