Page 32

Chapter 32

The Wolf in the Crowd

Galina

T he Velvet Echo hums with anticipation, every beat of the music vibrating through the floor like a pulse. Models pace behind the curtain, nerves jangling in silks and stilettos. That energy is contagious—it crackles in the air, thick and electric. I stand near the bar, adjusting the drape of a silk wrap from the debut collection. One of mine. My fingers smooth over the fabric I’ve agonized over for weeks, stitched for seduction, designed to conceal and reveal in the same breath.

The club doesn’t just look different tonight—it feels different. Strategic lighting carves shadow and gold across the newly renovated space. Amber pools cast warmth on intimate tables, while darkness curls in the corners, preserving anonymity. A raised runway slices through the room, its polished surface catching the low light in flashes of movement and reflection. It’s a stage, but also a statement. Every inch whispers: You’re not just watching a show. You’re part of something forbidden.

Upstairs, the private rooms have been reimagined in velvet and low light, designed for whispered propositions and high-priced secrets. This isn’t just a club anymore. It’s a world I built from fantasy and ash.

“Five minutes to showtime,” Oksana calls, striding past with clipboard in hand. She’s ditched her usual barely-there look for a sleek black pantsuit and bloodred lipstick that says don’t cross me . When I made her the showcase coordinator, people doubted me. They’re not doubting anymore.

“The guest list’s at capacity,” she adds, voice low. “Three girls have special requests waiting.” Her tone makes it clear—those requests are exactly the kind we don’t print on fliers. Discreet. Voluntary. Lucrative.

I scan the room, noting the precise blend of power and hunger. Old money and new. Senators and socialites, CEOs and silent investors, all dressed to dazzle and pretending not to notice the undercurrent of danger that gives the Echo its edge. This is what I promised Vasiliy—respectable on the surface, seductive underneath. We’ve given the place teeth.

Then I see him.

A man alone at a corner table. Sharp suit, sharper posture. Something about him tugs at my memory, though I can’t place why. He doesn’t fit, and yet...he belongs. When he lifts his glass to me, I nod, polite but guarded.

The lights drop.

Music rises.

A spotlight hits the runway, and the first model emerges—black silk, red lips, killer heels. One of mine. The crowd leans forward. She walks like temptation incarnate, and when she reaches the edge of the light, she pauses, undoes the clasps at her shoulder, and lets the gown fall.

A collective hush falls over the room.

The silk pools around her feet. Her back is to the crowd, head tilted, arms raised gracefully. Her curves, her inked skin, the slow, poised way she walks off the stage—they all say look, but don’t touch . And the crowd? They eat it up. Applause, whistles, a few gasps from the uninitiated.

I don’t smile. I own this.

“Quite impressive,” a voice says behind me. Smooth. Cultured. Dangerous.

I turn slowly.

“I’m blown away by the show.” He glances toward the stage where a model is mid-turn in a crimson silk number. “The craftsmanship. The restraint. There’s a certain...artistry in how you toe the line between luxury and sin.” His gaze slides back to me. “It’s rare to see such control.”

There’s something off about him, something measured and dangerous hiding behind the flattery. But before I can untangle it, a sudden wave of nausea swells in my gut. The perfume-laced air, the stress, the heat—it all crashes into me like a tidal wave.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, already moving. I barely make it to the nearest bathroom before I’m retching into the stall, every heave ripping through me as tears sting my eyes. Not now. Not tonight.

Behind me, footsteps echo.

“Are you alright?” His voice bounces off the tile, far too calm for someone standing in the women’s restroom. “You look pale. Let me?—”

“She doesn’t need your help.” Vasiliy’s voice slices through the air.

I wipe my mouth and stumble from the stall, only to find him standing between me and the stranger, shoulders squared, rage simmering just beneath the surface.

The other man doesn’t flinch. Instead, he offers a thin smile.

“Vasiliy Volkov,” he says smoothly. “What a surprise. It’s been…years, hasn’t it?”

That voice. That smile. Those eyes.

Recognition crashes into me. It’s in the posture. The eyes that echo his father’s. The self-satisfaction wrapped in silk and poison.

“You’re Yakov Gagarin.” My words are barely audible.

“The very same.” He inclines his head in mock politeness, the gesture too refined to be sincere.

“Your recovery is miraculous,” I add, unable to stop myself.

His smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Some miracles come wrapped in steel and pain.” He nods at his legs. “But what doesn’t kill you…”

“Get away from her,” Vasiliy growls, stepping forward.

Yakov lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Now, now. Is that any way to greet a potential investor? I simply wanted to offer my compliments. The new Velvet Echo is…intriguing. A bit polished for my tastes, perhaps, but undeniably clever.”

“You’re not here for the ambiance,” Vasiliy snaps. “Cut the act.”

Yakov’s face shifts. That smooth civility peels back, revealing something cold and sharp. “Of course not,” he says. “This isn’t a social call. Consider it a warning visit. A reminder that old debts don’t just vanish.”

I stiffen. Sergey’s words echo in my mind: “ Take your child and run. ”The properties. The surveillance. My uncle’s sudden resurgence. None of it is a coincidence.

“I understand your pain,” I say carefully. “But the past?—”

“The past.” Yakov shakes his head. “Tell that to my sister. Oh, wait…you can’t.” He turns to me then, letting his gaze drop to my belly.

My heart hammers.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” he says almost gently. “How poetic, really. A Volkov child, born just in time to witness the fall of everything his name was built on.”

Vasiliy moves so fast I barely register it. One moment he’s beside me, the next, he’s slammed Yakov against the tiled wall, a hand wrapped around his throat.

“If you dare to threaten my family again?—”

“You’ll what?” Yakov’s voice is calm, unsettlingly so. He doesn’t struggle, doesn’t flinch. “Kill me? Like Igor killed my sister? Cripple me again, like Nikolai did? Go ahead and try. None of it changes what’s coming.”

Vasiliy shoves him back with a snarl, releasing him. “Get out. While I’m still feeling merciful.”

Yakov straightens his jacket like nothing happened, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel with eerie composure. “Naturally. I wouldn’t want to miss the rest of the show.” He glances at me. “Truly stunning work, Ms. Olenko. A shame it will all be ashes soon.”

He moves to the door, pausing just before stepping out. “Oh, and Vasiliy? Give Igor my regards. Tell him his son is growing up strong. Looks more and more like his mother every day.”

The door clicks shut behind him, the sound too soft for the weight it carries.

My legs give out. I sink onto the small couch, breath hitching. Vasiliy kneels in front of me in an instant, hands gentle but trembling as they frame my face.

“ Lisichka , are you hurt?” His voice is low, thick with fury barely held in check.

“No.” I force the word past lips that don’t quite cooperate. “I just…wasn’t ready.”

“A trap,” he says darkly. “He baited you.”

He rises slowly, and I see it in his face—that shift. The calm before the storm. Vasiliy Volkov, wolf unchained. “He won’t get near you again. Or the baby. I swear on everything I am.”

“They’re closing in,” I whisper. “Yakov. My uncle. All of them. They won’t stop?—”

“Then we’ll stop them first.” He pulls me against him, and I press my face into the space between his shoulder and throat, breathing him in. That scent—leather, smoke, and the safety of home.

I nod, but dread still coils in my belly. This whole night—the lights, the glamour, the success—suddenly feels like a paper shield in a burning war zone.

“We should go back,” I say, pulling away. “If we’re gone too long, people will start to ask questions.”

Vasiliy helps me up, his hand warm at the small of my back. “Take Raffe with you. I don’t want you alone for a second tonight.”

I want to argue, but I don’t. Not after what just happened. “Okay.”

He kisses my forehead, then steps back, already switching gears. “I’ll have Jaromir roll out the new protocols. And Galina—” His gaze sharpens, dangerous. “Stay away from Yakov.”

I rest a hand on my stomach, protectively. The life inside me suddenly feels more fragile than ever. “I know. That’s what terrifies me.”

Beyond the bathroom door, the music continues—smooth, seductive, the bassline humming like a heartbeat. The models are still on the runway. The crowd is still clapping. As if nothing just unraveled in this room.

I fix my dress, reapply my lipstick, and stare down the woman in the mirror. Composed. Cool. Unbothered.

No one in that crowd will see the storm I carry.

But it’s coming. And I’ll be ready.

I take a deep breath and step back into the Velvet Echo’s warmth and golden light. The music swells. The crowd murmurs. The show must go on.

But something’s shifted.

The shadows seem deeper now, more watchful. Every corner feels like a threat, every smile a possible mask. Yakov’s presence has pierced the illusion of safety. This world doesn’t allow peace. Not for long.

Let them come , I think, lifting my chin. We’ve survived worse. We’ll survive this too.

Together.

Then Vasiliy’s phone buzzes.

I watch the change in real time—his posture stiffens, color draining from his face as he listens. Whatever he hears tightens every muscle in his body.

“When?” His voice is cold. Controlled. “Both families? Are they—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just grinds his jaw and says, “I’m on my way.”

My heart spikes. “What happened?”

He grabs my arm and starts steering me through the crowd. Fast. Focused.

“Nikolai’s house was hit. So was Igor’s.” His tone leaves no room for confusion. “You’re staying here. Don’t argue.”

“Vasiliy, wait?—”

But he doesn’t. He all but shoves me into his office, slamming the door behind me. A second later, I hear the lock click.

“Vasiliy!” I lunge for the handle, but it’s no use.

Through the thick wood, his voice is muffled. Regretful. “Forgive me, lisichka . I can’t risk it.”

“Don’t you dare leave me in here!” I shout, pounding the door with both fists. “Vasiliy!”

Nothing.

Only the distant echo of his footsteps disappearing into chaos.

I whirl around, heart hammering. His scent lingers—leather, spice, a hint of gun oil. The desk is littered with security briefings, surveillance photos of unfamiliar faces. Intel he never showed me. He knew. He knew this was coming.

This is what they wanted. Divide and conquer.

And now I’m locked in this room. Trapped and helpless to stop whatever comes next.