DIE FOR HIM

PAVEL’S POV

“Get out,” I said, yanking open the car door.

Ilya stayed where he was, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at me like he wanted me dead. The glowing lights of the mansion reflected in his hazel eyes, turning them molten with anger.

“Do I have to drag you out?” I asked, leaning closer. My voice was calm, but he’d been pushing me all day. Maybe I did “forget” to inform him about a party he was meant to accompany me to until an hour ago.

“Do it,” he said, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “Drag me out in front of your precious guests. Show them what a gentleman you are.” I grabbed his wrist, pulling him forward until our faces were inches apart. 

“We’re late, and if you embarrass me tonight, I swear I’ll break your neck myself.” His laugh was cold, cutting through the tension like a blade. 

“If you weren’t so desperate to use me as a trophy, you’d probably have done it already.” I released him with a shove, and he stumbled slightly before straightening himself. His shoes clicked against the driveway as he stepped out, his outfit sweeping around him. He didn’t look back at me, but I could see the tension in his shoulders.

“Behave,” I warned, following him toward the mansion.

“Try to make me,” he shot back. 

The mansion was a sprawling palace of power and wealth. Crystal chandeliers bathed the grand hall in golden light, while the murmur of conversation mingled with the clink of glasses. Every face in the room belonged to someone dangerous—Dons, Capos, their wives, and mistresses.

Tonight wasn’t just about appearances. It was a chance to send a message, Pavel Zaitsev was untouchable, and Ilya Volkov—whether he liked it or not—was part of his empire now.

Ilya clung to my arm, his nails digging into my sleeve as I dragged him from one conversation to the next. He was playing the role, but only because he had to. The defiance in his eyes hadn’t dimmed, and I had no doubt he’d spit in my face the moment we were alone.

“Smile,” I whispered as we approached the Donati family, our key allies for tonight’s negotiations.

He turned his head slightly, his smile sharp as glass.

 “Anything for you, dear husband,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The Donatis were waiting for us by the bar, their patriarch, Vittorio, raising his glass as we approached.

“Zaitsev!” he greeted me with open arms, though his grin was more snake than man. “And your lovely husband. Congratulations. I didn’t think you’d ever settle down.”

“ut was time, and please, address him as my wife, ” I said smoothly, though the grip I had on Ilya’s arm tightened. “Ilya has proven to be full of… surprises.” His smile didn’t waver, but I felt the way his body stiffened.

“Ah, surprises,” Vittorio chuckled. “Good ones, I hope.”

I nodded, though my mind was already elsewhere. Something was wrong. The air felt off, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface. I scanned the room, my eyes sweeping over the crowd, looking for anything—or anyone—out of place.

We moved to a private table near the center of the hall, surrounded by guards on all sides. Ilya sat beside me, his posture regal but distant, a silent rebellion in every movement.

The discussion with Vittorio began smoothly enough, each word polished and practiced. But I wasn’t listening. My instincts screamed at me to pay attention to the room instead.

“Excuse me,” Ilya said suddenly, rising from his seat. I caught his wrist under the table, keeping my expression neutral as I leaned toward him.

 “Where do you think you’re going?” I asked quietly.

“To get some air,” he replied, his voice tight. For a moment, I debated forcing him to stay. But his anger was bubbling too close to the surface, and a scene in front of Vittorio wasn’t worth the trouble.

“Two minutes,” I said, releasing him. “And if you try to run, Ilya, I’ll drag you back myself.”

He pulled his arm free and walked away, his head held high. He looked at me beneath his nose like I was no better than a pest, then turned to leave.

The first shot rang out like a crack of thunder.Glass shattered, screams filled the air, and chaos erupted. Guests dove for cover as gunfire sprayed through the grand hall, shattering chandeliers and overturning tables.

I was on my feet in an instant, pulling out my gun and scanning the room for the attackers. They came in fast—five, maybe six of them, armed and ruthless. They weren’t just here to make a statement. They were here to kill.

I turned toward the doorway, my blood running cold when I saw him.

Ilya. He stood frozen near the archway, his wide eyes locked on one of the gunmen leveling his weapon at him.

I didn’t think. I moved. The bullet whizzed past as I tackled him to the ground, his body hitting the marble floor with a thud.

“Stay down!” I barked, shielding him with my body. His breaths came fast and shallow beneath me, his hands gripping my jacket as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

The room was a battlefield. Guards fired back, their shots echoing off the high ceilings. Guests screamed as they scrambled for cover, their expensive suits and dresses now stained with blood and fear.

I pulled Ilya behind an overturned table, crouching low as bullets ripped through the air above us.

“Don’t move,” I ordered, my eyes scanning for the next threat.His defiance flared, even now. 

“I’m not some helpless—”

“Shut up,” I snapped, cutting him off. “You want to prove something? Stay alive.”

I rose from cover, firing two shots into the chest of an attacker moving toward us. His body crumpled to the floor, but there was no time to stop. Another shooter appeared on the balcony, his rifle trained on me.

I dove to the side as the bullets tore through the table, splinters flying. The fight was relentless. I moved like a predator, taking down one target after another with brutal precision. But my focus was split.

Ilya.

Every time I heard a scream or a gunshot too close to his hiding spot, my heart twisted—a feeling I didn’t have time to examine.

Then it happened. A shot rang out from the balcony, and Ilya cried out, clutching his shoulder as blood seeped through his clothes.

Rage consumed me.

I turned toward the shooter, my vision narrowing. He didn’t get the chance to fire again. My shot hit him square in the chest, and his body collapsed against the railing before falling to the floor below. I was at Ilya’s side in seconds, pulling his hand away from the wound.

“It’s nothing,” he said through gritted teeth, though his voice trembled. I grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at me. 

“Nothing? You could’ve died.” I damn near snarled. His eyes narrowed, the defiance burning even brighter now. 

“What do you care?” I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. 

“I don’t. But no one touches what’s mine.”

“I hate you,” he whispered, his voice shaking. He was in pain, and his little act to show off strength wasn’t fooling me.

“Good,” I growled, firing a shot at the last of the attackers.

 “Because you are mine Ilya,  if you die, it’ll be by my hands—not theirs.”