All Chapters of Retribution : Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

Valencia Nightingale The grate opened straight into the room. Not into a hallway. Not into a service corridor. Directly above the long mahogany table where the most powerful people in the country were having breakfast, like it was just another Tuesday.I froze for half a second, crouched in the metal duct, staring down.Crystal chandeliers. Gold-rimmed plates. The smell of coffee and warm bread drifting upwards.And people. Too many people.My eyes flicked across the room fast, cataloging everything the way I was trained. Caspian walked in through the main doors at the far end, mask of innocence stretched perfectly across his face. His eyes flickered towards the grate slightly, not enough to raise suspicion, but enough for him to check if I had made it.He knew I was waiting for the right time to strike.He had barely taken a few steps into the room before someone barrelled towards him, almost knocking him to the ground. Princess Casanova—his sister. I recognised her from the

Vladislav Moroz"She's hurt," I repeated, turning my head so he could see her unconscious face."Get her out, first. I'll handle myself.He nodded before hurrying around the car towards Valencia's side. His knife flashed. One slash, and she dropped into his arms. He supported her carefully, glass scraping his vest as he pulled her out through the broken windshield. The moment she was fully out, I shoved my elbow into the windshield by my side. Glass sprayed everywhere, slashing against my face and neck. Unlike Valencia, I couldn't pass through the space in the broken windshield; my shoulders were too broad. I had to open the door. But it was jammed by the weight of the car. I had no choice but to try. The metal door screeched against the stones, causing sparks to fly up as the frame finally gave in, and I crawled out, glass carving new lines across my forearms.The clean air, which I had appreciated earlier, was nowhere to be found. Right now, everywhere smelled of petrol, pine tree

Valencia NightingaleThe shower was turned all the way to the red mark, the water so hot it felt like punishment.I sat on the tiled floor with my knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, letting the scalding spray hammer the back of my neck. Steam filled the tiny bathroom until I couldn’t see the door anymore. Good. I didn’t want to see anything, yet I couldn’t stop seeing him.The first time we met kept flashing behind my closed eyes like a movie I can’t pause.Malcom setting me up to reveal the fact that I had lied regarding my loss of memories, and then he and Richter chasing after me, ready to shoot me dead as I tried to escape, and then I bumped right into Vladislav. His arms around me as he shielded me from Malcom. Sure, he kidnapped me and intended to use me as bait, but I convinced him to let me use his forces to kill Malcom in exchange for my soul, and he agreed.It was supposed to be a contract. We were supposed to be bound only by paper, nothing more and nothing less, but

Valencia NightingaleThe plane’s wheels kissed the runway at Sheremetyevo with a jolt that rattled my teeth and dragged me out of the half-sleep I’d fallen into somewhere over Finland. The cabin lights came up harsh and yellow. Around us, passengers stretched and yawned and reached for their bags like they were arriving for a holiday. I felt like I was stepping onto another planet.Anatoly unbuckled his seatbelt the second the seatbelt sign went dark. He didn’t look at me, just jerked his head toward the exit. We moved fast—no checked luggage, only two small duffels slung over our shoulders. My wig itched under the beanie I’d pulled low, and the fake glasses pressed into the bridge of my nose, but the disguise held. We looked like any other tired couple coming home for the holidays.Customs was a blur of stamped passports and bored officers. No one looked twice at “Anya and Dmitry Volkov.”Outside the terminal the cold hit like a slap. Minus twenty-two Celsius, the arrivals board ha

Valencia Nightingale.We ate in pristine silence.The small kitchen in the house was lit by one bare bulb that swung gently whenever the wind rattled the windows. The table was scarred pine, the chairs mismatched, and the air smelled of boiled potatoes, fried onions, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil from where Anatoly had gone to get the ammunition, I suppose.He had cooked before I came back, something simple, hearty—potatoes with sauce, and a pot of strong black tea that steamed in chipped mugs. My stomach had been a clenched fist for days, but the moment the smell hit me I realised I was starving.We sat opposite each other.Anatoly still hadn't gone back to wearing his mask. He had been bare-faced since we arrived in Russia and I don't even think he brought the mask at all. Airport security would have been appalled to see a mask made of human skin in someone's luggage. I kept the wig off—my scalp itched and I was too tired to pretend to be someone else inside these four wall