MasukCATALINA'S PERSPECTIVE
A Few Days Later.I stood before the mirror, the dim light catching every line, every curve. My hands moved slow, deliberate, over my skin, neck, shoulders, arms, stomach, searching for any trace Nico might have left. Bruises, marks, shadows of his desperation. Nothing. Clean. As if it never happened.“Good,” I whispered to my reflection, lips curving. I had no interest in carrying ghosts when Dante’s eyes would be the only ones I allowed to linger.By morning, I kissed Carlos’ cheek in farewell, my brother still buried in ledgers and newfound discipline, and left him to his mess. Nico had already gone days ago, disappearing into his own web, tasked with one order: keep Dante busy, far from Via Sant’Angelo.Nikolai shadowed me as always, the silent blade at my back. Together we returned to Libreria Fioretta.And there it was, whole again.The windows gleamed, the shelves stood proud, the faint scent ofCATALINA’S PERSPECTIVEVORONIN’S FORTRESS, CRIMEA – War Room, 03:14 a.m.The air in the bunker tasted of cordite, metal, and the kind of rage that doesn’t fade with sunrise.One overhead bulb flickered, carving jagged shadows over the table.Satellite photos were pinned down with knives, their edges curling like scorched flesh.The red circle around Cape Fiolent looked like a fresh bullet wound.I stood at the head of the table, palms flat against cold steel, knuckles white enough to crack. Every muscle in my arms felt wired to a detonator.Dante was a wall of heat at my back. Close enough that I felt each breath he took drag against my spine.Not touching.He knew better.If he touched me right now, one of us would break. And neither of us had the luxury.Voronin cleared his throat, voice gravel ground into glass.“Forty-eight hours until the moon is dark enough. After that, the cliff is lit lik
CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVEVORONIN’S FORTRESS, CRIMEA – Three nights after the reunionThe war room smelled of gun oil, coffee, and scorched pride.The kind of smell that seeps into your skin and stays there like a reminder that sleep is optional and vengeance isn’t.Voronin had returned at dawn, eyes blood-shot but steady, family safely hidden in a dacha outside Arkhangelsk.He walked in, dropped a duffel of detonators on the table, and simply said, “I’m all in.”No theatrics. No speeches. Just a man who’d decided dying was preferable to running.Now the table was covered in satellite photos, blueprints, and a single red marker circling one location.Gavriil’s new primary residence, an old Soviet naval fortress on Cape Fiolent, rebuilt into a cliffside palace of concrete and paranoia.I stood at the head of the table in black fatigues, hair braided tight, the black-gold ring now hanging on a chain around m
CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVE VORONIN’S FORTRESS, CRIMEA – The day after the fireThe convoy tore through the gates at 14:12.I was already running before the first engine cut.Dante stepped out, coat whipping in the wind, eyes wild with thirty-six hours of no sleep and pure, murderous focus.I slammed into him so hard the air left his lungs.His arms crushed me to his chest, one hand fisted in my hair, the other banded around my waist like he could fuse us together through sheer force.I inhaled him, gunpowder, leather, espresso, the faint trace of the cologne I bought him the Christmas before everything burned.Real.Alive.Mine.He pulled back only far enough to run his hands over me, frantic, clinical, terrified: fingers probing my skull, my throat, my ribs, checking for fractures, for blood, for anything permanent.His voice cracked. “Tell me you’re whole.”I couldn’t
CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVEVORONIN’S FORTRESS, CRIMEA – Dawn after the fireThe SUV skidded through the gates at 05:47, tires screaming against stone still slick from night frost and ash. Smoke clung to the morning air, drifting in ribbons from the burned clothes I’d never bothered to change out of. My skin carried the stench of last night’s inferno, a scent that felt like it had burrowed straight into my bloodstream.I was out before the vehicle fully stopped. Boots hit gravel. Pain shot up my legs. Didn’t matter. I drew my pistol as naturally as breathing, grip steady despite the tremor hiding in my bones.Voronin waited at the top of the steps, coat unbuttoned, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The ember glowed like a single accusing eye.I didn’t give him the chance to speak. I stalked up the stairs and pressed the muzzle against his forehead. Hard enough that I saw the skin indent.“Te
GAVRIIL’S PERSPECTIVE SOCHI MANSION – The Night She Tried to Leave Me02:11The lights died because I told them to die.I stood in our bedroom, the one that still smells like her skin and gunpowder and crushed black roses, and felt her coming down the hall like a bullet I had already swallowed.Every footstep was a heartbeat in my cock.Every breath she took was oxygen I owned.I have memorized the rhythm of her pulse so completely that I can feel it across a darkened room. I know the exact weight of her body when she pretends to sleep against my chest. I know the way her thighs tremble when she’s pretending she doesn’t want me.Tonight she came to kill me.I have never been harder in my life.She threw the doors open like she was walking into her own coronation.I smiled at her the way a god smiles at a sacrifice that finally understands it was always mean
CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVE SOCHI MANSION - The night of implementation 02:11The lights on the security console blinked out exactly on schedule.Every screen went black. Every turret powered down. The mansion fell into perfect, obedient darkness.I exhaled for the first time in months.It was working.I touched the comm in my ear. “Phase one complete. Grid is blind. Phase two...go.”Acknowledgments crackled back immediately, calm, professional, mine.“East wing clear.” “Guard barracks neutralized.” “Helipad charges set.”I closed my eyes and felt something like peace.Nine months of blood, semen, and lies, and tonight it ended.I walked the corridors like a ghost.Every corner I turned, men in black nodded at me, weapons lowered in respect. My men. The ones I had bought with money, mercy, or the promise of Gavriil’s head.







