Page 17

Chapter 17

What We Don’t Say

Galina

A week after bullets shattered our illusion of safety, the Velvet Echo wears its wounds like warpaint. A new chandelier hangs above us, dripping with crystal and decadence, even more ostentatious than the one destroyed. Because that’s what we do in this world: break beautiful things and replace them as if they never existed in the first place.

But beneath the polished chrome and fresh layers of paint, fear still lingers. It clings to the walls. It breathes with us.

The dancers no longer count beats—they count exits. Waiters flinch at the sound of dropped glassware, their nerves fraying like cheap tulle.

And Vasiliy? He hasn’t said a single word about the life growing inside me. Part of me is relieved; his silence makes it easier to keep my plans. But another part? That part still flinches, still waits.

I rest my hands on my still-flat stomach, standing on the mezzanine as Jaromir drills the staff below. His voice cracks across the floor like a whip, the words indistinct from up here, but the message clear in every movement. He’s part general, part executioner. One misstep and heads will roll.

Two sharp claps from his hands, loud as gunfire.

The waitstaff scatter, then fall into line, trays trembling in their hands as they execute their routines with the precision of soldiers in formation. The fear keeps them sharp. Failure, in this club, is not an option.

Back in my workroom, I bury myself in fabric and distraction. Silk, sequins, the illusion of control. Half our show pieces were lost in the firefight—bullet-riddled dreams lying in tatters on the floor that night. And no matter how skilled the seamstresses are, needle and thread can’t repair the deeper wounds. The ones we don’t speak of.

My fingers tremble as I adjust the neckline of a new gown, betraying the nerves I try to cover with calm. They trembled like this that night, too, when Matvei almost took me. When Vasiliy’s face cracked wide open, all that ruthless control shattered in an instant. I saw something in his eyes then. Shock. Fury. Possession. Maybe even fear.

But he hasn’t said a word since. Won’t look at me unless it’s business. He held me like a priceless artifact—something too fragile to confront. Now he’s back to ice. Dangerous. And I hate how much I miss the warmth of his claim, even if it burned.

He hasn’t touched me. Not since that night. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe distance makes it easier to walk away. But my body still remembers him. Still aches, even when my mind knows better. Still feels like it belongs to someone I can’t afford to belong to.

“Hem needs to rise,” Oksana says, her voice sharp and cool, slicing into my spiral. She nods toward the gown under my hands. “Skin sells fantasy.”

“Mystery sells better.” I keep my tone steady, though I feel anything but. Like the mystery of Vasiliy’s silence or the question of what Vladimir will do next. The quiet itself feels like a blade, pressed against my throat.

“If you give it all away,” I add, adjusting the fabric, “they lose the hunger.”

Oksana hums, pleased. “Keep them starving.”

“Keep them waiting.” The words come bitter on my tongue.

She studies me, mouth painted crimson, smile poised like a weapon. “Smart girl.”

Then she steps closer. Her voice drops to something intimate and edged. “Your uncle’s wolves are circling again. Word is, they’re planning something.”

Ice spills into my veins. “Who told you that?”

“Men love to talk when they think they’re safe,” she says. “Especially to the pretty ones they underestimate.”

“You won’t just be something to look at,” I murmur, meaning every word. “You’ll own the room.”

Her smile turns razor-sharp. “Darling, I already do.”

Before I can respond, the door creaks open. Harsh sunlight floods the room, followed by the sound of polished shoes against marble. And then I feel it—his presence.

Vasiliy.

He enters like a storm in a tailored suit, his shadows trailing behind him like smoke. And even now—after everything—I can’t stop the stutter in my heart.

He looks exhausted. Harder. More haunted.

Like me.

Does he lie awake too, drowning in everything we didn’t say?

Because today might be the day he finally speaks.

And I don’t know if I want the truth...or if I’m still too afraid to hear it.

His gaze sweeps the room like a searchlight before landing on me.

For a single, searing second, everything unsaid crackles in the space between us. Electricity. Memory. The weight of what we’ve become.

Then his expression hardens into marble. And just like that, I’m invisible again. A shadow beneath his notice.

“Security meeting. Ten minutes.” His voice could freeze hell. “Don’t be late.”

He turns and vanishes into his office, leaving a wake of silence in his path.

I stand frozen, nausea churning—not just from the child I carry, but from the way he won’t even say my name. It should make things simpler, cleaner. But it doesn’t. It just twists the knife of everything we didn’t say that night. A week ago, he painted these walls with blood to keep me safe. Now he won’t meet my eyes. The fortress I thought I’d breached is rebuilt—steel and silence, braced against whatever storm I’ve become.

“Paradise lost?” Oksana murmurs, faux sympathy dripping like venom.

I don’t respond. Instead, I bury myself in the beadwork beneath my fingers, the gown’s intricate detail more forgiving than the woman beside me. Crystal after crystal—tiny stars sewn into our private darkness. This show has to be flawless. My redemption. My escape hatch. My proof that I’m more than a legacy or a liability.

That my child deserves something better than shadows and blood money.

“Speaking of paradise…” Oksana doesn’t let up. She tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “Detective Rong’s been sniffing around again. Very interested in our little production.” A pause. “Unless you already knew that?”

The air sharpens.

She’s testing me. Watching to see what I’ll flinch at. How many people know what I’m after? How long before someone decides my secrets are too dangerous to leave unchecked?

My hands steady over silk as I forge my voice into steel. “I’ll handle it. The show goes on.”

“Of course it does, precious.” Her smirk darkens. “That’s what we do, isn’t it? Dance while Rome burns?”

She glides away, leaving my pulse pounding in her wake.

I press my palm to my belly—still flat, still hidden, still terrifying. I built this dream to be clean. Real. Something I could pass down without shame. But now? The path forward is a fog of threats and illusions. I can’t see the end. I can barely see the next step.

Only the crystals beneath my fingers feel real. Each bead a quiet victory. Each stitch proof that something beautiful can bloom in a warzone.

I need to talk to Vasiliy.

About the baby. About Matvei. About Detective Rong’s real allegiance.

The irony isn’t lost on me; a week ago, I was desperate to keep secrets from him. Now I’m desperate to confess. Because the only side I’m on anymore is this life growing inside me. This fragile thing that makes me retch at dawn and crave ice cream like it’s oxygen. It’s both my greatest liability and my sharpest blade.

But one wrong word could destroy everything. Vasiliy is a man who trades in control. If he sees me as a threat—or worse, a pawn—I won’t survive it. Neither will the baby.

The mirror shows the lie I’ve crafted: flawless silk, immaculate makeup, calculating poise. But underneath, the cracks run deep. And one of them is about to give—not for love, not for longing, but for the fragile life I have to protect.

Five minutes until the meeting.

Five minutes to decide how much truth to risk.

The child. The cop. My uncle’s wolves in the dark.

But one truth burns brighter than the rest: I can’t do this alone. Not anymore. Vasiliy might be my only shot at survival. At least until I give birth.

After that?

A man like him has no business raising a child.

But I still have to make him see what’s at stake. Still have to make him let us go. Not out of mercy. Out of strategy. Out of survival.

Without signing our death warrant.

I square my shoulders, spine straightening. There’s no room for fear now. No room for mistakes.

I swore I’d survive whatever it costs.

And I will.

Because this time?

I’m not just fighting for myself.

I’m fighting for us.

“You’re late,” Jaromir snaps as I step into Vasiliy’s den.

“Thirty-seven seconds early,” I reply coolly, ice sharpening every syllable.

He mutters something under his breath, voice as dark as his suit. I ignore it, sliding into position between Raffe—our new head of security—and Ignatiy, the numbers man. My pulse taps a warning against my ribs.

“Enough.” Vasiliy doesn’t raise his voice.

He never has to.

His presence swallows the room whole, thick as smoke and twice as suffocating. His eyes sweep across us, surgical and sharp, before locking onto me with lethal precision. My breath stutters. I look away, but the weight of him lingers, branding, burning.

He takes the sofa like a throne, casual only in the way a predator lounges. “Security concerns,” he says, drumming his fingers on the edge of his glass. “We need to talk.”

“We’re keeping the recent incident in mind, obviously,” Jaromir says. “It’s all anyone’s talking about. Another slip, and our reputation goes up in smoke.”

“No more incidents,” Vasiliy agrees, gaze sliding across the room. “Not if we want to court the high-end clientele.”

“In that case,” my voice cuts in, steady by force of will, “we need to make sure my uncle’s men don’t get through the doors again.”

He tenses. That cold, unreadable stillness wraps around him like armor. Not a word. Not a glance toward my stomach. Just more of that razor-sharp silence.

His hands flex open, then curl closed again. “Suggestions?”

“They’ve been watching the club,” Raffe says. “Not inside. Just close enough to rattle us.”

“Those fuckers.” Jaromir pushes out of his chair. “We should end them.”

“No.” My voice is firm. “We show them they have more to lose by stepping foot in here.”

Vasiliy’s arms fold across his chest. “How?”

“We invite the police,” I say. His gaze catches mine. The gleam in his eyes isn’t warmth—it’s calculation. “We make sure my uncle’s men know the club’s under watch.”

“We can’t trust the cops,” Jaromir barks. “They want to bury us.”

“They’re coming either way,” I counter. “This way, we control the narrative. And their presence keeps Vladimir’s wolves at bay.”

Vasiliy exhales through his nose, fingers pressing into his temples. “It can’t be subtle. If we want this to work, it has to be loud enough for Vladimir to notice.”

“I have just the thing,” I say, a wicked little smile tugging at my lips. “An anonymous tip. A bomb threat.”

Jaromir explodes. “That’s insane! We don’t call in threats on our own club.”

“If they find the stash, we’re done,” Ignatiy adds, finally weighing in.

“That’s why we move it first,” I say, looking straight at Vasiliy. “Clear the backrooms. Scrub the bar. Sweep every surface. We stash everything in the tunnel storage and let the police come. We look spotless.”

“Unless Vladimir jumps the gun and storms in before the cops arrive,” Vasiliy mutters. “We can’t afford another shootout.”

“Then we move fast,” I reply. “Evacuate the clients through the back. Quiet, in small groups. No panic. No headlines.”

Vasiliy doesn’t hesitate. “You heard her,” he growls, flicking his fingers at Jaromir and Raffe. “Start cleaning.”

They spring into motion, phones already in hand as they storm out to orchestrate the sweep.

I stay rooted, expecting to be dismissed too.

But he doesn’t say a word.

And I don’t move.

Vasiliy rounds the desk and drops into his chair. He leans back, one arm slung over the chair’s armrest.

“How do you know Matvei?” I ask, keeping my tone light.

“We go way back.” He pauses, eyes dragging over me like he’s deciding just how much to give. “I put him in Siberia. Then landed there myself. Let’s just say we had quality time.”

But Vasiliy doesn’t want to linger in the past. He shifts, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“Given your bloodline,” he says, voice dropping, “I shouldn’t be surprised you’re this fucking good at this.”

It takes me a second to register the words. A compliment. From Vasiliy Volkov.

My lips tug into a small, genuine smile, until I meet his gaze.

Heavy. Measuring. Too sharp to be soft, too focused to be casual. It turns the compliment into something I can’t quite hold onto. Something with teeth.

“Thank you,” I murmur, wary now.

He doesn’t look away. For a moment, I think he might say something more—something real. About the baby. About us. About whatever this thing is between two people who have no business wanting anything at all.

But then his expression shutters.

The mask slides back into place.

“Back to work,” he says, voice clipped.

Dismissed.

I turn and leave, legs trembling beneath the weight of everything unsaid. He won’t talk about the baby today. Maybe not ever. And maybe that’s for the best. But someday, he’ll have to face it.

And when he does, I just hope I’ve already found the way out.