Chapter Three: Blood is Blood

...Dimitri...

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

The Ivanov estate rose from the mist like a monument to sin.

Dimitri's car pulled through the iron gates, past guards who snapped to attention, past the fountain his mother had once tended with such care. The roses had died years ago. He'd never bothered to replant them.

The mansion was old—decades of Ivanov blood soaked into the walls, into the floors, into the very foundation. His father had built it on corpses and corruption. Dimitri had inherited it the same way.

But he'd made it his own.

The study was his sanctuary—dark wood, leather chairs, a fireplace that crackled even in summer. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes he'd never read. He didn't read. He didn't have time for stories.

He had time for revenge.

And tonight, revenge had a name.

Terence Kovak.

Dimitri poured himself a glass of whiskey—neat, no ice—and stared into the amber liquid. His reflection stared back: cold eyes, hard jaw, the scar on his chin a pale reminder of everything he'd survived.

He should have killed Kovak years ago.

He'd wanted to. God, how he'd wanted to. But the man was slippery—always surrounded by guards, always one step ahead. And Dimitri had been patient. He'd learned patience in the camp, where waiting meant surviving.

But now—

Now Kovak's daughter was in his hands.

And that changed everything.

She's innocent, a voice whispered. She didn't know. She didn't choose him.

Dimitri shoved the thought away.

Innocence was a luxury he couldn't afford. In his world, guilt was inherited. Blood was blood. And Terence Kovak's blood—no matter how soft, how caramel-skinned, how sweet-smelling—was tainted.

His phone buzzed. Alexei.

"Report."

"The Volkovs are holed up in an abandoned warehouse on the docks," Alexei said. "They're expecting an attack. But they don't know when."

Dimitri smiled—a thin, cruel expression. "Good. Let them wait. Fear is better than pain."

"And the girl, Pakhan? She's been quiet. Too quiet."

Dimitri's jaw tightened.

Quiet.

He didn't trust quiet.

"She's plotting," he said. "She's smart. I saw it in her eyes."

"Do you want me to—"

"No." The word came out sharper than intended. Dimitri paused, composing himself. "Leave her. For now. I'll deal with her tomorrow."

He ended the call and set the phone down.

Tomorrow.

He'd go back to that trailer, and he'd look into those big brown eyes, and he'd—

What?

Break her? Use her? Destroy her?

He didn't know.

And that uncertainty—that flicker of something other than cold—was the most dangerous thing of all.

- - -

...Ella...

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

She didn't sleep.

How could she?

The trailer was cold, the metal walls leaching heat like a corpse. Ella huddled in the corner, her baggy sweatpants doing nothing to ward off the chill. Her tank top was thin, and she'd left her jacket in her car—her car, which was still parked outside, just out of reach.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She should have grabbed it. She should have run when she had the chance.

But she hadn't. Because she'd been too tired, too focused on the work, too—

Stop it.

Self-pity wouldn't help her. Regret wouldn't save her.

She needed to think.

Ella pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. Her glasses had fogged from the cold. She took them off, wiped them on her tank top, and put them back on. The trailer swam into focus—the blueprints, the desk, the filing cabinet. The door.

The door that led to freedom.

She stared at it for a long time.

She could try to break it down. She was small, but adrenaline was a hell of a drug. Or she could find something—anything—to pick the lock. A paperclip. A bobby pin. Something.

But even if she got out—

Where would I go?

He'd find her. Men like him always found you. She'd read enough crime novels, watched enough true crime documentaries, to know how this worked. He had resources. Connections. He probably had eyes everywhere.

She'd run, and he'd catch her.

And then—

Ella shivered.

He said he wouldn't touch me. He said he'd do something worse.

She didn't want to find out what that something was.

So she stayed.

She sat in the corner, her back against the cold metal wall, and she waited. The hours crawled by. Her stomach growled. Her throat burned with thirst. But she didn't move.

She thought about her mother. Kind, gentle Clara, who had no idea her daughter was trapped in a construction trailer by a monster.

She thought about Sally. Her baby sister, who would panic and drive straight here, straight into danger.

She thought about her father.

Terence.

The name tasted bitter in her mouth.

He'd done something. Something to make Dimitri Ivanov hate him. She could see it in the way his eyes had darkened when she'd spoken her father's name. The way his jaw had tightened. The way his voice had dropped to that cold, lethal whisper.

"Terence Kovak."

Like the name was a curse. Like he'd been waiting his whole life to say it.

What did you do, Dad? she wondered. What did you do to make him hate you so much?

She didn't know.

But she was going to find out.

If I survive this.

Ella closed her eyes.

She made a promise—to herself, to her mother, to the sister who was the only real friend she'd ever had.

I will survive this.

“And i will fucking make him pay”

---

...Dimitri...

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

Dawn broke grey and cold.

Dimitri hadn't slept either. He'd lain in his bed—a massive four-poster that had once belonged to his father—and stared at the ceiling. The sheets smelled like sandalwood. Like his mother.

He'd never been able to wash her out of this house.

He dressed in black—always black—and went downstairs. Maya was already in the kitchen, her back to him as she stirred something on the stove. She wore a soft pink sweater, her hair loose and curling around her shoulders. She was beautiful. She was kind. She was everything he'd failed to be.

"Big brother," she said without turning. "You didn't sleep."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're here at 6 AM, and you look like walking corpse." She glanced over her shoulder, a knowing smile on her face. "And you're wearing the scowl."

Dimitri grunted. "I don't scowl."

"You always scowl. It's your face."

He would have smiled at that—if he still remembered how. Maya was one of the few people who could make him almost feel human.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, turning to face him. Her blue eyes—their mother's eyes—searched his face. "You seem... unsettled."

Unsettled.

That was one word for it.

"I found Kovak's daughter," he said, his voice flat.

Maya went still. "Kovak. The one who—"

"Yes."

"Did you—"

"I didn't hurt her." The words came out defensive. He didn't know why. "She's alive. For now."

Maya studied him for a long moment. Then she set down her spoon and crossed to him, her hand reaching up to cup his cheek. Her touch was warm. Gentle. Everything he didn't deserve.

"You know I'll love you no matter what," she said softly. "But I need you to remember something."

"What?"

"Not everyone is our father."

Dimitri pulled away, his jaw tightening. "She's Kovak's daughter. That makes her our enemy."

"Does it?" Maya tilted her head. "Did she choose her father? Did she ask to be born to a monster?"

Dimitri didn't answer.

Because he knew—somewhere, deep in the place he kept locked away—she was right.

But he couldn't afford to see it.

Couldn't afford to feel.

Because if he started feeling—if he started seeing Ella Kovak as anything other than a tool for revenge—he'd lose the one thing that had kept him alive all these years.

His hatred.

And without it, he was nothing.

---

...Ella...

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

The morning light was pale and watery.

Ella watched it filter through the trailer's dirty windows, her eyes gritty from exhaustion. She'd spent the night in a half-sleep, jerking awake at every creak, every groan of metal, every whisper of wind.

Her body ached. Her throat was dry. She hadn't eaten in hours—hadn't even thought about food, though her stomach protested with a hollow ache.

He's coming back, she thought. He said he would.

And she needed to be ready.

Not to fight. Not to escape.

To survive.

She stood and stretched—her back cracking, her knees popping. Her glasses were still smudged. She cleaned them on the hem of her tank top, then pushed them back into place.

She looked around the trailer. The blueprints were still on the table. The wrench was still on the floor. The door was still locked.

It's okay, she told herself. You've survived worse. You've survived your father. You've survived everything life threw at you.

You can survive this.

But could she?

He'd said he was going to destroy her. Not kill her—destroy. And somehow, that was worse. Because destruction wasn't quick. It wasn't clean. It was slow and methodical and cruel.

Ella wrapped her arms around herself and waited.

She heard footsteps outside.

Heavy. Measured. Alone.

Ella's heart slammed against her ribs.

He's here.

The door handle turned. The lock clicked. And then—

The door swung open, and Dimitri Ivanov stepped inside.

He filled the frame, tall and broad and impossibly beautiful. His black silk hair was neatly combed. His dark blue eyes were cold as winter. The scar on his chin was a pale slash in the morning light.

He wore black. Of course he did. He looked like a shadow given form.

And he smelled like sandalwood and citrus—a scent that should have been pleasant but made her want to run.

Ella stood her ground.

She met his eyes.

And she didn't flinch.

"Good morning, little one," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I hope you slept well."

Ella lifted her chin. "Like a baby."

His lips twitched—almost a smile. "Liar."

She didn't deny it.

He stepped closer, and she forced herself not to back away. Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting into her skin.

If he touches me—

But he didn't touch her. He stopped a foot away, his gaze flicking over her face, her body, the tension in her shoulders.

"You didn't try to escape," he said.

It wasn't a question. More like an observation. A test.

Ella's throat tightened. "Would it have mattered if I did?"

"Probably not." He tilted his head, studying her. "You're smarter than you look."

"Thanks,i know."

His eyes flickered—just a fraction of a second—and then the mask was back.

"You're going to tell me everything you know," he murmured. "About your father. About his dealings. About where he keeps his secrets."

"Or what?"

His hand came up, his fingers brushing her jaw. The touch was featherlight—and terrifying.

"Or I'll make you wish you'd never met me."

Ella looked into his eyes.

And she saw it—the monster. The darkness. The pain and rage that had shaped him into this.

She should have been terrified.

She was.

But beneath the fear, something else stirred.

Curiosity.

Who was this man? What had happened to him? She wanted to ask who hurt him?

She didn't know.

But she wanted to find out.

Stupid, she told herself. So stupid.

But she couldn't look away.

"Your father was a friend of my father, when my father killed my mother," Dimitri said softly. "He watched her die, and he laughed. And now—" His thumb traced her jaw. "—you're going to help me pay him back."

Ella swallowed hard.

"You're wrong," she whispered. "He's not my father. Not really. Not to me."

Dimitri's eyes flickered—just for a moment.

And then the mask was back.

"Blood is blood," he said. "And you're still his daughter."

"Then kill me," Ella said. "If that's what you want. If that's what he deserves. Do it."

She stared at him, daring him.

Daring him to prove her right.

Daring him to prove he was the monster she'd thought.

Dimitri stared back.

And in his chest—in the frozen wasteland where his heart used to be—something cracked.

---