Chapter 5 - The Price of Blood
The interior of the house was a chaotic labyrinth of shadows and gunfire. From the basement stairs to the left, the sharp, rhythmic cracks of Silas’s rifles competed with the deeper booms of the Romanov guards’ shotguns.
Stellan moved down the central hallway with a cold, calculated precision, checking his corners with the practiced fluidity of a man who had survived three separate turf wars before his thirtieth birthday. A guard lunged from a side parlor, a combat knife flashing in the dim light. Stellan sidestepped the rush, caught the man by the wrist, and drove his weapon upward, firing a single shot that ended the struggle instantly.
"Clear right!" Marcus shouted, sweeping a wide kitchen area with his rifle.
Stellan reached the door of the main study at the back of the house. The door was made of heavy, solid walnut, locked from the inside. He didn't waste time with a ram. He placed three rounds directly into the hinges and kicked the frame with the full weight of his boot.
The door flew inward.
Inside, the room was lit only by the green screen of a laptop on a large mahogany desk. Standing behind the desk was Lev Romanov—a gaunt, sharp-featured man with hair the color of pewter and a long scar trailing from his ear to his jawline. He was holding a woman in a chokehold, a silver Makarov pistol pressed hard against her temple.
The woman had dark hair, tangled and damp with sweat, and her clothes were torn. But even beneath the bruises and the exhaustion, her eyes—those sharp, hazel-flecked brown eyes—fixed onto Stellan with an intensity that made his breath catch in his throat.
Sofiya.
"Stepan Volkov," Lev sneered, his voice wet and shaking with a desperate adrenaline. "They told me you were dead. They told me you became a soft American billionaire. But you look like the same dog who killed my father in St. Petersburg."
"Let her go, Lev," Stellan said, his voice dropping into a register that was deathly quiet, completely devoid of fear or hesitation. He didn't lower his gun; he kept it aimed directly at the center of Lev’s forehead, past Sofiya’s shoulder. "Your perimeter is gone. Daniel Frey is in a cellar. Your shipping lines are frozen. You have exactly zero cards left to play."
"I have this girl!" Lev screamed, his grip tightening on Sofiya’s throat, making her gasp for air. "I cross that border tonight, or I put a bullet through her brain and leave you with nothing but a corpse! Just like twenty years ago!"
Sofiya looked at Stellan through the gloom. Despite the gun at her head, despite the months of captivity, she didn't scream. She didn't cry. The blood of the Volkov clan ran true in her veins.
"Papa," she whispered in Russian, her voice steady despite the pressure on her throat. "The floorboard behind the desk... it's rotted. He’s leaning his weight on his left heel."
Lev’s eyes went wide with shock at her compliance. Before he could react to her words, Stellan didn't aim at his head. He shifted his grip and fired two rapid shots directly through the heavy mahogany desk, targeting the exact position of Lev’s left leg.
The heavy rounds tore through the wood, shattering Lev’s knee. The gangster let out a piercing shriek of agony, his balance failing as his left leg gave out completely. He tumbled sideways, his gun hand flying wide as he instinctively reached for his ruined knee.
Sofiya dived forward, rolling across the floorboards away from him.
Stellan closed the distance in two massive strides. He kicked the Makarov out of Lev’s hand, sending it spinning into the corner of the room. He stood over the groaning Russian, his face carved from grey stone, his gun resting gently against the bridge of Lev’s nose.
"This is for Katerina," Stellan whispered.
He pulled the trigger once.
The study fell into a sudden, ringing silence, save for the distant hum of the snow outside. Stellan dropped his weapon to his side and dropped to his knees, his hands reaching out for the woman on the floor.
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Sofiya scrambled into his arms, her body finally breaking into long, ragged sobs as she buried her face in his heavy black coat. Stellan wrapped his arms around his daughter, holding her so tight he could feel her heartbeat through his vest—the heartbeat of the child he had thought was ash twenty-two years ago.
"I’ve got you," Stellan whispered into her dark hair, his voice cracking with an emotion he hadn't felt in half a lifetime. "I’ve got you, Sofiya. You're safe. Your father is here."
