Chapter 4
Vivienne's POV
The storage compartment fell silent again.
But outside the door, there were still the sticky sounds of boot soles stepping through blood, and inside the metal shell lingered the aftershock from that round of gunfire.
The air was thick with the smell of blood.
I stood in the corner, motionless.
My fingertips were numb with cold, the hem of my dress crumpled into wrinkles where I clutched it.
I should have lowered my head, should have looked away, should have learned to be quiet like everyone else here who had survived, but my eyes remained fixed on the doorway.
Alexei had already brought people inside.
He raised his hand, and two men in black immediately split apart—one crouched down to search the corpses' pockets, the other raised his gun and fired another shot into someone still twitching.
On the other side, someone pulled open a corpse's collar to confirm the face, while another took a cloth to wipe the door handle and the footprints trampled across the floor.
Their movements were swift, without a single pause.
No one wasted a single word.
One look, one raised hand, one person stepped aside, another filled in.
Who would clean the doorway, who would drag the bodies, who would guard the corridor.
For the first time, I truly saw this clearly.
These weren't just a group of desperados with guns.
This was a well-trained gang.
And the man at the door was obviously the gang boss.
Only after the gunfire had completely stopped did I dare to truly rest my gaze on Dmitri.
He was far taller than I remembered.
The shoulder line of his black wool coat was coldly sharp, the hem still stained with blood, black leather gloves gripping his gun, his knuckles barely making any unnecessary movements.
The light pressed down on his face, cutting his features even deeper. Those pale gray eyes were cold as if devoid of any warmth. The smell of tobacco mixed with gunpowder drifted from him, completely irreconcilable with the boy I remembered—mouth full of blood, back covered in whip marks.
I stared at him, my chest tightening bit by bit.
Too unfamiliar.
So unfamiliar I could barely admit that I knew him.
Dmitri walked toward me.
His boots stepped through blood, stopping in front of me. Only a few steps remained between us, close enough that I could see the dark stains on his coat cuffs, could smell the deeper coldness beneath that gunpowder scent.
Neither of us moved first.
Finally, he spoke first.
"Can you still stand?"
My nails dug deeper into my palms, forcing myself to straighten my back a little.
"Yes."
I heard my own voice come out hoarse, but not trembling too badly.
Dmitri looked at me for a few seconds, then turned and walked outside, not sparing me any extra glance.
"Follow."
As those two words fell, my feet moved after him. But I had barely taken two steps when my whole body stopped.
Autumn was still on the ship.
I opened my mouth almost immediately: "Wait, Autumn is still here."
My voice wasn't loud, but the urgency still leaked through.
Several people in the corridor stopped for an instant. Alexei didn't respond to me—he only looked toward Dmitri first.
Dmitri didn't even turn around.
He continued walking forward, his tone as flat as if deciding whether or not to load a batch of cargo.
"Take her with us."
He paused, as if casually adding a sentence.
"Alive."
My breath caught slightly.
In that moment, I clearly felt that the current Dmitri could decide others' life or death with a single sentence.
Alexei immediately nodded: "Da, Boss."
He raised his hand, and several Bratva men quickly dispersed in different directions to find her, without half a second's hesitation.
Alexei looked back at me: "Let's go, Miss Ashford."
I said nothing, only followed.
We left the storage compartment, passing through the narrow corridor.
The ship's hull still swayed lightly on the sea, the lights flickering bright and dim.
Corpses lay scattered everywhere—some were Moretti's men, others were faces I didn't recognize.
Someone was slumped against the wall, half their face gone. Someone lay at a doorway, hand still maintaining the posture of raising a gun.
Pools of blood spread from the edges of boot soles all the way over, almost reaching the tips of my shoes.
My stomach lurched violently, the sourness making my throat contract. I clenched my jaw, not daring to breathe heavily, forcibly pushing that nausea back down.
Every step underfoot required careful attention—one careless move and I'd slip into the blood, slip among those dead with open eyes.
I nearly stepped into a pool of dark red.
Alexei shifted to block me.
"Careful, Miss."
I jerked my foot back, stepping around that patch of blood.
I didn't scream, didn't cry.
Not because I wasn't afraid. But because I understood I no longer had the privilege of breaking down.
Crying couldn't keep me alive, and fainting even less so.
At this point, I had only one thought left.
Survive.
When we reached the deck, the night wind mixed with snow pellets whipped across our faces.
I could barely open my eyes.
The helicopter's rotor was still spinning wildly, the wind it stirred up cutting like knives across my face. My soaked hair was immediately blown into disarray, plastering against my ice-cold cheeks.
Shell casings were everywhere on the deck, bloodstains dragged apart by the wind. Men in black moved back and forth, carrying injured people onto the cabin, rapidly transferring weapon crates and metal boxes containing documents.
Someone was counting heads, someone checking corpses, someone collecting dropped guns.
I was led to the helicopter's side, my hands and feet still cold, but my gaze couldn't help following Dmitri.
He always stood last.
Everyone else was evacuating, but he didn't move. When people passed by him, they'd stop for half a step, waiting for him to glance at them, or waiting for him to say something.
The injured boarded first, weapons and evidence transferred next, finally leaving several men on deck responsible for cleanup.
Only when Alexei returned and nodded to him did Dmitri finally take steps toward the helicopter.
The wind blew my hair into complete disarray. I stood by the cabin door, but a question turned over more and more violently in my heart, impossible to suppress.
Finally, as he passed in front of me, I spoke in a low voice.
"...Is it you?"
The moment the words left my mouth, I realized I was trembling.
Dmitri stopped.
He turned to look at me.
Wind and snow beat against his shoulders. His face showed no expression, pale gray eyes settling on my face. Those few seconds were terrifyingly quiet, only the helicopter rotor's roar pressing down on the entire ship.
Then he said: "It's me."
He looked at me, the corner of his mouth pulling up extremely slightly, but without any trace of a smile.
"You recognized me later than I expected."
My face stung from the wind, but my ears suddenly burned. Embarrassment, humiliation, shock—everything clogged up together.
Of course I remembered those eyes.
But how could I dare to reconcile the Boss before me—who had just finished killing without even his breathing disturbed—with that boy who used to be beaten in the Moretti courtyard years ago?
I opened my mouth but couldn't force out a single word.
Dmitri didn't give me any more time to react.
After speaking, he turned and stepped onto the helicopter, saying nothing more.
I stood at the cabin door, my body frozen for an instant.
Through the wind and snow, I took one last look at this cruise ship.
The blood on deck had already been soaked by snow, the lights cold and white, corpses, shell casings, overturned crates all crowded together.
The sea wind wrapped in the smell of blood rushed up, almost making me remember again that floor full of dead in the lower hold.
I had escaped from Moretti's hands.
But this realization didn't make me feel the slightest bit lighter.
Because now I had fallen into another man's hands.
Behind me suddenly came Alexei's voice, low and respectful, but leaving me no choice.
"Miss Ashford, Boss doesn't like to be kept waiting."
I suppressed the tremor that was almost about to rush out of my mouth and stepped onto the helicopter.
