Page 43 of Devil’s Night (The Shadows of Darkness Universe #3)

Chapter thirty-one

Burn It All Down

Katya

I shouldn’t have stayed the night at my father’s estate, let alone stayed with Echo. Yet here I am, seated at the long, polished dining table between the two people who raised me, pretending everything is normal. Pretending I haven’t just been claimed by the man they swore was the enemy.

Just like Echo said would happen.

My body still aches in all the right places, filled and stretched and marked in ways my father would gut him for if he knew the truth.

I can still feel the way Echo kept me pinned to the bed this morning, refusing to let me leave without taking one more round from me, slow, messy, possessive.

And now, I sit here like nothing’s changed, even as the air vibrates with unspoken tension.

Across the table, my father cuts his eggs with deliberate care. My mother sits beside him, expression distant, as if she’s not quite here, not really. Her hands move mechanically, lifting a teacup to cracked lips. No one speaks.

But I feel the weight of his stare, the question coiled on the tip of his tongue.

“Say it,” I murmur, voice low, eyes never leaving his.

His fork pauses mid-air. “When did you plan on telling me you shared a bed with Echo Kane?”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

Fingers tap against the side of my glass in a rhythm that keeps me grounded. The answer slips from my lips easily, too easily. “What better way to infiltrate Catalyst than to go after the head himself?”

A lie. A thin, paper one, cracked at the edges from the weight of everything I feel.

As if Echo’s hands on my hips didn’t make me forget every oath of loyalty I ever took.

As if I’m not falling in love with the man I was raised to fear.

My father turns to my mother, voice cold but soft. “Sounds a lot like you, hm, dear?”

She doesn’t flinch. Just stares ahead, porcelain still, like she’s forgotten how to speak. Or maybe she remembers too much.

“So,” my father continues, knife gliding through his food with unsettling calm, “your time in Echo’s confinement wasn’t wasted after all?”

The corner of my mouth lifts, just enough to pass for a grin. “Apparently not.”

I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on the table, gaze sharpening. “Though, I do believe it’s time you start involving me in more of the family’s internal dealings. Starting with last night, specifically, where our drinks came from.”

That gets his attention. His hand stills. His eyes narrow, flicking up to meet mine with a quiet calculation I know too well.

“Is this your request, Katya?” he asks slowly. “Or is it Echo Kane’s?”

Before I can answer, a voice cuts through the room like a blade.

“Not mine.”

Echo enters like he belongs here, barefoot, shirt unbuttoned halfway, neck still showing faint scratch marks from the night before.

There’s no shame in the way he walks toward us.

No remorse in the way he moves to stand directly behind my chair, his hand ghosting over my shoulder like a silent warning to everyone watching.

“Though loyalty,” he says coolly, “is a narrow bridge, Dimitri. I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending my fealty to House Romanov is anything but personal. But if you want my resources, my network, my men, you’ll need to accept one simple truth.”

He lowers his gaze, fingers brushing the back of my neck.

“My loyalty begins with her.”

My father’s jaw tightens. My mother shifts for the first time, eyes lifting to Echo, searching, perhaps, for any trace of the monster she’s been told he is.

“This house was built on silence,” Echo says, voice lowering just enough to draw everyone in. “But silence rots power from the inside. If you want results, we need transparency. We need unity.”

He looks at me then, not with possession, but purpose.

“And she’s not a pawn in your empire anymore. She’s the hand that topples it.”

A silence stretches over the room.

My father sets his utensils down with careful precision, the clink of silverware against porcelain far too gentle for what follows.

“If you intend to stand beside my daughter, Mr. Kane,” he says, voice smooth as ever, “you should know something about our house.”

He lifts his napkin, dabbing the corners of his mouth as if wiping away something distasteful.

“In the Romanov line, we measure loyalty not in declarations, but in endurance. In longevity. Promises mean nothing if they wither at the first sign of consequence.”

His eyes drift to me, softening just enough to unsettle.

“My daughter has always been… passionate. But passions, as I’m sure you know, can be inconvenient and...temporary.”

Echo stiffens behind me, his hand still resting on my shoulder, thumb dragging back and forth like a reminder: he’s here. He’s listening. But so is my father.

“Women, Mr. Kane, are precious things. Beautiful, brilliant, but easily broken.” my father smiles. “And when broken, easily replaced.”

My fingers twitch against the tablecloth. Echo doesn’t move.

“But you already know that, don’t you?” my father continues, leaning back in his chair like a man with nothing to lose. “So if you’re going to make yourself a fixture in this house, I suggest you keep your end of the arrangement intact. Otherwise…”

His gaze slides toward my mother, still staring into her untouched tea like a ghost.

“…we both know how easily things can go quiet again.”

For a moment, the air freezes. Then, as if the storm hadn’t just rolled through the room, he exhales and gestures toward one of the servers lingering silently near the wall.

“Speaking of transparency, Katya, since you’re so curious about the drinks from last night…”

He raises a brow, as though amused.

“I’d be happy to show you the source.”

He lifts his teacup with mock cheer. “The vintage is rather rare, after all. Very small donors. Very fresh.”

My stomach knots.

Echo straightens behind me.

My father sips. “You’re welcome to see the lot yourself. A new shipment came in this morning. The little ones are kept below stairs, for now.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“And they do prefer when their guests look them in the eye before drinking.”

Echo doesn’t flinch. Neither do I.

On the outside, we are composed and stoic. We wear the Romanov mask well, mirroring the same indifference my father perfected years ago. No tremble in my hands. No fire in Echo’s glare. Just silence and control.

But inside?

I’m splintering.

Every breath in this corridor tastes like rot. Like blood. Like children’s screams swallowed by stone walls. And still, I nod slowly as Dimitri gestures toward the next steel door, as if I’m admiring a fucking wine selection.

Echo plays the part even better, hands tucked behind his back like a soldier awaiting orders, eyes trained on my father like he’s listening, learning. Obeying.

It’s terrifying how easy it is to lie with your face when your soul is already on fire.

My father continues walking, pleased with himself, the heels of his shoes echoing in perfect rhythm against the floor. The deeper we go, the colder the air becomes. The less it feels like a home, and more like a tomb for the living.

He stops abruptly and turns, his eyes locking on Echo with a glint that isn’t quite respect, but isn’t contempt either.

“This is where you come in, Mr. Kane,” he says smoothly. “Catalyst is… efficient. Organized. Ruthless, when necessary. It’s time those qualities were put to use beyond your little rebellion.”

Echo raises a brow, just enough to feign curiosity. “Expansion?”

“To begin with, yes,” Dimitri replies. “More territories. More distribution centers. More donors. We’ve outgrown the old systems. The Black Veil is fractured, my men are disorganized, and your men have the infrastructure I need.”

He steps closer to Echo, gaze hardening.

“If you have no fear fucking my daughter senseless under my own roof,” he says, voice sharp as a knife’s edge, “then I assume you’ll have no fear doing what is necessary.”

A beat.

Then the strike.

“Starting with getting rid of Roman Briar.”

The name slams into the silence like a bullet. My pulse stutters, but I keep my expression blank.

Echo doesn’t blink. “You want him eliminated.”

“I want him erased,” my father says, smile returning, slow and venomous. “Quietly. Thoroughly. His influence has become… inconvenient. He’s too beloved, too independent, and far too interested in preserving what should have been extinguished long ago.”

His eyes flick to me then, like I’m some kind of test Echo has passed.

“He’s a relic of an old world,” Dimitri continues. “One your generation will bury, one way or another.”

Echo nods once, measured and thoughtful. “And if I do this?”

“Then Catalyst becomes more than a tool,” my father answers. “It becomes legacy. A dynasty carved in blood and silence.”

My stomach turns.

But I force a smile.

Echo slips his hand into mine, casual, warm, reassuring beneath the cold.

“We understand each other,” he says, voice calm. “Consider Roman Briar handled.”

My father grins.

And I swallow the bile in my throat.

Because beneath the mask, beneath the practiced stillness and pretty lies, I’m already plotting how to burn it all down.

The heavy steel door shuts behind us, sealing the Romanov horrors back in the basement where they belong. For now.

We don’t speak as we walk. Not through the hallway. Not past the staff with their lowered gazes. Not as we climb the stairs and put distance between ourselves and the cold, sterile hell below.

But when the bedroom door finally closes, Echo locks it.

Not out of fear, but of necessity.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, screen lighting up with a relentless stream of missed calls and messages.

Roman Briar (27 new messages)

3 missed calls

Answer me.

What the fuck are you doing?

I swear to God if you've gone dark…

Echo exhales, tossing the phone on the bed like it’s buzzing with live ammunition.

His jaw is tight. Muscles coiled. The composure he wore like armor downstairs is already cracking around the edges.

“Roman won’t stop,” he mutters, pacing. “He knows something’s off. And he’s not wrong.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, blood still pounding in my ears from everything that just happened. The images. The doors. The children.

“They want him dead,” I say softly, as if saying it out loud might make it more real. “He knows too much.”

Echo doesn’t look at me right away. He stares at the floor, the wall, anywhere but my face.

Then finally, “We meet him. Today. I’m done keeping him in the dark.”

“Echo-”

“I already set it up,” he says. “Catalyst. Vault floor. No signals. No recordings. Just us.”

He grabs his phone again, fingers flying over the screen, sending one short, sharp message back to Roman:

Two hours. Be ready. Bring nothing.

He turns to me.

“You’re coming with me.”

My brows knit. “You want me at a meeting with Roman?”

“I need you there,” he says, stepping closer. “Because this isn’t just about me anymore. You heard your father, this isn’t a game of power moves and family politics. They’re planning genocide wrapped in legacy. They want to use Catalyst as the knife.”

He drops to one knee in front of me, resting his hands on my thighs, firm and grounding.

“I won’t let them turn you into a symbol for their sick empire. I won’t let them use us to start their war.”

A beat passes, and something in his voice softens.

“But I’m not doing this alone.”

He looks up at me, gaze sharp, unwavering.

“We face Roman together. No secrets. No masks. If this burns down, we burn it down hand in hand.”