Page 18

Chapter 18

Mine to Protect, Mine to Destroy

Vasiliyi

T he security feeds bleed violence.

Grainy footage flickers across the screens, each frame a warning. Six of Vladimir’s men linger in the shadows across the street—rotating shifts, with visible weapons and unblinking eyes. They’re not hiding anymore. This isn’t surveillance. It’s a fucking declaration.

“How long have they been there?” I ask.

Raffe stands at attention, posture rigid as steel. “Since dawn. Numbers are growing.”

He scrubs a hand over his buzzed head, tension radiating from every line of his body. The man’s ex-military. Unshakable. But even he feels the temperature rising.

“They’re watching for movement. Waiting for a mistake.” But there’ve been mistakes already. Missed check-ins. Cameras that didn’t log. Routes changed without my say. I let it slide because we’ve been stretched thin. But now? It feels like rot under the skin.

My fingers twitch with the urge to hit something. Hard. Vladimir doesn’t move slow unless he’s planning something biblical. This isn’t intimidation—it’s strategy. Pressure. And it’s working.

Not on me.

On her.

Galina.

The thought of Vladimir’s men watching her— hunting her—makes something feral tear loose inside me. I’ve kept my distance for a week because one touch would undo me. One second in her presence, and I’d lose the last piece of control I have left.

There’s more at stake now.

A child.

My child.

The words still burn like vodka down my throat—sharp, dangerous, unfiltered. I haven’t said it out loud. Haven’t dared to name it. Because if I do…I’ll have to reckon with the kind of man I am. The kind of father I’ll never be.

“Is the product secure?” I ask, voice rough.

“We’re nearly ready for the police arrival,” Raffe confirms. “Clients are happy with the private suite upgrade. Staff’s been briefed. Everyone’s moving.”

Of course they’re happy. That was Galina’s idea—her razor-sharp mind slicing through the chaos like it was nothing. She saw angles I didn’t. Solutions I’d never consider.

She grounds me. Anchors me to something that feels almost real. Almost clean.

And that terrifies me more than Vladimir’s army ever could.

Because monsters like me, we don’t get legacies. We don’t deserve them.

A knock drags me back from the spiral.

She enters like a shadow, quiet, but coiled. Her face is paler than usual. Green eyes darker. But her voice? That’s steel.

“Three more of Vladimir’s men appeared across the street.”

“I know.” I gesture to the feeds. “They’re rotating in shifts. They want us to see them.”

She steps beside me, and it takes every ounce of discipline not to turn and pull her into me. To feel her. To protect her with something more than guns and distance.

Her hand hovers over her stomach without thinking. Protective. Instinctual.

It guts me.

“We need to move before they do,” she says.

I nod once, swallowing the thousand words I won’t let myself say. “We’re moving tonight. The anonymous tip is prepped. The second the tunnels are cleared, the call goes in.”

She exhales slowly. “This won’t stop him.”

“I know.” My voice is sandpaper. “But it buys us time.”

“And then what?” Her voice dips low. “What happens when time runs out?”

I don’t have an answer.

I rise and turn toward her, the weight of everything between us pressing in. Her eyes lock on mine—angry, pleading and proud, all at once.

“You’re good at pretending you don’t care,” she says. “But I saw your face. When Matvei had that gun on me.”

I grit my teeth. “And you’re still here.”

“You weren’t calm.” She steps closer. “You were ready to burn the world down.”

“I still am.”

The silence between us thickens. She breaks it first.

“If we survive this,” she says, “you can’t keep pretending.”

Her fingers rest on her stomach. Not dramatic. Not pointed. Just…true.

I want to promise her something, anything. That I’ll change. That I’ll walk away. That I’ll let her go and not chase her.

But promises are for good men.

And I’m not a good man.

So I give her the only vow I can make.

“I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you,” I say.

Her shoulders drop. Not in surrender, but in understanding.

“I know.”

We stand in silence, the tension pounding between us.

Outside, the wolves are circling.

But in here, for just one moment, there’s quiet. A breath of peace. A flicker of something we’ll never name.

And maybe that’s enough. For now.

I nod once and reach for the burner phone with fingers that shouldn’t be trembling, but they are. Rage, fear, need—they all blur together now.

Detective Rong answers on the second ring.

I pass the phone to Galina, our eyes locking in a moment that says everything. My gaze grants permission. Hers accepts the risk.

My heart hammers in my chest as she lifts the phone, slipping the sleek voice modulator over her throat like she’d done this before. The soft click as it activates sounds louder than any gunshot. In seconds, her voice will be untraceable, stripped of pitch, accent, identity. Just cold, genderless menace. I should feel relief. Instead, dread coils tighter.

A part of me wants to rip the phone from her hands. To shield her. To end this madness before it consumes her completely. But I don’t move. I just watch, jaw clenched, as she becomes the weapon we both need her to be.

And I do the only thing I know how to do well.

I bury myself in silence. In control. In the monster.

She answers, her voice dipped in honey and arsenic. “Detective Rong.”

“Who is this?” Rong’s voice is impatient, laced with skepticism.

Galina’s free hand curls around her stomach, and the sight of it almost drops me to my knees. That small, unconscious gesture she’s now doing all the time—the way she protects what’s ours—hits me harder than any bullet ever could. Our child. The words burn through me, violent and unwanted.

“I planted a bomb,” she says, her tone chilling. “In your city.”

A long pause.

“Who the hell is this?”

“Who I am doesn’t matter,” she says coolly.

“If it doesn’t matter, I’ve got better things to do than chase ghosts.”

But Galina doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t waver. She steps into the role like she was born for it.

“There’s a bomb in the Velvet Echo. One hour. Clock’s ticking. Let’s see how many bodies you want on your conscience.”

“Is this a threat or a joke?”

“Wrong question, Detective,” she says, calm as glass. “Can you make it in time?”

She ends the call without waiting for an answer, her fingers steady as she peels the voice modulator from her throat. The adhesive gives with a soft, skin-tight snap. I hold the evidence bag open as she drops the phone inside, then adds the device without a word. No hesitation. No room for second thoughts.

The bag seals with a soft hiss, and I lock it away inside the wall safe, like burying a sin we’ll pretend never existed.

Perfect execution. But she’s shaking now.

Not obviously. Most people wouldn’t notice. But I see it.

The cracks beneath the mask. The exhaustion etched under her eyes. The ghost of last week still carved into her posture. Morning sickness has hollowed out her cheeks and dulled her glow. She’s still standing, still swinging, but the fight is eating her from the inside out.

And I did this. I brought her into this world. Dragged her under.

A wave of guilt claws up my throat. I want to reach for her. Ask about her health. About the baby. About us .

But if I open that door—if I let her in—I’ll have to admit what I am.

A killer. A weapon. A curse dressed in tailored suits and bloodstained promises.

So I don’t touch her. I don’t speak.

Instead, I fall back on instinct.

“You know the protocols,” I say, voice like gravel. “Stick to them.”

Something flickers briefly in her eyes. Hurt. Then it’s gone, buried beneath steel.

“I want you out of here. Safe.”

She straightens, jaw tight. “I can be useful. I can?—”

“You’re carrying my child,” I snap, voice sharper than intended. “You’re staying out of it.”

Her expression shifts. And suddenly, I know I’ve made a mistake.

“Oh, so now you decide to acknowledge the pregnancy?” Her words lash like whips. “Now that you want to shove me into a cage?”

My throat tightens, but I say nothing.

I don’t argue when I’ve already decided.

She’s fire and fury and heartbreak, and I can’t afford to let any of that matter right now. This place is about to become a battlefield again. And I won’t risk her. Not even for her pride.

Without another word, I rise to my feet and grip her arm—not to hurt, just to move her. Just to get her out.

“If you won’t go on your own,” I growl, “then I’ll take you there myself.”

She yanks her arm from my grip and shoves me back—actually shoves me. My blood spikes, fury rising like a tide. Her eyes blaze, slitted with rage, and all I see is fire.

“Fuck off, Vasiliy,” she spits, every word like venom. “Fuck you. I don’t need you to worry about the baby.” Her voice drops, dangerous and low. “I don’t plan on staying around long enough for you to see it born.”

That last line slices straight through my chest.

And it pisses me off.

I don’t slam the wall or roar like some unhinged animal, even though the urge pulses hot beneath my skin. I step into her space, grip her shoulder, and pull her against my chest—my hand locking at the nape of her neck, not hard, but firm enough to remind her who I am.

“Watch your mouth,” I growl into her ear, breath steady but laced with ice. “You forget where you are. This place, this world— mine. Not yours. You don’t call shots here. You don’t run. If you start thinking otherwise, maybe I’ll remind you what real punishment feels like.”

She shivers, but not from fear. Her spine stays straight.

“What are you going to do?” she whispers. “Kill me? Chain me up like your brother did to Katarina?”

I grind my teeth.

She wants to bait me. Sheknowshow to bait me. The old me would’ve snapped already. But I’ve spent years mastering restraint, and I won’t break now, not with her this close, not with everything at stake.

I take a breath. Then another.

“You’re tired,” I say flatly. “Not thinking straight. I’ll chalk it up to hormones.”

Her laugh is sharp and incredulous. “Hormones?”

“That’s right,” I say, letting the chill return to my tone. “They’re bouncing around like marbles in your head. You don’t mean half of what you’re saying.”

She stares at me—no, she studies me—with an expression that should terrify me more than it does. Not fury. Not rebellion. Something colder. Something wounded.

I move in again.

“Let me make this simple,” I say, towering over her. “You belong to me. You’re not leaving unless I say so. You’re pregnant. That child is mine. I will be that baby’s father. That’s final.”

Cruel?

Absolutely.

But that’s what she wanted, wasn’t it?

The claim. The line drawn. The truth no one else would say aloud.

I give it to her, and she’ll have to live with it now.

I don’t wait for her answer. I wrap an arm around her, guiding her toward the passage behind the bookshelf—firm, not rough. My grip might be unrelenting, but I’mawareof what she’s carrying. I may be a bastard, but I won’t hurt what’sours.

She writhes in my hold, hissing curses under her breath.

“You’re a despicable man,” she growls, trying to twist free. She’s strong, but I’m using a fraction of my strength. She won’t win this fight.

The narrow corridor to the tunnels stretches before us. We’re almost to the exit, straight to the backup car parked out back. I’d rather stay at the club, make sure the cops don’t snoop too deeply, but I don’t trust her not to get caught in the crossfire. She’s too stubborn. Too reckless. Too mine .

As we walk, she starts to lag behind, dragging her heels. I glance over.

She’s glaring. Breathing hard.

“Don’t test me,” I warn, voice low.

“Fuck you, Vasiliy,” she snaps. Her chin lifts, full of defiance.

I stop and turn toward her.

“I swear,” I grit out, my restraint on a knife’s edge, “if you talk to me like that again, I will lock you up. And Iwill not lose sleep over it.”

She doesn’t flinch.

Instead, her voice softens. Like a blade dipped in honey.

“Let’s be honest for once,” she says, something unreadable in her gaze. “You’re not father material. You never were.”

And somehow…that hurts more than anything else.

My grip tightens around her arm.

Not father material.

The words slice deeper than any knife ever has. I’ve been called a monster, a killer, a soulless bastard, but that? That’s not something I’ll accept. I’ve seen what failure looks like. I’ve watched fathers beat their sons, abandon their daughters, sell out their own blood for power. I’ve buried men who deserved worse. And maybe I’m a murderer. Maybe I deal in vice and rot. But if there’s one thing I will be, it’s a protector. Even in hell, my children will be safe.

“You don’t know me,” I grit, punching the code into the tunnel door. The lock clicks. “I will be a good father to our kid.”

She steps into the threshold, but turns to face me, fire still in her eyes. “Do you really want our baby raised in this world? In this filth?” Her voice softens, but it cuts deeper. “Don’t you think we candobetter?”

“We’ll talk about this when you’re safe.” I push the door open, ushering her inside with more gentleness than I intend. “Go.”

A voice stops us cold.

“Not so fast.”

Instinct takes over; I yank Galina behind me, gun already half drawn.

“Matvei.” I don’t need to see him to recognize that voice—low, guttural, half-choked by the injury I gave him. “Like a fucking cockroach. Can’t kill you no matter how hard I try.”

He stands in the narrow corridor, fingers twitching near the scar on his neck. I remember that wound. I gave it to him. A knife buried to the hilt, and still, here he is.

“Hand her over,” he rasps. “Vladimir wants her alive. But I don’t mind telling him you killed her.”

“She’s not yours. She’s mine .” I snarl.

I step forward, fully shielding Galina with my body, every muscle coiled and ready to strike. Matvei’s eyes flicker, calculating. He’s smaller, wiry, and primed with desperation. And desperate men are dangerous.

His gun lifts.

So does mine.

We lock eyes across the narrow corridor, barrels raised, both of us one breath away from pulling the trigger.

Then he tries to fake me out—subtle, quick. His weight shifts, his stance adjusts, like he’s about to pivot around me. His aim slides ever so slightly, not toward me, but toward the woman behind me.

Too late.

I shift with him, stepping in tighter, keeping my body between him and Galina, raising my gun higher. My finger curls against the trigger. One more inch, and I’ll drop him where he stands.

But the wail of sirens splits the air—sharp, rising.

Police.

We both freeze.

Matvei’s snarl falters as the sound grows louder, closer. Red and blue lights flicker against the walls like a warning flare. He glances over his shoulder, calculating the odds.

And this time, even he knows they’re not in his favor.

He can’t afford to finish this here. Not with the cops that close. Not when the walls are closing in.

“This isn’t over,” he spits, already backing away into the shadows.

“Oh, I hope not,” I mutter. “I’m keeping your grave warm.”

He disappears like smoke, and the second he’s gone, Galina turns on me, furious.

“You let him go ?” she snaps. “You had a clear shot?—”

“Use your head,” I snap back. “The police are building a case. If I shoot someone in this club, they won’t just close it, they’ll bury me with it. You want me behind bars when your uncle comes for you next?”

She glares but says nothing.

“Exactly,” I growl. “I let him go to protect us. To protect you. ”

Silence hangs between us, tense and heavy.

“So now what?” she finally asks, glancing toward the street-level door. “Do we go back?”

I shake my head once. “No, lisichka. I’m taking you home.”