Ivan: A Dark Mafia Romance (Underworld Book 1)

The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.

Ernest Hemingway

When the lights cut out, I have a split-second advantage, because I’m the only person in the room who was anticipating it.

In a high-tech, modern house like Remizov’s, the security system, the lights, the music, and the power all run off a single grid, controlled remotely.

I had no idea if Zima would be able to hack into that system. But it was the only idea I could come up with on short notice.

And of course, I couldn’t exactly time when the lights would go out. But I was waiting for it. Hoping for it.

The moment the room plunges into darkness, I dive for the legs of the guard closest to me. He goes down hard, and I scramble for the gun at his waist. Before I can get hold of it, someone grabs my feet from behind, jerking me backward.

At the same moment, I hear a thunk, and the sound of a heavy body dropping next to me. For a second I think the other two guards must have gotten confused and attacked each other, but then I hear Sloane struggling with Remizov across the room, and I realize what actually happened—she threw something at one of the guards.

Instead of taking her chance to run or to attack Remizov, she tried to help me instead. She knew I was outnumbered—she helped shift the odds in my favor.

I kick backward hard against whoever has hold of my legs. I hear a grunt of pain as my heel connects with their face. From the sound of it, I think it’s the smirking asshole who shoulder-checked me at the door.

I feel hands grasping at me from the other side, and I start punching and pummeling the first guard I tackled before he can pull his gun from his belt.

The smirking guard jumps on my back, and we’re all rolling around in a maelstrom of fist and elbows.

Here, too, I have an unexpected factor in my favor—I can kick and hit and gouge anybody I can get my hands on. But in the darkness, the two guards have no idea who they’re striking. They’re hitting each other as much as they’re getting me, and their confusion and frustration is making them ineffective.

With a roar of rage, the larger of the two, the smirking guard, starts swinging haymakers. His sledgehammer fist connects with his colleague’s jaw, and the man collapses on top of me. I feel his gun trapped between our bodies, and I try to wrench it out of his belt while the other guard is scrabbling at my throat, his fingernails clawing at my skin, before he finally gets purchase and starts to choke me.

The limp body of the unconscious guard is pinning me down. The other man, abominably strong, is digging his iron-hard fingers into my neck.

“Now I’ve got you, you fuck,” he grunts, his face so close that I can feel his spit on my face.

My fingers are tugging at the holster, trying to free the handgun trapped beneath the dead weight of the other guard. My head is swimming. If I could see anything, the room would be spinning around.

I yank the gun free at last.

I can’t see it, of course, but from the feel of it, I think it’s a Glock. Which means there’s no safety to release, just a trigger safety.

I put my finger in the correct position, point the gun right at the smirking guard, and fire three times.

He lets go of my throat, jerking backward. I don’t know if all three shots hit him, but I think at least two did. He thrashes around for a minute, then falls still.

In the insanity of the fight, I couldn’t hear what happened to Sloane.

All I know is she’s not in the room anymore. It’s dead silent, other than my own labored breathing.

I don’t think she and Remizov passed me—which means there must be a back door out of the dining room.

I’m about to feel my way in that direction when I remember that one of the guards, the one that Sloane hit, was wearing an AR slung over his shoulder.

I feel around on the floor, looking for his body. My hand comes down in a wet patch first, what I think must be blood, until I smell the fermented scent of the wine, and feel the bottle tipped over on its side. That must be what Sloane threw. I find the guard’s body next, slumped over close to the table. He’s still breathing, but he’s going to have a hell of a hangover from that wine.

I get his rifle, slinging it over my own shoulder instead. Then I try to find my way to the back exit, following the table the length of the room, and then feeling along the wall until I find the doorknob.

Once outside the dining room, I can see a little better, as the windows to the outside let in a small amount of moonlight. I find myself at the base of a staircase leading up to the second floor.

Before I’ve taken two steps toward it, someone starts shooting at me, the bullets whipping so close past my ear I can almost feel the heat. I duck down and press myself against the wall, trying to figure out where the shots are coming from.

A sleek, modern urn explodes next to me. I scramble up into the staircase instead.

I know where the shots are coming from now—two more goons down the end of the hallway.

I take the rifle down off my shoulder and pull the rod back to chamber a round. I flip off the safety and bring the butt of the gun up to my shoulder.

I’m waiting for the guards to come down the hallway. They probably aren’t sure if they hit me, or if I ran up the stairs.

I hear the footsteps of one guard, but I know there were two of them. I keep waiting. Sure enough, I hear the second one scuffling out after his colleague.

Once they’re both out from cover, I round the corner of the staircase and shoot them both. The first one falls straight to the floor. The second one fires off three more rounds as he falls, but they shoot harmlessly up into the ceiling.

I hear a lot more gunfire coming from outside. I know that’s got to be Dom storming the house, though I told him not to do it. His orders were to cut the power if he could, then get Zima out again.

But I have to admit, I’m grateful he didn’t listen. From the sounds of it, without the distraction outside, I’d have a dozen more men piling in on me.

I don’t know how long Dom will be able to hold them off. I hope he’s smart enough to get out when they get too close and not get pinned down anywhere.

I don’t know how many more men might be inside, besides the five I’ve incapacitated. So I have to creep up the staircase slowly, clearing each bend with the AR at the ready, though I’m desperate to run up the stairs full speed to find Sloane.

Remizov’s house isn’t nearly as large as the monastery, but it’s big enough. Once I’m up to the second level, I have no idea which way to go. Until I see a scattering of tiny beads gleaming in the dim light. Dark red, like tiny droplets of blood. Torn from Sloane’s dress.

I stalk through the reading room, silent as a panther.

And then I catch sight of them through the French glass doors, standing out on the balcony.

I approach slowly, the rifle up on my shoulder, pointed directly at Remizov.

I push through the doors.

Remizov is standing a dozen yards away, his back against the balcony railing. With the AR I could hit him from three hundred yards, even in the dim light. But he’s holding Sloane directly in front of him with a gun pointed at her ribs.

I can see he’s disappointed I’m alive. Sloane is the exact opposite. Her relief is palpable. If I didn’t know it was impossible, I might even think those were tears sparkling in her eyes.

She doesn’t cry out this time, however. She knows our situation has hardly improved.

“Let go of her,” I say to Remizov. “I’ll put down the rifle. I came here for Sloane—I don’t give a shit about killing you.”

A few days ago, I wanted revenge on Remizov more than anything in the world.

But now, if I can just walk out of here with Sloane safe and alive, that’s the only thing that matters.

Remizov, however, has no intention of letting go of his shield.

He’s only an inch or two taller than Sloane. Standing directly behind her, there’s no way I can shoot him without hitting her as well.

He wants to wait this out.

He can hear the sounds of the firefight down in the yard as well as I can. If his men win, they’ll come up here and riddle me with bullets. If they lose, he can still shoot Sloane before I kill him.

Either way, I’m fucked.

I can see Sloane making the same calculation.

She’s running through our options exactly as I am. They are limited in the extreme.

I see her wide, dark eyes looking into mine, trying to communicate everything we’ve haven’t had a chance to say to each other yet.

I want to tell her that I love her. That I want her to stay with me always.

I think she feels the same.

Sloane is the other half of me, my perfect match. I understand her, and she understands me.

So I know what she’s thinking when she glances down at the automatic rifle nestled against my shoulder. This is a Ruger AR 556 with armor-piercing rounds. It could go through a Kevlar vest at this range.

Remizov is just a little taller than Sloane. His chest a little higher behind hers.

She looks down at the rifle and back up to my face again.

She gives me the slightest of nods.

The idea is insane.

But I trust her. And she trusts me.

I raise the barrel of the rifle.

Remizov understands what’s about to happen right as I start to pull the trigger.

He tries to lift his gun, to shoot me before I can fire.

He’s too late.

I aim and shoot. Right through Sloane’s shoulder, just below the collarbone. Directly into Remizov’s heart.

Sloane slumps to her knees, her hand pressed against her chest.

Remizov tumbles backward off the balcony.

I drop the gun and sprint toward her. I tear off my shirt, ball it up, press it against the exit wound on her back.

I pick her up in my arms.

Her face is white with pain, but she’s lucid.

“Nice shot,” she says.

I feel like I might have just made the worst mistake of my life. I’m running back through the house, down the stairs, and then out the front door with Sloane in my arms.

I’ve completely forgotten about the fight on the grounds. When two men run toward me, I’m worse than helpless. But then I recognize Dom and Efrem. Efrem is bleeding from a wound on the arm, but Dom’s in one piece.

“How many people did you bring?” I demand furiously.

“All of them, you idiot,” Dom says. “You’re welcome.”

No time to fight about it right now.

“Where’s the car?” I say.

Dom takes one look at Sloane. She still has her hand pressed against her shoulder, but the blood is leaking out, running down her arm.

“I’ll get it,” Dom says, running off across the yard.

“Did anyone else get shot?” I ask Efrem.

“Jasha took one in the leg,” he says. “But nobody’s dead.”

“Good,” I say. I’m relieved, or at least I know I should be relieved. But I can’t feel anything but terror until I know Sloane is alright.

Dom roars up in his SUV, kicking gravel across our feet.

Efrem opens the back door and I get inside with Sloane still in my arms.

Dom speeds toward the hospital, taking corners so fast that all four wheels are barely staying on the road.

I’m trying to stroke Sloane’s hair, trying to comfort her.

She looks up at me, still smiling a little.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” she says.

“I’ll always come for you,” I tell her. “I love you, Sloane.”

I’ve never said those words in my life. Not to anyone.

“I love you, too,” she says, tilting up her chin to kiss me.

“Have you ever said that before?” I ask her.

She laughs.

“No,” she says. “I never have. But I like it.”

“Me too,” I say.

I kiss her again.

“Wait,” she says, pulling back. “I have to ask you one thing.”

“What is it?”

“Did you kill that guy who looked like a linebacker?”

“The one with the smirk?”

“Yes!”

“Oh yeah, I shot him.”

“Good,” she says, nodding with satisfaction. “I hated that guy.”

“What was his deal? He was worse than Remizov.”

“Seriously.”

Sloane laughs, and then winces. The shirt pressed against her back is almost soaked through.

“Hurry, Dom,” I say to my brother.

“We’re almost there,” Dom says.

I kiss Sloane again, because she can’t go anywhere as long as I’m kissing her.