Page 35

Chapter 35

Soft Doesn’t Mean Weak

Galina

T he world returns in fragments.

First, the jarring thump of tires over uneven ground, each bump ricocheting through my skull. Then voices—low, male, too close. The acidic rasp of Matvei, unmistakable. And behind that, another—calmer, colder, unfamiliar but laced with something sharp. Something controlled.

Pain creeps in last. A steady pulse at my temple from where Matvei struck me. My arms are bound at the wrists, zip ties biting into skin already rubbed raw. I keep still, eyes closed, letting the pain ground me. Letting the fear shape itself into focus. Agency.

I remember the rain. The tunnels. Mila’s voice on the other end of the line. Then nothing. Just darkness. A strike from behind.

“Almost there,” Matvei’s voice cuts through the low rumble of the car. “Our guest of honor is still sleeping like a baby.”

“She better not be damaged,” the other man says, tone clipped. Irritated, but not cruel. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”

His voice lands with a strange weight. It’s not just impatience; it’s command wrapped in ice. And despite the pounding in my head, something in me goes still.

“Plans change,” Matvei replies with a laugh that scrapes down my spine.

The car slows, gravel crunching under the tires. I catch glimpses through barely parted lashes—industrial wreckage framed by a bruised sky. We must be somewhere deep in New Jersey. Abandoned factories. Rotting steel. The kind of place where things disappear and don’t come back.

The car stops. Doors open. Hands grab me, rough and careless, and Matvei throws me over his shoulder like I’m a thing. My head dangles, blood rushing, but I stay loose. Limp. Observing.

The structure we’re heading into is massive. Walkways and corridors web the interior, lit only by flickering bulbs and roving guards. But these men aren’t thugs; they move with purpose. Bratva muscle. Military. Efficient. Professional.

This isn’t just a hit job.

It’s an operation.

Inside, the air turns damp and stale, tinged with rust and old oil. The kind of place that remembers screams. A makeshift command post has been carved out from the rot—tables, monitors, lights rigged to expose exactly what they want seen. Which means everything else is meant to stay hidden.

And at the center of it all—seated like a king in exile—isYakov Gagarin.

He doesn’t rise. Doesn’t posture. He doesn’t need to.

He sits with the stillness of a man who’s done unspeakable things and made peace with every one of them. Even under the dim light, he’s striking—tall, broad-shouldered, cut from frost. The suit’s expensive, but not flashy. His eyes, though...those are the killers. Icy, calculating, framed by a face that could have been chiseled from war stories and prison walls. There’s no warmth there. Just silence thick with history.

His gaze flicks to me slung over Matvei’s shoulder. Something flickers—surprise, quickly buried beneath tight-lipped disapproval.

“What’s this?” he asks. Calm but edged. “I don’t recall asking for her.”

Matvei dumps me unceremoniously onto the concrete. Pain shoots up my side as I hit the ground, but I bite back a sound.

“Olenko’s little princess,” Matvei says, nudging my ribs with his boot. “Volkov’s whore. Carrying his spawn.”

I blink slowly. Groan. Time to play my part.

“Where…where am I?” I rasp, forcing my voice into a tremble.

Matvei crouches beside me, his scarred face twisting into a grin that makes bile rise in my throat. “Awake at last. You’re just in time for the show.”

He hauls me to my feet. My legs buckle, half real, half performance.

“This wasn’t the deal,” Yakov says. His voice is quiet, but the kind that silences rooms. “We agreed—no unnecessary casualties. These women are leverage, not fucking trophies.”

His words slice through the tension like steel, and for the first time since waking, I feel something dangerous but not entirely bleak.

Boundaries. Rules.

He may be a monster, but he’s not Matvei.

Matvei scoffs, tightening his grip on my arm until I wince. “I’m not going to touch her. Much. And I want to see Volkov’s face when I put a bullet through her head.”

Yakov’s eyes don’t move, but his jaw clenches—just a flicker. Barely there.

Enough for me to see it.

Whatever this is between them, it’s not equal. Matvei acts like he’s in control, but Yakov is the one with the leash. Whether he yanks it or not…that remains to be seen.

My heart pounds, but I force myself to look—not panic, not shut down, but observe. Catalog. Survive.

Two women are huddled near the far wall, flanked by guards with dead eyes and heavy rifles. My breath catches.

Katya . Vasiliy’s sister, her blonde hair a tangled mess, eyes wide but focused. And next to her, Katarina . Nikolai’s wife. Even bruised and dirt-smudged, she radiates command. Regal under fire.

They both meet my gaze. Recognition flickers. Calculation tightens their features. We don’t scream. We don’t fall apart. We assess. Plot. We’re all fluent in survival, raised in this world where weakness is expensive.

Movement near the back wall catches my eye.

Jaromir .

Still standing. Still here. And looking like he regrets every second of it.

He doesn’t meet my eyes, but I see it—the unease in the line of his shoulders, the way his gaze jumps between Matvei and Yakov like a man watching two bombs ticking down at different speeds.

He didn’t expect this. Or maybe he did and just didn’t think it would go this far.

“Take her to the others,” Yakov says, voice clipped. Matvei wastes no time, shoving me toward the corner like I’m furniture.

I stagger, exaggerating the stumble, and nearly collapse at Katya and Katarina’s feet. Katarina catches me with surprising strength, guiding me down without breaking her stare from the guards.

“You’re hurt,” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a breath.

I touch my temple. It grounds me. Reminds me I’m still here. Still alive.

“It’s nothing.”

Katya leans in, green eyes searching. “Why did they bring you?”

I don’t get a chance to answer.

Matvei’s shadow falls over us like a storm cloud. “Reunion’s over, ladies. Keep your mouths shut unless you want to lose something vital.”

He strides back to Yakov, and the two of them fall into a heated exchange near the center of the warehouse. Their voices bounce off the metal beams and high ceilings, sharp and unfiltered.

“This complicates things,” Yakov hisses, flicking a glance toward us. “Vladimir will lose his shit if anything happens to her.”

“Vladimir isn’t in charge anymore,” Matvei snaps. “Neither are you. Don’t forget who handed you the manpower to pull this off.”

Yakov’s jaw tics. His control doesn’t crack, but the shadows deepen around his eyes.

“Our deal was clear,” he says tightly. “The Volkovs and Sokolovs pay for Ana. But it’s done clean. Professional.”

Matvei scoffs. “Your way is too slow. You want suffering. I want bodies.”

“You’ll get them.” Yakov’s voice drops, dangerous and smooth. “But you don’t raze an empire in a day. There’s a method to dismantling power.”

Even now, bruised and bleeding, I can see it:Yakov’s not just a thug with a vendetta. He’s something else. Strategic. Cold. Bound by his own code, as fractured as it may be.

I turn to Katarina. “Wait…Yakov’s working with my uncle?”

She shakes her head. “No. Not exactly. From what we’ve picked up, Matvei’s gone rogue. He’s using Yakov’s people, but he doesn’t give a damn about Yakov’s motives.”

“He wants Vasiliy,” Katya adds, low and steady. “There’s history there.”

Vasiliy’s stories come back to me in flashes. Bits he told me when his guard was down, quiet moments where something in him cracked just enough to let the truth bleed through. The prison in Siberia. Matvei. The boiling oil.

A feud forged in chains.

“We need to work together,” I whisper, testing the zip ties at my wrists. They bite deep, but there’s give. I just need something sharp. Something small.

Katarina’s gaze shifts—me, the guard, the floor, back to me. She gives a slight nod.

She’s ready.

We all are.

A commotion erupts across the room. Jaromir steps forward, his voice slicing through the tension like a wire about to snap.

“This has gone far enough,” he says, ignoring Matvei completely as he addresses Yakov. “You promised justice for Ana. Not this. Not a war. This—” He gestures to the warehouse, to us, to everything “—this is madness.”

“Careful,” Matvei warns, his hand sliding to the gun on his hip like it’s second nature. “Watch your tone, lover boy.”

“My place was by Ana’s side,” Jaromir says, his voice cracking at the edges. “Everything I did—betraying Volkov, helping you—it was for her. But this?” His eyes flick to us. “This isn’t justice. It’s cruelty. And she would’ve hated every second of it.”

Yakov’s expression turns to ice. “Ana’s dead,” he says. “What she wanted no longer matters.”

“She was the love of my life.” Jaromir is unraveling, desperation leaking from every word. “You asked me to help you destroy Igor. I agreed. But not like this. Not with women locked in corners and threats against unborn children.”

The gunshot cuts him off.

It’s fast—too fast to track. One second Jaromir’s standing, the next he’s crumpled on the floor, blood blooming through his thigh like ink in water.

Matvei lowers his weapon, unconcerned. “Anyone else feel like growing a conscience?”

The guards shuffle. Eyes dart. But none speak.

I glance at Yakov. His jaw flexes. Something cold flickers across his face—not anger, but disapproval. Maybe even regret. But it’s too late. The balance of power has already shifted. Matvei’s taken control, and Yakov knows it.

“Was that necessary?” Yakov asks tightly.

“Entirely,” Matvei says, sliding his weapon back into its holster. “Sentiment is weakness. We can’t afford weakness. Not now.”

Yakov turns to the nearest guard. “Help him.”

The man hesitates. His gaze flicks, not to Yakov but to Matvei. Only when Matvei gives a lazy, dismissive nod does the guard move toward Jaromir.

It’s subtle.

But it’s damning.

Matvei has the room now.

Whatever revenge Yakov planned has spiraled into chaos. This was supposed to be surgical, controlled. But now the plan is bleeding out in front of him, twisted into something personal and feral.

A phone rings.

Matvei’s. His scarred mouth stretches into a grin as he answers, putting it on speaker like he’s inviting a friend to a dinner party.

“Hello, Volkov,” he purrs.

Vasiliy’s voice slices through the static, low and lethal. “If you touch her?—”

“You’ll what?” Matvei cuts in, mocking. “Kill me? That’s the goal, right? But first, I’m going to make you suffer. Like I suffered.”

My pulse pounds. Even just his voice cuts through the fear, replacing it with something sharp and anchoring.

He’s coming.

God, he’s really coming.

I should be terrified—Matvei wants him here—but all I feel is a savage, simmering satisfaction.

He has no idea who he’s lured into his trap.

“You better come alone,” Matvei continues. “No cops. No cavalry. Or your precious lisichka pays the price. I wonder,” he turns, smirking at me, “if your baby can survive what I’ve got planned.”

The way he uses Vasiliy’s pet name for me— lisichka —feels like a violation. A cold hand around my throat. But it doesn’t scare me.

It ignites me.

All I feel is rage.

Primal. Protective. White-hot and absolute.

Matvei ends the call. “Get the place ready,” he tells one of his men. “Volkov’s on his way.”

“And the women?” the guard asks, nodding toward us.

“Keep them visible.” His grin widens, cruel and gleaming. “I want him to watch. I want him to see what it looks like to lose everything.”

The men start moving. Rearranging. Strategizing. Creating the stage for a performance they’ll never finish.

And then I see it.

Just for a heartbeat.

A figure in the shadows, near the back of the warehouse. Too fluid to be one of Matvei’s men. Too precise. And gone just as quickly as he appeared.

My breath catches.

He’s not coming .

He’s already here.

Beside me, Katarina’s spine straightens. Her eyes flick toward the spot I just saw, then back to me.

She saw it too.

Hope surges through my chest. Then caution clamps down hard.

If we both saw him, how long before one of the guards does?

I need to buy him time.

A distraction. Something loud. Something stupid.

Something I’ve always been good at.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I rasp, loud and shaky, clutching my stomach and pitching forward.

The guard grimaces. “Keep it in, bitch.”

“I can’t,” I gasp, twisting in place, one hand on my stomach, the other gripping my thigh like I’m about to collapse. “The baby?—”

He groans, annoyed. “For fuck’s sake, don’t puke on my boots.”

He steps in, leaning down without caution. That’s a mistake. Men like him don’t think women like me are dangerous. They see softness and helplessness.

They never expect the strike coming.

I snap upward and drive my forehead into the bridge of his nose.

Pain explodes behind my eyes, a bolt of white-hot lightning that makes my ears ring and my stomach lurch. But it’s satisfying . Brutal. Clean.

His nose gives way with a crunch. He staggers back, howling, blood pouring down his face in thick rivers.

The room tilts for a beat, my vision blurs, nausea rolls in, but I breathe through it. I can’t afford to fall.

Before he can regain balance, Katarina lashes out with a sweep of her leg, catching his ankle and yanking. He crashes down hard, back slamming against concrete.

We did that. I did that.

My pulse is hammering. My head is spinning. But underneath all of it is a cold, fierce clarity.

He thought I was weak because I’m pregnant. Because I didn’t scream.

And for the first time in hours—maybe longer—I feel like myself again.

Not someone waiting to be rescued. But someone fighting her way out.

Shouting erupts instantly.

Guards move. Matvei starts barking orders. The whole room fractures into noise and panic.

Perfect.

Amid the chaos, something flickers in the far shadows—quick, controlled movement.

Not one of theirs.

Then the lights die.

The space plunges into darkness, broken only by the sinister red pulse of emergency strobes. It paints everything in blood and shadow.

“Find them!” Matvei’s voice cuts through the dark. “Get those fucking lights on!”

Near me, Katya pulls a tiny blade from somewhere on her body. Because of course she does. She slices through her restraints, then moves to Katarina’s, then mine.

“How—” I start.

“Always be prepared,” she whispers, like it’s a family mantra. I don’t deserve her trust, not after everything I did. But she gives it anyway.

I rub feeling back into my wrists, heart hammering. The guard I took down is still groaning, barely conscious. His gun lies a few feet away, forgotten.

“Cover me,” I murmur to Katya.

She nods, already positioning herself to intercept any movement.

I drop to my knees and crawl, metal and dust grinding beneath my palms. My fingers close around the pistol just as the generators groan to life and the lights snap back on.

“There!” someone shouts.

Bullets chew into the floor where I’d just been.

I roll hard behind a rusted hunk of machinery, pressing flat against it, adrenaline flooding my limbs. Through a gap in the frame, I see Katya and Katarina sprinting from cover to cover.

Matvei has climbed a platform, barking orders, his gun raised. He’s scanning for targets, hunting through the panic. Yakov is nowhere in sight.Probably vanished the moment the situation spiraled.

And then I see him.

Vasiliy.

He slips through a side door like a shadow—no wasted movement, only controlled violence. His eyes lock on mine from across the floor.

And suddenly, the room doesn’t matter. The blood doesn’t matter.

He’s here.

A tether snaps taut between us. I see the relief, the rage, the quiet explosion of joy flicker behind the fury in his eyes.

I nod once. I’m okay.

His mouth tilts into the smallest, fiercest smile. Pride. Purpose. Promise.

Then the room detonates.

Gunfire erupts from every side. Metal screams. Concrete chips fly. The warehouse transforms into a battlefield.

I stay low, bolting toward Katya and Katarina’s position behind a steel column. They’ve both armed themselves—Katarina with a pistol, Katya with a pipe like she was born wielding it.

“Vasiliy’s here,” I say, though they already know. We can feel him now; his presence swallowing the space.

“Nikolai and Igor can’t be far behind,” Katya mutters.

“We need to move,” Katarina says, nodding toward a door half concealed behind stacked crates. “East exit is our best shot.”

We prepare to run, but before we can move, Matvei’s voice rips through the chaos.

“Volkov! I know you’re here! Come out, or I start putting bullets in your women. One by one.”

I freeze, blood icing over. For a split second, I’m terrified Vasiliy might do it, might step into the open and offer himself up just to protect us. Exactly what Matvei wants.

But then?—

A different voice answers. Calm. Clear. Laced with frost.

“ It’s over, Matvei.”

Yakov emerges from the shadows, flanked by men I don’t recognize.

“You overplayed your hand,” Yakov says, eyes locked on Matvei. “This was never about your prison grudge. It was justice. For Ana.”

Matvei snarls, his scarred face contorted in hate. “You sanctimonious freak. You think Vladimir will save you now? He’ll toss you aside the moment you stop being useful.”

“Maybe,” Yakov replies evenly.

“Ana would be ashamed of what you’ve become,” Matvei spits. “A lapdog for men stronger than you.”

For a breath, something raw flickers across Yakov’s face—grief, sharp and unguarded. But it’s gone in the next blink.

“Take him,” he commands.

His men move, swift and sure.

But Matvei’s never been one to go quietly.

He dives behind a concrete barrier and opens fire, his shots deadly precise. Two of Yakov’s men drop before the rest scramble for cover.

Gunfire breaks out again, louder, messier, more frantic.

“This is it,” I hiss, turning to Katya and Katarina. “Now or never.”

We move low, weaving between machines and debris, heading for the east exit. The gun in my hand is heavy, a foreign weight I pray I won’t have to use. But hope’s a luxury I can’t afford anymore.

Halfway across the floor, a bullet screams past my head, so close I feel the heat of it shear the air, the sound cracking like a whip beside my ear. My breath catches, but I don’t freeze. It’s not the bullets you hear that kill you. The ones that hit? They’re silent. You never see them coming.

I drop instinctively, twisting toward the shooter.

One of Matvei’s men, gun raised for a second shot.

Then he’s airborne; Vasiliy crashing into him like a missile.

They go down in a blur of fists and fury. The man’s stronger, but Vasiliy fights like he’s possessed. Brutal, efficient, lethal.

But then, an opening. The man lands a solid hit to Vasiliy’s ribs, making him falter. His attacker scrambles for the gun on the ground.

I don’t think.

I fire.

The sound is deafening. The recoil bites. The man jerks once and collapses, blood blooming across his chest.

Vasiliy looks up, locking eyes with me through the smoke and wreckage.

And in that instant, we understand each other completely.

I would kill for him.

Just as he’d kill for me.

He grabs the downed man’s weapon and strides toward us, a storm in motion. When he reaches me, his hand brushes mine. Not tenderness— reassurance .

We’re alive.

Still standing.

Still us .

“The others?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

“On their way,” he says, scanning the room. “Igor and Nikolai are coming in from the south and west. Vladimir’s taking the north.”

I blink. “My uncle’s here?”

Vasiliy nods. “Turns out this wasn’t his plan. Matvei and Yakov hijacked the whole thing. And despite everything...he wouldn’t let you get hurt.”

Relief nearly folds me in half. For all the distance, the silence and the judgment, my family showed up when it mattered.

Love isn’t always soft.

Sometimes it’s bullets and blood and showing up anyway.

“We need to go,” Vasiliy says, leading us toward the exit. “This place is about to turn into a war zone.”

Right on cue, engines screech outside. Yelling. Metal clicks—magazines being locked in. Boots hitting pavement.

“Too late,” Katarina murmurs.

Vasiliy’s jaw hardens. “Stay close. Whatever happens, we move together.”

I shift beside him, not behind. Shoulder to shoulder.

His glance is half annoyed, half impressed.

“Together,” I say.

A ghost of a smile. Fierce. Proud. Lethal.

“Together.”