CHAPTER 4 – THE DEVIL CHOSE MERCY
CHAPTER 4 – THE DEVIL CHOSE MERCY
The gunshot cracked through the office before anyone could breathe.
Kirill lunged forward.
"Damon!"
But Damon had already fired.
His first bullet struck the rifle barrel protruding through the splintered doorway, knocking it upward just as another shot went off. The enemy's round buried itself harmlessly in the ceiling.
A second shot.
A cry of pain echoed from the hallway.
Then the office erupted into chaos.
The guards returned fire in disciplined bursts while Kirill dragged a heavy oak cabinet across the ruined entrance, creating a narrow choke point. Smoke and sawdust filled the air until it became difficult to see more than a few feet ahead.
Alina instinctively dropped beside the sofa.
The doctor grabbed her shoulder.
"Stay down!"
Another volley of bullets tore through the wall behind them.
Fragments of plaster showered over Damon's desk.
Yet Damon remained standing.
One hand pressed firmly against his stitched shoulder.
The other held the pistol with astonishing steadiness.
"You shouldn't even be conscious," the doctor muttered.
Damon answered without looking away from the doorway.
"I'll sleep tomorrow."
Outside, the attackers regrouped.
A calm voice drifted through the smoke.
"Volkov!"
No answer.
"You've lost half your men."
Still silence.
"We know you're injured."
Another pause.
"So let's make this simple."
The man's tone turned almost conversational.
"Give us the girl."
Alina felt every eye in the room shift toward her.
Not with blame.
With concern.
The stranger continued.
"We'll leave the rest of you alive."
Kirill gave a humorless laugh.
"They think we're idiots."
Damon finally spoke.
Only three words.
"Tell him..."
He slowly replaced the magazine in his pistol.
"...to come himself."
The reply was immediate.
A grenade rolled through the shattered doorway.
"Down!"
Kirill tackled the doctor.
The explosion blasted the office with deafening force.
Glass burst inward.
Books flew from the shelves.
The antique chandelier crashed onto the conference table in a shower of crystal.
When the dust settled, alarms screamed throughout the mansion.
The cabinet blocking the doorway had been blown apart.
The entrance now stood open.
Three armed men rushed inside.
The first never made it two steps.
Damon fired once.
The man collapsed.
The second raised his rifle—
Kirill intercepted him with brutal efficiency, slamming him into the broken doorframe before disarming him.
The third attacker saw Alina.
His eyes widened.
"There she is!"
He abandoned the firefight completely and charged toward her.
Everything happened in seconds.
The doctor stumbled.
Alina backed into the corner with nowhere left to run.
The attacker reached for her arm—
A single gunshot echoed through the ruined office.
The man's hand froze inches from her.
Confusion crossed his face.
Then he slowly looked down.
A dark stain spread across his chest.
He collapsed at Alina's feet.
Behind him stood Damon.
Still holding the smoking pistol.
Still standing.
Barely.
The silence afterward felt heavier than the gunfire.
Damon swayed.
His knees threatened to give way.
Alina reached him just before he fell.
Without thinking, she caught him.
He was much heavier than she expected.
His weight nearly pulled both of them to the floor.
"You idiot," the doctor snapped, rushing over. "Your stitches—"
Blood soaked through the fresh bandages again.
Far more than before.
Damon ignored everyone else.
His gaze remained fixed on Alina.
"Are you hurt?"
She stared at him in disbelief.
"You just got shot at."
"I asked..."
His voice weakened.
"...if you're hurt."
She shook her head.
"No."
Only then did the tension leave his shoulders.
For the first time that night, Damon closed his eyes.
Not from relief.
From exhaustion.
His body simply refused to keep fighting.
He collapsed against her.
"Boss!"
Kirill caught him before he hit the floor.
The doctor ripped open the ruined bandages.
"Damn it."
Blood poured freely from the reopened wound.
"We have to stop this now."
Kirill looked toward the hallway.
More footsteps echoed from downstairs.
"Our men?"
A guard listened through his radio.
"They're pushing the attackers back."
Another voice crackled through the speaker.
"Perimeter secure."
Then—
"Wait..."
Static interrupted the transmission.
"...we found something."
Kirill took the radio.
"What?"
A long pause.
Then the answer came.
"One of the dead attackers was carrying photographs."
"What photographs?"
The guard hesitated.
"Not of the boss."
Kirill frowned.
"Then whose?"
Another pause.
"The waitress."
Every muscle in the room seemed to lock.
The guard continued quietly.
"There are dozens of them."
"Different days."
"Different locations."
"Someone has been watching her for weeks."
Alina felt the blood drain from her face.
"That's impossible."
She had never noticed anyone following her.
Never seen strange cars.
Never felt watched.
Kirill's expression darkened.
"It wasn't tonight."
"It started long before the ambush."
The doctor looked up from treating Damon.
"Why would anyone surveil a waitress?"
No one answered.
Because no one knew.
Except Damon.
Though barely conscious, his eyes opened a fraction.
He whispered one name.
"...Roman."
Kirill's face hardened instantly.
"So it was him."
Alina frowned.
"Who is Roman?"
Kirill looked at her with an expression she couldn't read.
"Roman Orlov."
"The only man in Chicago who hates Damon Volkov enough..."
"...to destroy anything he might one day love."
The room fell utterly silent.
Alina looked toward Damon.
His hand, weak and trembling, searched blindly until it found hers.
His fingers closed around them with the last of his strength.
He never opened his eyes.
But he didn't let go.
And for the first time since entering the Volkov estate two years earlier, Alina realized a terrifying truth.
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She had never been caught in the crossfire by accident.
Someone had been waiting for the day Damon Volkov would finally look at her.
