Page 30

Chapter 30

Breaking the Chain

Galina

“ A re you sure about this?” Vasiliy asks for what feels like the tenth time, his voice low as he idles at the curb in front of my childhood home.

I stare out the window at the stoic gray brick facade. It looks smaller than I remember. Meaner. “Not even a little bit,” I admit, fingers tightening around the door handle. “But Mila says this is part of my emotional rehab. Her words, not mine.”

“And you trust her?” His tone is neutral, but the sharp line of his jaw says he doesn’t.

“She’s my therapist, not my priest,” I say with a shrug. “Her job is to make sure I stop spinning in circles. And apparently, facing the people who made me this way is step one.”

Vasiliy doesn’t reply. His eyes are locked on the house like it’s a potential ambush site. His silence is more protective than disapproving, like he’s already imagining worst-case scenarios and planning how to neutralize them.

“If they lay a single finger on you?—”

“They won’t.” I try to sound confident. “They’re my parents.”

“Exactly,” he mutters. “That’s what makes them dangerous.”

With a breath that tastes like anxiety, I push open the car door. I’m halfway up the front steps when I realize Vasiliy’s shadow is right behind me.

“Don’t you have a meeting at the club?”

“Cleared my calendar,” he says, unapologetically.

My eyes narrow. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he grabs me by the waist, hauling me close. His mouth crashes against mine in a kiss that’s more possession than passion, more warning than welcome. When he pulls back, his voice is low and deadly calm.

“To remind them,” he says. “That whatever they say in there, whatever they try to take from you—you don’t walk alone anymore.”

That warmth I hate to need spreads through my chest. “Thank you,” I whisper, fingers curling into the lapels of his coat for just a second longer than necessary.

The moment shatters as the front door swings open before I can even ring the bell.

My mother stands there, perfectly put together in pearls and judgment, eyes cutting straight past me to the man behind.

Her voice is ice. “Why did you bring him here?”

“Hello, Mother,” I say, smiling with all my teeth. “Nice to see you too.”

She doesn’t smile back. Instead, she hisses the next words like venom. “I don’t want this lowlife setting foot in my house.”

“We need to talk. With both of you,” I say, jaw clenched.

She looks like I slapped her. Shock flickers, then anger, then resignation. Wordlessly, she steps aside.

The scent inside is painfully familiar—rose water, honeyed pastries, and decades of quiet judgment. Nothing has changed. Not the crystal chandelier that’s never once been dimmed. Not the dark, carved dining table where negotiations were whispered between toasts. Not the corner icon of Saint Nicholas, candlelit and watchful, casting long shadows like a silent reminder that even God was expected to take sides in this house.

My father rounds the corner, eyebrows lifting as his gaze lands on us. “Galina. What are you doing here?” His eyes darken as they slide to Vasiliy. “And what the hell is he doing in my house?”

“Your father’s right,” my mother chimes in, standing rigid beside him. “Do you have any idea what kind of disrespect this is? Bringing him here?”

I glance at Vasiliy. He hasn’t moved. Just stands beside me like a storm in a tailored suit.

And for the first time in years, I don’t feel like the weakest person in the room.

Vasiliy tenses by my side, but I speak first, cutting him off before he can escalate.

“That’s what I came to talk to you about,” I say, my voice even. “A lot of what happened is my fault. I’m not here to shift blame or make excuses. I want us to move forward. And the only way to do that is by letting go of the guilt and shame. We need to stop looking back.”

Mother draws in a sharp, offended breath. “Don’t tell me he’s filled your head with this nonsense.”

“No,” I say, lifting Vasiliy’s hand and threading my fingers with his. I hold it out, so they can see. So there are no illusions. “It was my therapist, actually.”

“You’re reckless, Galina.” My mother shakes her head like she’s watching a stranger spiral. “They never should’ve released you from that psychiatric hospital. You were sent there for a reason.”

Vasiliy growls low in his throat. I grip his hand tighter, a silent plea for restraint. He obeys—barely—but I feel the storm building beneath his skin.

“I’m here to ask for forgiveness,” I press on, even as my pulse pounds. “For my part in what happened. My choices got Maksim, Grigoriy, and Fedot killed. I see that now. I own it.”

“Too bad it didn’t kill them too,” Vasiliy mutters under his breath.

I elbow him in the ribs, shooting him a glare. He’s barely holding it together, and honestly, I appreciate it more than I can say.

“You should leave,” my father says suddenly, his voice sharp and cold. His gaze locks on Vasiliy. “A Volkov will never be welcome in this house.”

“Too bad you don’t get to decide that,” Vasiliy snaps, done playing nice. His patience is officially gone. “I’ll make this simple. Sit your ass in one of those ridiculous green chairs and let your daughter speak. I won’t say it again.”

My father’s face turns a dangerous shade of red.

“Boris,” my mother says sharply, pulling on his sleeve. She tugs him toward the dining table. Begrudgingly, they both sit.

“Thank you,” Vasiliy adds, far too pleased with himself.

The silence that follows is suffocating. Every tick of the wall clock lands like a countdown. Vasiliy gestures for me to sit, but I stay standing. So does he.

“I meant what I said. I’m sorry,” I begin again. My throat tightens, but I push through. “This next part won’t be easy to hear, but I need to say it.” I place a hand over my stomach. “I’m pregnant.”

My mother gasps. “You’re seriously telling us you’re having a child? With him ?”

I ignore her and keep going. “I want this baby to have a better life. A different one. I don’t want him growing up with guns and drugs and blood feuds. I don’t want his first word to be ‘war.’ Vasiliy and I want out—but to do that, I need your help.”

The silence that follows is a new kind of cruel.

Then my father finally speaks.

“You’re a disgrace,” he spits, each word cutting deeper than the last. “We gave you everything. And you repay us with betrayal.”

“Daddy—”

“No!” he roars, his voice thunderous. I flinch instinctively, but Vasiliy moves between us, shielding me without hesitation.

“You got your brothers killed,” my father snarls. “Now you’re throwing yourself at the man who helped finish the job. You’ve brought nothing but shame.”

He looks at me like I’m something rotten.

“You’re no longer my daughter. Don’t ever set foot in this house again.”

I try once more, barely holding back the tears. “Please, Daddy?—”

“I wish it was you who died instead of your brothers,” he hisses. “At least then, they wouldn’t have died in vain.”

My heart stutters. Vasiliy stiffens, and then leans forward.

“You’re lucky I’m trying to be a better man for your daughter, old man,” he snaps. “Or I’d beat the living shit out of you right here.”

“Get the fuck out of my house!” my father bellows.

Vasiliy grabs my hand and hauls me out without another word. Fury radiates off him in waves. His jaw’s tight, his body vibrating with the urge to turn back and finish what he started. I don’t even try to reason with him. I just follow, wordless, my fingers clenched in his as we get into the car and drive.

I can’t help but glance back. One of the curtains twitches. My mother’s watching from the window. Our eyes meet.

She’s crying.

And it’s my fault.

I look away before I break. I don’t know what hurts more, that she couldn’t speak up…or that she’s watching me go without protest.

The city melts behind us, each mile a buffer between me and the house I’ll never be welcome again. We wind through the Bronx in silence, the tension in the car slowly bleeding out as Vasiliy’s grip on the wheel eases.

It takes a while before I can find my voice. “Where are we going?”

He doesn’t look at me when he answers, “On an adventure.”

The corner of my mouth lifts, even as the ache in my chest lingers. I don’t have to ask to know. If I told him I wanted to turn around and go back, he’d do it. Not because he wants peace. Because he wants revenge. Because no one gets to hurt me anymore. Not even the people who raised me.

And yeah, there’s a dark, broken part of me that wants it too. But the rest of me—the part that’s grown and clawed her way out of the wreckage—wants peace. Wants more.

“Please,” I murmur, tightening my fingers around his. “I just need a break. From all of it.”

“I know.” His fingers graze my neck, heat blooming under my scarf. His touch is gentle. Familiar. His way of saying I hear you .

Three hours later, the road curves, and the trees thicken. A sign flashes past: Catskill Mountains, New York.

We pull onto a quiet drive where a timber cabin nestles against the forest like it’s been waiting for us.

My eyes widen. “What’s this?”

“Nik owes me a favor,” he says, smirking. “With everything going on, I figured we deserve a weekend. Just the two of us.”

“But the fashion show?—”

“Can wait,” he says, cutting me off. His voice softens. “You come first, lisichka . Always.”

And suddenly, nothing else matters. Not the business, not the fight, not even the fallout waiting back in the city. There’s only him. Only us.

The things my father said still echo in my head, but Vasiliy’s presence—his calm, his protectiveness, his hands—makes the poison drain out slowly.

And I want him.

Not to distract me. Not to reclaim me. I want him to feel owned too . To be marked the way I’ve been marked a hundred times over.

“Let’s go inside,” he says, getting out and rounding the car to open my door.

The porch creaks beneath our feet. Inside, it’s rustic and warm. A small kitchenette. A couch. A fireplace. A bed. Not much else. But it’s perfect.

“This is exactly what I needed,” I murmur as he wraps his arms around me from behind.

“If your needs are met,” he growls, “maybe we can move on to mine.”

“And those would be?”

He grins and backs me up until my spine hits the wall. One hand cups my cheek. The other grips my waist.

Then he kisses me—hard. Hungry. Possessive.

My breath catches. My head swims. I melt into him as his tongue claims mine, his arousal pressing into my stomach, making my pulse spike.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, breath hot on my lips, “There are two ways I can do this,” he says. “I can make love to you…or I can fuck you into oblivion. Your call.”

The words hit like a match to gasoline. Pleasure sparks straight to my core, molten and primal.

But I don’t want sweet. And I don’t want to be claimed. Not tonight.

“Neither,” I whisper.

He freezes. Still. Coiled. Watching me.

Then I meet his eyes, full of fire.

“Because I’m the one who’s going to fuck you .”