Russian Roulette

Russian Roulette
Aria's POV

The car crash happened so fast I barely had time to scream.
One second, we were driving through the industrial area. The next, a truck slammed into our side, sending us spinning across the wet road.
"Hold on!" Dmitri yelled, fighting to control the wheel.
We hit a concrete obstacle and stopped with a bone-jarring crash. Steam poured from the engine, and my ears were ringing again.
"You okay?" Dmitri asked, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead.
I checked myself for broken bones. Everything hurt, but nothing seemed badly damaged. "I think so."
That's when the shooting started.
Bullets broke what was left of our windows. Dmitri grabbed my hand and yanked me from the car just as it burst behind us.
"Vincent's people?" I gasped, running beside him toward a cluster of abandoned buildings.
"No. These are mine."
I stumbled, confused. "What?"
"My father's men," Dmitri said sadly, pulling me behind a rusted shipping container. "I was wondering when they'd make their move."
More shots echoed around us. These weren't random street thugs - they moved like soldiers, coordinated and dangerous.
"Your own family is trying to kill you?"
"Long story," Dmitri said, checking his weapon. "Short version - they think I'm weak because I care about you."
A man appears around the corner of our hiding spot, rifle raised. Dmitri moved like lightning, disarming him with brutal effectiveness. The attacker went down hard and didn't get up.
"This way," Dmitri said, leading me deeper into the maze of industrial buildings.
We ran through empty warehouses and narrow alleys until we hit a building that looked different from the others. Armed guards stood at the door, but they nodded respectfully when they saw Dmitri.
"Boss," one of them said in a thick Russian accent. "We heard shooting."
"My father's people," Dmitri answered shortly. "Double the guards. No one gets in without my permission."
Inside, the building was alive with action. Men were moving crates, counting money, and checking guns. The air smelled like oil and fireworks.
"What is this place?" I asked.
"My real business," Dmitri said, his ice-blue eyes scanning the room. "Arms dealing, underground fights, security services. Everything my father taught me before he decided I was a failure."
A huge man with scars covering his face approached us. "Dmitri. The Moscow boys want to talk. They say your father has made them a better deal."
"Let them talk," Dmitri said coldly. "Actions speak louder than words."
"And the fights tonight?"
"Continue as planned. But improve security. If my father wants a war, we'll give him one."
As the scarred man walked away, I grabbed Dmitri's arm. "You can't fight your own family."
"Why not? They were ready to kill me five minutes ago."
"Because family is meant to protect each other. Even when they make mistakes."
Dmitri's laugh was bitter. "You still don't understand, do you? In my world, family is just another word for people who can hurt you the most."
He led me up a set of stairs to a private office overlooking the main floor. Through the windows, I could see guys setting up a fighting ring in the center of the warehouse.
"Tell me," I said, sitting across from him at his desk. "Tell me what happened."
For a long moment, Dmitri just stared at his hands. Then he started talking.
"I was twelve when we came to America. My father, Alexei Petrov, was running from enemies in Moscow. He said we'd build a new kingdom here, stronger than what we'd left behind."
His voice was flat, lifeless, but I could see the pain in his eyes.
"For years, I did everything he asked. Learned to fight, learned to kill, learned to take what I wanted without caring who got hurt. I was his best weapon."
"What changed?"
"I grew up. Started questioning why we had to hurt harmless people to make money. Started thinking maybe there was a better way."
Dmitri stood and walked to the window, watching his men prepare for the night's fighting.
"My father saw it as weakness. Said caring about anyone but family would get me killed. When I refused to murder a rival's daughter - she was only sixteen - he decided I wasn't fit to inherit his business."
"So he's trying to kill you?"
"He's trying to replace me. With my cousin Viktor, who has no problem with murder." Dmitri's hands clenched into fists. "Viktor was the one driving that truck tonight."
A commotion below caught our attention. Two fighters had entered the ring, and money was changing hands as people made their bets.
"You run illegal fights?"
"Among other things. It's harsh, but it's honest. Two people fight, one wins, everyone knows the rules going in."
The fight started, and I had to look away. It was more violent than anything I'd ever seen.
"I know it's ugly," Dmitri said quietly. "But it's better than what my father does. He ruins lives for profit. I just give people what they're already looking for."
Something in his voice made me turn back to him. This dangerous man, who fought like a demon and killed without pause, was trying to be better than what he'd been raised to be.
"You're not weak for caring," I said. "You're stronger than all of them."
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw something break open in his ice-blue eyes.
"You make me want to be better," he whispered. "Even when I know I can't be."
"You already are."
Before I could think about what I was doing, I reached up and touched his face. He leaned into my hand like he was starving for gentle touch.
"Aria..."
"I know," I said. "It's tricky. Marco, Luca, Kai - we're all tangled up together. But right now, it's just us."
He kissed me then, soft and desperate and full of love. His hands were gentle despite their roughness, and he tasted like danger and hope mixed together.
When we broke apart, he rested his face against mine.
"I love you," he whispered in Russian, then in English. "I know I'm not meant to. I know it makes everything harder. But I can't help it." "Dmitri-"
An explosion shook the building, and the lights went out. Emergency lights kicked in, bathing everything in red.
"They found us," Dmitri said, grabbing weapons from his desk.
Through the window, I could see guys in black tactical gear surrounding the building. But these weren't his father's people.
At the front of the group stood my mother, very much living, holding a military-grade rifle.
And next to her was Chen Wei, smiling like he'd just won the lottery.