Page 21

Chapter 21

Inheritance of Violence

Galina

W hen Detective Rong corners me, I’m not surprised. The storage room is buried at the edge of the club’s back corridor, past the kitchens and behind a heavy door marked “Deliveries Only.” A forgotten space where sound barely filters through, and where the cameras sometimes glitch from moisture damage. It’s used mostly for costume overflow and outdated supplies, which is exactly why I came here. And exactly why she did, too.

We knew the police would come. I’d kept busy with fashion show prep, stacking distractions like armor. But it gave her the perfect opportunity to catch me alone. What does surprise me is her expression. Gone is the mask of concern she wore during our previous conversations. Her eyes are all calculation now—sharp, cold, hunting. She’s here for something. And whatever it is, she’s not walking out without it.

“We need to talk,” she says, positioning herself between me and the door.

I set down the box of sequined gowns I’d been sorting, careful to school my face. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

“No,” she counters, stepping forward. Her badge glints under the fluorescent lights. “You haven’t. You know Vladimir wants the club. But it’s more than that. He wants revenge—on the Volkovs, the Sokolovs, anyone who’s ever humiliated your family.”

The walls feel closer than they should. I fight the instinct to cover my stomach. That’s what she’s circling. I can feel it.

“I don’t care about my uncle’s vendetta,” I say coolly. “It’s not mine anymore.”

Her voice lowers, almost gentle. “You should care. Because when Vladimir finds out you’re carrying Volkov’s baby, you’ll be his first target.”

I freeze. Just for a second. But she sees it.

“How did you?—”

“I have eyes everywhere, Galina.” She pulls out her phone and flicks through photos—me leaving appointments, picking up prenatal vitamins, a hand resting on my stomach like it’s instinct. “The question is, does Vladimir know yet?”

I thought Matvei would’ve told him. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’s saving the reveal for something worse. A move that doesn’t need permission.

“What do you want?” I ask, even though I already know. This is what I’ve been waiting for—the drop of the mask.

“The same thing you do.” She slips her phone back into her pocket. “To destroy the men who destroyed our families.”

Her words are too smooth, too rehearsed. Like they’ve been tailored to fit my deepest wounds.

“Our families?” I echo, suspicious.

A bitter smile curls her lips. “You think I started looking into the Volkovs and Sokolovs by chance? My father was the first investigator on their case. They killed him for it. Vladimir reached out months ago. Promised he’d help me finish what my father started.”

“Do you know who pulled the trigger?” I ask.

“No,” she says, locking eyes with me. “But someone will talk. And when they do, I’ll make sure they pay.”

I fold my arms across my chest, trying to look unimpressed. But my brain won’t stop spinning. Vasiliy never mentioned anything about Rong or her family. Could he know? Is this all part of some elaborate game?

Before yesterday, I might’ve believed that. But not now. He’s brutal, yes, but he’s not reckless. If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead. And yet here I am. Protected. Held. Seen.

There’s a beast in Vasiliy, but there’s something else too. Something quieter. A kind of goodness he’s terrified to let anyone name.

“You’ve been working with my uncle this whole time,” I say, hand on my hip, voice low and deadly. “The investigation. The concern. The way you kept circling me. It was all a setup.”

“Not a setup,” Rong says quickly, shaking her head. “An opportunity. Help me bring them down, Galina. Your uncle wants you home. If we work together, we can dismantle their empire from the inside. You’ve seen the records, the movement, the cash. With your testimony?—”

“No.” The word cuts through the air, sharper than I expected. “I won’t help you destroy them.”

Surprise flickers across her face. It doesn’t last.

“They’re monsters,” she snaps. “Criminals. Your child deserves better than?—”

“My child deserves a future,” I interrupt, voice rising. “And I won’t let you or Vladimir or anyone else decide what that looks like.”

She stiffens. “Your uncle only wants to reclaim what your family lost—what the Volkovs stole.”

Maybe once, I would’ve believed that. Maybe there’s still a sliver of guilt somewhere inside me. But I’ve lived in both of their shadows now. And ironically? It’s Vasiliy who gave me space to step out from under them. Even if that space came laced with danger and fire.

If Vladimir takes over the club, I lose everything. My work, my freedom, my future. My child’s future. And I’m done living under someone else’s thumb.

“This conversation is over,” I say.

Rong’s expression hardens. She moves toward the door but stops, her hand hovering on the handle. “Think carefully, Galina. Vladimir doesn’t stop. And now that Vasiliy’s knocked you up, you’re worth more—alive or dead.”

“Get out.” I step toward her, forcing her to move back. My voice is ice. “Before I call security.”

“You’re making a mistake.” Her tone softens into something almost pitying. “When it all burns down, remember I tried to help you.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and the silence left in her wake is deafening. The air feels heavier. The shadows darker. My stomach turns, not from the baby this time, but from the slow realization that something bigger is moving beneath the surface, and I’m only seeing the ripples.

I drop to the floor, knees buckling under the weight of it all. My hands shake as I reach for my phone. Vasiliy needs to know. About Rong. About Vladimir’s real plan. About everything.

But my thumb hovers over the keypad.

What if this is the thing that tips the balance? What if I tell him, and he locks me away again for good? “For my safety.” “For the baby.” What if I stop being a partner and become another pawn?

But if I don’t tell him, and something happens…

No. I made my choice the moment I stood up to Rong. I’m not running. Not hiding. If I want to change this game, I have to play it.

I’m about to dial when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.

A shadow slides past the small, grimy window in the door.

Too tall for a dancer. Too slow for a customer.

And then I see his face.

Matvei.

The air leaves my lungs.

How the hell did he get in?

I remember Vasiliy mentioning that one of the back exits was under repair—camera feed down, alarm sensors in flux. It had been flagged but not fixed. With the cops here and staff scattered, that blind spot was ripe for abuse.

Still, it shouldn’t be possible. Not unless someone left the rear service door propped open during the shift change. Or unless Matvei paid off a staff member. Or worse, someone in a uniform let him in.

I don’t have time to figure it out.

The lights flicker as if on cue. I swear I hear the faint metallic creak of that old service door swinging shut. My breath catches.

I snatch a heavy metal rod from a nearby shelf, slipping into position beside the door, adrenaline searing through my veins. If Vladimir’s men are making their move, they’re not walking out of here without a fight.

The door creaks open.

I swing.

Matvei catches the rod inches from his face. His scarred mouth stretches into a grin, cold and cruel. “Nice try, koroleva .”

Before I can scream, his fist slams into my jaw. Pain fractures my vision—white sparks bursting behind my eyes. I stumble, but I don’t fall. I won’t. My heel snaps out toward his knee, but he’s faster than I remember, sidestepping with that same sadistic smirk.

“Time to send my own regards to your master,” he growls, advancing. “I owe him more than a few scars.”

I duck his next punch, heart slamming against my ribs, scanning for anything— anything —to use. My hand lands on a box of glass beads. Useless, but sharp. I hurl it at his face.

It buys me half a second.

I bolt for the door.

I make it two steps.

His arms wrap around me from behind like a steel trap. One forearm crushes my windpipe, and the world tilts sideways. My fingers claw at his arm, my lungs screaming for air.

Don’t black out. Don’t you dare.

I slam my heel into his instep, drive my palm into the base of his nose. Blood gushes. He snarls. The pressure around my throat increases. Stars explode across my vision. I twist, flailing and elbowing whatever part of him I can reach. Another groan. Another burst of pain. I throw my head back—and connect with his chin. Crack.

“You fucking bitch,” he spits, grabbing me by the waist andthrowingme.

I hit a shelf hard. Crates crash down around me. One catches my shoulder. Another smashes against my head. The world spins. Blood drips. My scalp’s wet. My hands are cut. My baby?—

Protect the baby.

Matvei’s on me in seconds, crushing me to the floor. I scream, but his hand covers my mouth like a muzzle. His weight pins me down, suffocating, immovable. His body shakes—fury, frustration, something darker. Something hungrier.

Then I see it.

The look in his eyes.

His belt loosens. Zipper slides. My blood turns to ice.

Tears blur my vision. But I don’t beg. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

He thinks I’m weak. Powerless.

He’s wrong.

My hand grazes something slick and cold—a half-empty bottle of vodka. I grip it, tight, and swing.

The bottle shatters against his skull with a sickening crunch. Vodka sprays everywhere, burning my nose, my eyes. He jerks sideways, cursing in Russian, blood and liquor mixing as he reels.

I scramble to my feet.

No shoes. No plan.

Just survival.

I sprint, slipping on the polished floor, adrenaline propelling me forward. Behind me, Matvei’s boots hammer the floor. I don’t look back.

“ Help! ” I scream, lungs raw. “ Somebody, please! ”

The stairs blur beneath my feet. I take them two at a time, my chest heaving. My legs feel like jelly. But I keep moving.

The office door looms.

Safety.

I shove it open, stumbling inside.

Vasiliy, Raffe, and Jaromir whirl toward me mid-argument, their faces flashing from confusion to alarm.

My breath catches. My body collapses forward.

“Galina?” Vasiliy’s voice slices through the haze, sharp and low. “What the fuck ?”