Page 23

Chapter 23

Tender Is the Fire

Galina

T he penthouse feels like both a sanctuary and a cage.

From my spot on Vasiliy’s leather sofa, Manhattan stretches below like a glittering mirage—close enough to touch, impossible to reach. I’ve been stuck here for three days under doctor’s orders for “rest and monitoring.” But it’s not the bruises that itch under my skin.

It’s the waiting.

The enforced stillness. The suffocating sense of being observed.

Across the room, Vasiliy’s watching me again. He doesn’t even pretend otherwise. His gray eyes are as unreadable as ever, but I’ve come to recognize the shape of guilt behind them. Guilt, rage, but something gentle too.

“Staring again,” I murmur without looking up, pretending to use my phone.

He moves closer. Even in a black T-shirt and joggers, he carries the same deadly grace—like a panther draped in soft fabric.

“Just admiring how well you wear my shirt,” he replies, settling beside me. “You look like a pretty bird that flew into my cage.”

I snort. “Greedy alpha male.”

His eyes flare. “It’s sexy when you talk dirty.”

“That was sarcasm,” I deadpan.

“That was foreplay.” His smile is slow and rare, brushing against the raw edges of everything we’ve survived. He leans in and kisses my forehead. “Doctor said stay hydrated.”

He hands me a glass of water and a few prenatal vitamins. I swallow them carefully, trying not to flinch. My throat still hurts. The bruises are fading, but the memory of Matvei’s hands on me hasn’t.

Neither has the memory of Vasiliy’s hands—strong, steady, gentle after the violence. Like he was holding something precious. Something his rage hadn’t touched.

His phone buzzes. Again. He glances at it, frustration ghosting over his expression. The hunt for Matvei continues, but the bastard’s disappeared. Smoke and shadows. Probably tucked under Vladimir’s wing.

I remember the fear, the desperate surge of adrenaline, the scream that never fully left my lungs. But fear has no place in my life anymore. Not if I want a future. Not if I want one for this child.

“What’s the news?” I ask.

“Not about Matvei,” Vasiliy mutters, dropping into an armchair across from me. He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Different problem. You remember those buildings near the club? The ones I wanted to buy for storage?”

I nod, setting down the water. “What about them?”

“Someone beat us to it,” he says, voice clipped. “Yakov Gagarin.”

The name hits like a cold draft through an open window. I haven’t heard it in a couple of years, but it drips with meaning. Gagarin isn’t just another Bratva boss—he’s old-school, the kind of ruthless that raised nightmares in children and kept grown men quiet.

“Gagarin,” I repeat slowly. “He used to sit at the high table, didn’t he? Back when Moscow still pulled strings in New York.”

Vasiliy nods grimly. “Disappeared a couple of years ago.”

“And buying those buildings means he’s back,” I murmur.

“Back,” he confirms, “and choosing sides.”

“Exactly.” He doesn’t hesitate and pulls out his phone and hits dial.

The call goes through on speaker. Nikolai answers on the first ring, his voice steady.

“ Brat . How’s Galina?”

“Healing,” Vasiliy says, eyes flicking to mine. The softness there doesn’t match his voice. “Listen. Yakov Gagarin just bought the buildings next to the club. Is that who I think it is?”

A pause.

Then Nikolai’s breath hisses through the speaker. “Shit.”

Not the kind of shit that’s casual. The kind that means blood, history, danger.

“This could be very bad,” he adds. “We need to loop in Igor. Immediately.”

Vasiliy’s eyes narrow. “Remind me. Why the fuck does that name still matter?”

“Yakov Gagarin is Anastasiya’s brother,” Nikolai says, voice flat with old resentment. “Igor got involved with her—it quickly turned into a blood feud. Their father came to me after everything went to hell. In exchange for my help, he gave his blessing for Katya to marry into our family. Well, at least at first... Then Ana died in childbirth, and… Well, let’s just say Yakov didn’t take it quietly. I’m the reason he’s in that chair now.”

Vasiliy huffs, jaw tight. “Right. You snapped his spine.”

Nikolai’s voice turns sharp. “Only after he snatched my wife.”

The line drops like a knife between them. The Gagarins aren’t some faded rumor—they’re real Bratva, old-school and deeply connected. This wasn’t a rivalry. It was a war dressed in family ties.

I blink, trying to absorb the full weight of it. I remember hearing Yakov’s name in whispers, usually when the old guard talked about who had power without needing to flash it. The Gagarins were the kind of family you didn’t provoke unless you were ready for fallout. My father mentioned them once, maybe twice, always with the tone he reserved for men who could crush you with a phone call. I think there was talk of an alliance. It never happened.

“Doesn’t sound promising,” I murmur, trying to stay composed. But the dread that coils low in my stomach says otherwise. “This wasn’t random, was it?”

Vasiliy shakes his head slowly. “No. This is positioning. Too precise to be anything else. Someone’s testing the perimeter.”

“We need to talk to Igor,” I say, watching Vasiliy’s eyes narrow. “They’re circling,” I whisper. “Block by block. Building by building. If they’re working with Vladimir?—”

“They’re not getting anything,” Vasiliy cuts in. There’s something dangerous in his tone—something that promises war. “Not you. Not our child.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Nikolai clears his throat. “Speaking of children…congratulations. Not the best timing, but then again, I’m not one to talk. And, while we’re here, are we just going to brush over the fact that Galina kidnapped our sister and tried to kill her?”

“You chained your wife in your basement, remember?” Vasiliy counters, the words more tired than angry.

“Semantics,” Nikolai replies smoothly. “We’re married now. Very happy. But let’s not be shocked if the next family get together is a bit tense.”

“Noted,” Vasiliy mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Silence settles, heavy with old sins and fresh threats. I don’t blame them for remembering what I did—what I used to be. I’ve bled for those mistakes. Buried brothers. Watched my cousin die. There are nights I can’t look in the mirror without seeing the monster I was.

When the call ends, I push up from the couch, legs shaky, head still pounding from the concussion. “If Gagarin and my uncle are aligning, we need a plan. We?—”

My vision tilts, blurs. I stumble.

Vasiliy is there in seconds, guiding me back down with careful hands. “You’re not helping anyone if you pass out,” he says, voice soft but unyielding. “The doctor said to rest. That wasn’t a suggestion.”

His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady, thumbs tracing gentle circles against my collarbone. It’s such a small thing, but it knocks the wind out of me.

“I’m not helpless,” I bite out, the frustration burning just beneath my skin. “This isn’t just your fight.”

“I know.” His hand rises to my cheek, brushing over the fading bruise with infuriating tenderness. “But right now? Your only job is to heal and protect what’s growing inside you. Let me handle the rest.”

His conviction is maddening. And somehow, exactly what I need.

Maybe this didn’t start like a love story. Maybe it never will be one.

But looking at him now, it feels like my real life didn’t begin until the day I walked into the Velvet Echo and said his name.

“Are you hungry?” Vasiliy pivots, leaning against the kitchen island, his arms crossed, head tilted like he’s trying to read my mood.

I glance up from the throw blanket pooled in my lap, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he murmurs softly. “Any requests?”

I hesitate, almost embarrassed by the simplicity of what I want. “Maybe…an omelet? With olives and cheese? If you have them. Nothing spicy.”

“Consider it done.”

He crosses the kitchen with that effortless grace that somehow doesn’t intimidate me anymore. I watch as he moves through the space, pulling ingredients from the fridge, setting pans on the stove. It’s domestic in the strangest, most disarming way—this man who commands with a look now standing barefoot, grating cheese like he’s done it a thousand times.

It’s the quiet that gets me. No orders. No theatrics. Just the steady rhythm of chopping and the faint sizzle of eggs hitting the pan.

“I thought you lived off black tea and vengeance,” I tease lightly from the couch.

Vasiliy glances over his shoulder, and there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Only on weekdays. On weekends, it’s cappuccinos and croissants.”

We eat together on the couch, plates balanced on our knees, music playing softly in the background. He makes sure I have enough tea, that I’ve taken my vitamins, and when I wince shifting positions, his hand hovers instinctively, ready to steady me, but not overstepping.

After we eat, I stretch out on the cushions, and at some point, I drift off. When I wake again, the room is bathed in golden light. Vasiliy is sitting at the foot of the couch, one hand loosely cradling his phone, the other resting on the blanket over my ankle.

“Still tired?” he asks, his voice low and warm. “Want me to help you to bed?”

I shake my head, easing upright. “I’m okay. Just…still sore.”

His eyes flick over me, lingering on the bruises he’s probably memorized by now. “Anything hurting worse than it should?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Galina.”

My breath catches at how earnestly he says it. No edge. No implication. Just...care.

“What makes you think I’m pretending?”

His fingers find my hand, his thumb brushing across the ridge of a healing bruise. “Because you’ve been trying to carry everything on your own since the moment I met you.”

I look down, his touch grounding me more than I want to admit.

“You don’t have to anymore,” he adds quietly.

It takes me a second to find my voice. “This—everything we’re in—it’s not the life I imagined for our baby.”

His expression hardens, not in anger, but in grief. “Neither did I.”

“I don’t want to raise our child in shadows,” I say quietly. “I want something else. Something clean. No debts, no blood feuds, no looking over our shoulders every time we leave the house.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, slowly, he nods.

“I’ve already started making moves,” he says. “To clean up the club. To create something that can stand on its own. You gave me the reason, Galina. Now I just have to follow through.”

Hope stirs in my chest, warm and cautious. “You really mean that?”

He looks at me then—really looks. The kind of stare that strips you down to bone and breath. “I want more than survival for us,” he says, low and fierce. “I want peace. Even if I have to carve it out with my bare hands.”

My heart stumbles at the quiet conviction in his voice.

“Come here,” I murmur, reaching for him.

He doesn’t hesitate. He never does. He sinks onto the couch beside me, sliding one arm around my waist and pulling me into the solid heat of his chest. There’s no urgency now, no sharp edges or frantic hunger. Just the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin, and the weight of everything he’s not saying.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs into my hair. “Not now. Not ever.”

And for the first time, I believe it.

We sit there for a long moment, suspended in something that feels too fragile to name. Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of it.

Then I shift in his arms and look up at him. “Then let’s build something different,” I say softly. “Something better. For us. For the baby.”

His eyes search mine—sharp but steady—and for a heartbeat, I think I’ve pushed too far. But then his expression shifts. Not softer exactly, just...determined. Like steel cooling after being tempered in fire.

“Done.” His voice is resolute. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work. You, me, and our child. Together.”

“What?” I blink at him, stunned by how easily the words fall from his lips. “Just like that?”

“I’ve never wanted this life,” he says. “Not really. I’ve spent most of it working undercover, feeding intel back to the FSB, trying to keep one foot in and one out. But walking away from it all isn’t as easy as it sounds. Until you.”

I stare at him. “You were FSB. Before Siberia,”

He nods once. “Yes. And when I came to New York, I thought I could keep running the club without getting dragged deeper into Igor’s world. But it’s harder than I thought. That’s why I’ve been trying to buy those buildings next door—to start separating the business from the Bratva product. The fashion show idea gave me leverage I didn’t have before. Something clean. Aboveboard. I was going to use it and push Igor into moving his operations somewhere else.”

A glimmer of hope sparks in my chest. “You really mean that?”

“I do.” His hand finds mine, thumb tracing gentle circles over my wrist. “I’ll do anything for our baby, Galina. And for you.”

The words hit harder than I expect. Not because they’re sweet, but because they’re real. I can feel the truth in them. The weight of all the things he’s already done to protect us.

I lean forward, curling into him, breathing him in. His scent—sharp, clean, and uniquely him—wraps around me like safety. His arms tighten, pulling me closer, and for a second, I let myself believe that we might actually be okay.

“Bratva politics be damned,” I whisper into the crook of his neck. “No one’s taking this away from us.”

“Let them try,” he growls, voice vibrating against my skin.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. There’s heat in his eyes now, a slow burn that crackles beneath the surface.

“Galina,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion.

I meet his gaze. “Yeah?”

“I’ve wanted a thousand things in this life,” he says. “But nothing like I want this.”

And then he kisses me.

There’s no violence in it. No dominance. Just heat and tenderness and something deep enough to drown in. His lips move over mine like he’s memorizing every breath, every sigh. When our mouths part, I feel something inside me shifting.

I’ve seen the worst of him. And still, I’m here.

So is he.

“ Ya tebya lyublyu ,” he whispers in Russian, the words wrapping around my ribs like silk and steel. I feel them in my bones.

I don’t respond right away. Not because I don’t feel the same, but because I’m overwhelmed by it. It’s too big, too sudden. Too much.

When I hesitate, he pulls back slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. For a man who rarely lets his mask slip, it’s like watching stone crack.

Then he lifts a hand to my cheek, thumb brushing softly along my jaw.

“I love you, Galina,” he says again, this time in English.

And just like that, I know I’ve never been safer.

Not because the danger is gone.

But because he’s choosing me. Every day. Every breath.

And I’m choosing him right back.