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I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.
Outside, the gates of his estate come into view, crawling open like the jaws of a beast waiting to devour.
And I know—truly know—that I am not married to a man. I am chained to a monster. A monster who’s sealing my father’s death with a smile.
The gates creak open slowly—too slowly, like they resent the idea of letting us back in. The black SUV glides forward, its tires crunching the gravel with the low, steady growl of something returning home to a den of predators.
I sit frozen in the passenger seat, my hands folded neatly on my lap, though every muscle in my body wants to break formation. I want to run. I want to scream. But I do neither.
The house appears, looming at the top of the circular driveway, as grand and imposing as ever. But today it feels bigger. Hungrier. The shadows stretching along the walls seem to reach for me.
The car rolls to a stop.
A guard approaches, nods sharply at Cristóbal through the window, then backs away like a well-trained dog. Another takes position by the front door, already opening it before we’re even out of the vehicle.
I don’t move.
Cristóbal steps out first, all polished menace and calm arrogance. He doesn't glance at me. Doesn’t offer a hand. Why would he? The performance ended the moment the front door of my parents' estate closed behind us.
I force my legs to work and step out. My heels hit the stone path, and I wobble slightly from the pain in my ribs. I steady myself before anyone notices.
The door swings open, and my stomach tightens. Each step toward the threshold feels like walking deeper into quicksand. The kind that’s disguised as marble floors and chandeliers, and engulfs you with a smile.
I think about Maksim. I imagine him bouncing on the bed, or quietly drawing dinosaurs the way he does with a concentrationtoo intense for a boy his age. My heart twists so sharply I nearly stagger. But I have to keep it together for him.
As we step inside, Cristóbal hands me off to one of his men and disappears down a corridor without a word. His staff members glide by like ghosts, avoiding eye contact. The air is cold and still. Every inch of this house is polished and gilded, yet all I feel is suffocation.
I walk slowly to the stairs and stop halfway up, placing a hand on the banister just to feel something solid. Pain sears through my lungs with every breath I take. Panic sits on my chest like a boulder, and I want to cry, but there are no tears left. Only the dull ache of exhaustion and regret hangs in the air.
If only Zasha had wanted me, then Maksim and I would have been safe. I press my fingers harder into the banister and stare at the hallway that leads to my son’s room.
Would Zasha even care now? Would he come if he knew? My throat tightens as I realize he’d despise me for hiding Maksim and for walking with him into this prison.
But if his hatred is the price to save my son—
Then I’ll pay it.
Over and over again.
43
Chapter 34
Zasha
The clock strikes midnight, and I slide a fresh magazine into my Glock. The click sounding sharp and final. It echoes through the surveillance apartment like a starting pistol. The red glow from the wall clock bounces off the matte black of my vest. I’m already geared up—boots tight, comms wire clipped to my collar, knives hugging my sides like steel teeth waiting to sink in.
My pulse is steady, not because I’m calm, but because I’m filled with rage. It’s not the kind of rage that explodes. Rather, it’s the kind that simmers until it burns a hole through your ribs. Tonight, it has a target.
Across the room, Lev adjusts his comms. His usual sarcasm is absent, and he looks ready to tear down the whole city. There’s astorm in his jawline and a twitch in how he tests his mic. Good, he’s ready.
Viktor stands at the center, his low voice curling through the room like smoke. He briefs the strike team—Anton, Roman, Dmitri, Felix, and Yuri. All Bratva men who have been trained to kill with precision.
I stand beside the surveillance monitor, my fingers tapping on the screen, with every blind spot already marked with an X. I’ve studied this layout so many times that it’s etched into my memory.
I tap at a point on the screen. “We enter through here,” I say, voice low, pointing at a position between two generators. “There’s a dead angle here, Roman already looped the feed.”
“Zoom in,” Viktor says, and I do.