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32

Lev

I sit in the armchair across from the bed, elbows on my knees, hands clenched tight. She’s here. Safe. Clean. Breathing. But I’m still a mess.

She looks too fragile under the blankets. The bruises are fading, but I see them. Mendes is dead, but the damage he left lingers in her eyes. I hate that I couldn't protect her from it.

She climbs into bed slowly, every movement deliberate, heavy. When she looks at me, I brace myself to be told to leave. But instead, her voice comes soft and uncertain: “Will you sit with me?”

I don’t answer. I just move.

I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch her. My hands feel too rough. My presence too wrong. She nestles into the pillows, curling in on herself, but she doesn’t look away from me.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she says, voice cracking.

“I never stopped looking.”

“But you left,” she whispers, her gaze dropping. “When I needed you the most.”

The words gut me.

“I know.” My voice is raw. “And I’m sorry.”

She turns her face toward me, and it hits me—how much pain she still carries. Because of me. Because I ran. I reach out, slowly brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek. My fingers tremble as they touch her skin, but she doesn’t pull away.

“I thought I could live without you,” I murmur. “That staying away was the right thing. That I was protecting you.” I let out a low, bitter breath. “But I wasn’t. I was running. Because loving you scared the hell out of me.”

Her breath catches.

I lean down, pressing my forehead to hers. “I love you, Alina.”

For a heartbeat, there’s silence. Then another. I feel her inhale sharply—and then her body trembles beneath the blanket.

“I love you so damn much,” I say, “it’s wrecked me. I tried to kill it. Ignore it. Pretend you didn’t mean everything to me. But the second I thought I lost you—” My voice cracks. “It destroyed me.”

Her hand reaches for mine. She pulls me toward her, not caring about the blanket between us, not caring about bruises or exhaustion. Her arms wrap around my hand and press it to her chest, and then she’s crying—really crying.

“You love me?” she chokes out, her voice small, broken, beautiful. “You love me?”

I nod. “More than anything.”

Her eyes search mine, and then she lets out a shuddering breath. “I waited so long to hear you say it. I dreamed about it. I longed for it. I hated you for leaving, but I still loved you through every second you were gone.”

I feel her tears soak into my hand as she holds it tighter to her heart.

“I thought I’d never be enough for you,” she whispers. “That you’d never let yourself want me.”

“You were always enough,” I say hoarsely. “You were too much, Alina. That’s what scared me.”

She smiles through her tears, broken and beautiful, and then whispers, “Say it again.”

I kiss her knuckles slowly. “I love you.”

She closes her eyes. “Again.”

“I love you.”

Her breathing slows, and I feel her body start to soften. She doesn’t let go of my hand.

Then she opens her eyes one more time and says, “Then stay. Please.”

I nod, emotion thick in my throat. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

And even though there’s space between us, even though I don’t lie beside her—because I haven’t earned that yet—this moment is more intimate than any touch I could give her. She closes her eyes, still holding my hand to her chest, and for the first time in a long time...

She falls into a peaceful sleep.

It’s past midnight, yet time feels like something meant for other people. Not for me.

I sit in the kitchen of the Bratva safehouse, elbows resting on the table, a full mug of black coffee cooling between my palms. I haven’t touched it and don’t plan to. The bitter scent curls into the air, sharp enough to sting, but nothing can cut through the noise in my head.

The rest of the house is still- silent. But my mind is loud and restless. It keeps drifting back to that room, that monitor, that sound.

Whoosh-whoosh… whoosh-whoosh.

The heartbeat: our baby’s heartbeat.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sound. It struck me like a bullet and settled in my chest like a second heart. I haven’t been able to shake it—and the truth is, I don’t want to. Not now. Not after what almost happened. Not after what I almost threw away.

Alina is finally asleep down the hall. I sat by her side for hours, watching her breathe like if I blinked, she’d disappear. She still flinches in her sleep. Still curls her hand over her stomach like she’s protecting something sacred. I haven’t earned the right to rest beside her yet, but I will.

The door creaks open behind me. My hand shifts instinctively toward the blade sheathed under my jacket, but I don’t draw it. I recognize that gait—that quietness.

Zasha enters the room like smoke, gives me a nod, and leans against the counter without saying a word. That’s his way: solid, unshakable. If I had died yesterday, he would be the one to carry out the retribution- without fanfare and without hesitation.

He doesn’t ask how I’m doing because he knows. As we sit in comfortable silence, the door opens again, and Viktor walks in like a storm rolling in.

He walks in with the same authority he’s always possessed—quiet, deadly, and absolute. He’s not wearing a suit tonight. Just a black shirt, sleeves rolled, and an unreadable expression.

The tension in my back tightens. My stomach coils, not from fear, but from something worse.

Guilt.

I haven’t spoken to him. Not really. Not since before I left.

And now? I’m back, and his sister is carrying my child.

I look up.

He meets my gaze without flinching. There’s no warmth in his eyes, just steel. He grabs a glass, fills it at the tap, and downs half. The silence stretches, unforgiving.

He sets the glass down slowly. Purposefully. Then looks at me.

“We have unfinished business,” he says.

I nod once.

We do.

For a moment, none of us speak.

The air in the kitchen is thick—soaked with everything unsaid. Zasha leans against the counter, arms folded, watching like a man waiting for a bomb to go off. And I sit there, spine straight, heart hammering in a chest that’s trained to hide the impact.

But Viktor?

He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t blink. He just looks at me. Like he’s weighing the worth of my life.

And maybe… he is.

I hold his stare. I won’t look away. Whatever comes next—I’ve earned it.

Then he tilts his head, jaw flexing once.

“You know you’re a fucking asshole, right?”

The words hit almost harder than the punch that follows.

Almost.

The moment he says it, he moves. I don’t even have time to brace before his fist collides with my jaw. My head whips to the side, pain exploding across my cheekbone. The world tilts for a second, but I stay upright, breathing through the sting as the metallic taste of blood floods my mouth.

Zasha straightens like he’s about to intervene, but I lift a hand without looking at him.

“Don’t,” I rasp.

This isn’t a fight; it's a reckoning. Viktor’s eyes remain fixed on me, fury barely restrained behind them. He doesn’t allow me a moment to recover.

The second punch strikes my gut, delivering enough force to knock the wind out of me. I bend slightly, gripping the edge of the table with one hand, coughing once before I rise again.

“That one,” Viktor grits out, “is for getting her pregnant out of wedlock. Like some damned street urchin.”

I breathe in slowly and steadily. My ribs ache, but I keep my mouth shut. There’s no defense for what I did; there’s only the truth. And I’ll take every blow because I deserve them.

The third punch comes fast and brutal, straight to my temple. My vision flares white for a second, and this time I do stumble. The floor tilts beneath my boots, and I land hard against the table’s edge before catching myself again.

I wipe the blood from my lip with the back of my hand, then look at him. He’s breathing hard, rage still burning in every line of his body. However, his fists have dropped to his sides.

“That,” he says in a low voice, sharp like a knife cutting through frost, “was for disappearing. For running. For leaving her to suffer alone.”

I don’t argue; I simply nod once, wiping more blood from my mouth.

“I know.”

Silence follows. Sharp. Unforgiving.

But I don’t move.

I’ll accept whatever he needs to offer because what I did shattered something sacred. This is the only way we can begin to piece it back together.

Viktor’s fists are still clenched at his sides, his knuckles pale. His chest rises and falls with the kind of restraint that comes after holding back a second storm.

I don’t flinch. I don’t speak. I just watch him. Blood drips from the corner of my mouth onto the floor, and all I feel is the weight of what I owe him for how I failed Alina. For walking away when I should have stood my ground. He takes a step toward me, his gaze as cold as a blade.

“You’d better take care of her.”

The words land heavier than the punches. They’re not a warning; they’re an order: a threat, a vow. I meet them head-on. I rise to my full height, every inch of me made of steel and the oath I’ve already taken in my heart.

“I will,” I say, my voice low, calm, and absolute, “For anything to get to Alina, it’ll have to go through me.”

It’s not a boast. Not a line. But a fact.

Zasha shifts slightly beside the counter, tension radiating from him like heat. He watches us both, waiting for either of us to move—prepared to intervene if blood spills again.

But it doesn’t. Not this time. Viktor holds my gaze for another second. Then another. And finally… he nods. I take a deep breath, knowing he has passed his verdict. He turns and walks out of the room, footsteps heavy yet steady, leaving behind a silence so thick it presses against my chest.

I don’t relax. Not yet. Because that wasn’t forgiveness, that was permission. A line in the sand has been drawn not with anger but with trust—the fragile kind, the kind that can’t be broken twice.

Zasha exhales and mutters, “Well, that could’ve gone worse.”

I don’t answer. I just reach for the cold coffee and finally take a sip. It’s bitter. But I’ve tasted worse.

Later that morning, we gathered in the Bratva’s planning room—a space designed for war, not comfort.

It’s nothing like the rest of the safehouse. The air here feels colder- harsher. The walls are lined with steel shelves and blacked-out monitors. The table is long and dark, made from oak polished to a shine, but its surface is scarred by the weight of a thousand decisions. Power hums in the silence. Plans have been made here. Empires have shifted. Blood has been spilled because of what was said across this wood.

I take a seat on the right, and Zasha takes the seat next to me. Viktor stands at the head of the table. He doesn’t sit. He never does when he’s about to make something bleed. He pulls a photo from a folder and tosses it across the table. The edges curl slightly as it slides.

Mendes.

The bastard’s face stares up at us—grinning, arrogant, still alive.

Viktor’s voice is like broken ice. “Mendes will make sure he’s impossible to find now.”

He’s right. That son of a bitch has gone underground and won’t resurface until he believes it’s safe. Only this time, it will never be safe for him again.

I lean forward, my arms braced against the table. “He also has the cartel's backing. It may not be official, but he’s been operating under their flag for decades. He’s smart enough to exploit their silence.”

Zasha speaks up, voice low but steady. “And there’s no way he pulled this off without help. Inside eyes. Someone let him move Alina without triggering alarms. Either Cartel or someone feeding him intel.”

The room pulses with tension. I feel it in my spine- the need to move, to act, to hurt. But Viktor is already a step ahead.

He reaches for one of the secure satphones and dials a number from memory—one that isn’t stored in any digital system, only committed to the minds of those who deal in death and diplomacy.

He doesn’t sit or blink; he simply holds the phone to his ear until the click on the other end connects. He has just involved the cartel leader.

Good.

Viktor speaks first, his words sharp, clipped, and clear. “One of your men touched my family.”

There’s a pause before he responds. “Let’s meet.”

“We’re coming to you.”

Silence stretches for just a breath. Then— “I’ll be expecting you.”

Viktor ends the call without goodbyes or niceties. He looks at us with a gaze intense enough to flay flesh from bone.

“Gear up. We are heading to Thiago’s.”

I nod my agreement because this isn’t about politics anymore. It’s not about alliances or protocol. It’s about my Alina. And I will burn every bridge, every border, every bastard breathing between me and the man who tried to break her.

Thiago’s compound stands like a fortress carved into the hills—high walls, taller iron gates, and men with concealed rifles stationed like statues. Every move is calculated. Every shadow is watched.

We arrive in a black SUV. No insignias, no fanfare. Just our presence. The gates open for us like they know better than to make us wait.

Inside, we’re met by more walls of men—Thiago’s security. Faces hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, fingers brushing triggers. Watching us like they expect a shootout. And maybe they should.

Because I’m not walking in here as a diplomat. I’m walking in as a man who nearly lost the woman he loves—and I haven’t yet decided if this place will still be standing when I walk out.

Thiago appears at the entrance of his home, flanked by two of his lieutenants. He’s dressed in a white linen shirt and slacks, like a man at peace.

But I know better. Thiago is never at peace.

He steps forward with a calm expression—neutral, unreadable, the kind of look carved by decades of power and blood.

“Viktor,” he says, voice smooth. “Zasha. Lev.”

We don’t shake hands. There’s no point pretending this isn’t what it is. We’re shown into a wide, sunlit room lined with tinted windows and thick stone walls. It’s beautiful, expensive, and deadly.

Like Thiago himself.

We stand. No one sits. No one wants to appear too comfortable. Then Viktor speaks. And he doesn’t waste a breath.

“Carlos Mendes kidnapped my sister.”

Thiago’s expression doesn’t change.

Viktor continues, his tone low and lethal. “She was beaten. Drugged. Nearly violated. He was going to terminate her pregnancy and force her into marriage. My men pulled her out before he succeeded.”

I experience the intense heat of that truth again. My fingers twitch close to the blade concealed under my jacket.

Viktor takes a step forward, eyes locked on Thiago. “You let one of your dogs bite me.”

The room goes still. Even the guards do not shift. Viktor doesn’t blink. “Now I’m asking if you’re going to clean it up…” He pauses and lets the silence build like a drumroll before the execution. “…or if I’m going to burn down your kennel.”

Thiago doesn’t flinch, but his jaw tightens just enough for me to notice. His men tense with tiny movements- a shift in weight, a finger twitch on a trigger. They’re waiting to see how this unfolds.

He exhales slowly. Then looks at Viktor with a calm that feels manufactured. “Mendes was not acting under my orders,” he says. “If I had known what he planned, I would’ve killed him myself.”

Viktor doesn’t respond. Just stares.

Thiago goes on. “But he was one of mine. Which means his actions reflect on me.”

He looks between us. His gaze lingers on me a second longer. “You want him dead. I understand.”

“No,” I say coldly. “I want to put him in the ground myself.”

Thiago nods once, measured.

“I’ll find him. Give me seventy-two hours.”

Viktor crosses his arms. “You have forty-eight.”

Thiago doesn’t flinch. He just watches us—sharp, still, and calculating. I see it behind his eyes; he’s doing the math. The Makarov Bratva isn’t a street-level gang. We’re not corner boys slinging dime bags and flexing for turf. We own entire cities, ports, and arms routes. We don’t answer to local law—we make it.

And we’re not alone.

The Greek mafia stands behind us—Aithan Vasilios himself signed blood with Viktor through marriage. That alliance alone makes us untouchable in half of Europe.

Thiago knows that.

He knows crossing us over one disloyal peddler isn’t just bad for business. It’s suicide.

He glances at Viktor, then me. “I’ve worked too long and too hard to let someone like Mendes compromise everything. He’s been with us a long time… but not everyone earns protection just by sticking around.”

Zasha smirks faintly beside me. “Translation: you’d rather cut off a finger than lose the hand.”

Thiago doesn’t deny it.

He lifts his chin, finality in his voice now. “I’ll find him. And when I do… he’s yours.”

Viktor stares at him for a moment, then nods. That’s it. A war has been avoided for now. But my blood is still boiling. My fingers still twitch. Because until Mendes is in the ground, this is far from over.