Page 37

Breaking the Cycle

T he hospital room is silent except for the steady beep of the heart monitor and the occasional rustle as I shift in the uncomfortable chair beside Vasiliy’s bed. Sunlight filters through half-drawn blinds, casting golden stripes across the sterile white sheets. Three weeks have passed since the showdown at the abandoned factory, but the memory remains vivid—blood on concrete, gunfire echoing off metal walls, and the cold fury in Vasiliy’s eyes as he fought to protect me.

The small bump of my belly is more pronounced now. Our child has survived the ordeal, a miracle that still brings tears to my eyes when I think about how close we came to losing each other.

Vasiliy stirs, his eyelids flickering open. “You’re still here,” he murmurs, voice rough from sleep.

“Where else would I be?” I reach for the water glass, helping him take a sip.

His hand catches mine, thumb tracing the delicate bones of my wrist where the bruises from Matvei’s restraints have finally faded. “You should be resting. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “The baby’s fine. You’re the one who took a bullet.”

Vasiliy’s lips curve into a small smile. “It was just a graze, but who cares?”

“I do.” I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his. “Don’t joke about it. One centimeter to the left, and it would’ve hit your lung. You could’ve died.”

The memory of that night hangs between us—Vasiliy bleeding out when adrenaline left his body after facing down Matvei, my desperate pleas as I pressed my hands against his wound, the chaos as Nikolai, Igor, and my uncle’s men stormed the building. We all survived, but just barely.

A soft knock interrupts the moment. Nikolai stands in the doorway, his usually impeccable appearance slightly rumpled, dark circles under his eyes betraying his exhaustion.

“The doctors say he’s recovering well,” I say by way of greeting.

Nikolai nods, moving to stand at the foot of the bed. “Good. We need to talk.” His expression is grim, the lines around his mouth deeper than usual. “About Yakov.”

Vasiliy tries to push himself up, wincing at the pull of stitches. “What’s happened?”

“He survived surgery. Jaromir’s bullet missed his heart by centimeters.” Nikolai’s jaw tightens. “He’s in a coma.”

I shiver despite the warmth of the room. I remember Yakov’s cold eyes at the fashion show, the casual way he threatened our child. The memory of his voice, smooth as silk but filled with venom, still haunts my dreams.

“The Bratva wants a decision,” Nikolai continues. “Igor’s already voted for execution. Clean and quick.”

“And you?” Vasiliy asks, watching his brother carefully.

Nikolai’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Vasiliy. “I’m considering alternatives.”

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken histories and the weight of decisions that will ripple through our world. I find myself thinking of my brothers, of all the lives lost to this endless cycle of retribution.

“No,” I say finally, my voice stronger than I feel. “No more killing.”

Both men turn to look at me, surprise evident in their expressions.

“ Lisichka —” Vasiliy begins, but I cut him off.

“Look at us,” I gesture to his bandaged torso, to my own healing bruises. “Look at what this revenge has cost all of us. Executing Yakov won’t bring back Ana, or my brothers, or erase what’s been done.”

“You of all people should want him dead,” Nikolai says, surprise coloring his tone. “After the way he threatened your child?—”

“I know exactly what he did.” I meet his gaze steadily. “But I also know that violence only breeds more violence. If we kill him, we’re just continuing the cycle that brought us here.”

Vasiliy reaches for my hand, his calloused fingers wrapping around mine. “What would you have us do instead, lisichka ? Let him walk free to plan his next move?”

“Of course not,” I reply. “But if he wakes up, there are other ways to contain him that don’t involve more bloodshed.”

Nikolai studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Such as?”

“Keep him under surveillance. Constant monitoring.” I glance at Vasiliy, gauging his reaction. “Let him live with the knowledge that he failed.”

“That’s a dangerous game,” Vasiliy warns, his fingers tightening around mine. “Men like Yakov don’t give up. They wait, they plan, they strike when you least expect it.”

“Then we’ll be ready,” I insist. “But I won’t have our child born into a world where their father’s first solution is always death.”

The words hang in the air between us, a challenge and a plea rolled into one. Vasiliy’s expression softens as he looks at me, something like pride flickering in his steel-gray eyes.

“You’ve changed,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“We’ve all changed,” I reply, resting my free hand on my stomach. “That’s the point.”

Nikolai clears his throat. “I might have a solution.” He shifts his weight, looking uncomfortable. “There’s a facility I own. Private. Discreet. Specializes in long-term psychiatric care for...people in our situation.”

“A mental hospital?” Vasiliy’s eyebrows rise. “You think Yakov will just sit quietly in therapy?”

“It’s more secure than that,” Nikolai says. “Think of it as a comfortable prison with good doctors. He’d be under constant surveillance, regular psychological evaluation?—”

“And what happens when he inevitably escapes?” Vasiliy interrupts.

“He won’t.” Nikolai’s confidence is absolute. “Not without us knowing well in advance. And if he tries...” He shrugs. “Then we’ll have justification for…more permanent measures.”

I consider the proposal, weighing it against all we’ve been through. It isn’t perfect—nothing in our world ever is—but it’s a step away from the endless bloodshed.

“Can you arrange it?” I ask Nikolai.

He nods. “I already have. Just waiting for your decision.”

Vasiliy is quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable as he studies my face. I meet his gaze steadily, silently pleading for him to understand.

“For our child,” I whisper. “For our future.”

Finally, he exhales, some of the tension leaving his body. “Let’s do it,” he tells Nikolai, never taking his eyes off me. “But I want daily reports. And if there’s even a hint that he’s planning something...”

“Understood.” Nikolai moves toward the door, then pauses. “I’ll set it in motion.”

After his brother leaves, Vasiliy pulls me closer until I’m perched on the edge of his hospital bed.

“You keep surprising me, lisichka ,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Always fighting, even when it’s not what I expect.”

“That’s why you love me,” I reply, trying for lightness but hearing the tremor in my own voice.

“Among other reasons.” His thumb traces my jawline, eyes serious. “But don’t mistake mercy for weakness. If Yakov ever threatens you or our child again, there won’t be any discussion.”

“I know.” I rest my hand over his, feeling the steady beat of his pulse. “But maybe this is how we start breaking the cycle. Not with grand gestures, but with everyday choices.”

He kisses me then, gentle but fierce, a promise sealed in warmth rather than blood. When we break apart, something has shifted between us—a decision made, a path chosen.

“So,” I say, settling more comfortably beside him, “what happens now?”

“Now?” A rare, genuine smile curves his lips. “Now we rebuild. Make something worth fighting for.”

The transfer takes place on a gray Tuesday morning, the clouds hanging low over the city like a shroud. I watch from the tinted window of Vasiliy’s SUV as orderlies wheel Yakov from the private hospital room toward the waiting ambulance. Despite his injuries, he sits straight in the wheelchair, his posture impeccable. Only the paleness of his skin betrays the trauma his body has endured.

“You should be at home,” Vasiliy murmurs beside me, his hand resting possessively on my knee.

“I need to see this,” I reply, not taking my eyes off Yakov. “To know it’s really over.”

Vasiliy’s silence speaks volumes, but he doesn’t argue. We both know it isn’t truly over—might never be—but this chapter, at least, is closing.

As if sensing my gaze, Yakov turns his head toward our vehicle. Even at this distance, I can feel the weight of his calculating stare. A chill runs down my spine despite the warmth of the car’s interior.

“He’s planning something,” Vasiliy says, his voice hard.

“He’s always planning something,” I reply. “But this time, we’ll be ready.”

The orderlies secure Yakov in the ambulance, the doors closing with a final-sounding thud. As the vehicle pulls away, escorted by two unmarked cars filled with Nikolai’s men, I feel some of the tension leave my body.

“Do you think we made the right choice?” I ask, turning to Vasiliy.

His expression is thoughtful as he watches the ambulance disappear around a corner. “I think we made a choice. Whether it’s right or wrong...time will tell.”

I nod, understanding what he isn’t saying. In our world, there are rarely perfect solutions—only calculated risks, uneasy compromises, and the constant vigilance that comes with power.

“Come,” Vasiliy says, signaling to the driver. “Let’s go home.”

As we drive through the city streets toward the new penthouse—a fortress of glass and steel where we’ve begun building our life together—I find myself reflecting on the journey that has brought us here. From enemies to lovers, from chaos to a tentative peace, we’ve forged something neither of us had believed possible.

“What are you thinking about?” Vasiliy asks, his thumb tracing circles on my palm.

“The future,” I reply. “Our child. The club.”

“The Velvet Echo,” he murmurs. “Jaromir nearly destroyed it.”

“We’ll rebuild it,” I say with conviction. “Better than before. A real legacy for our child.”

He smiles, the expression transforming his usually stern features. “Always so determined.”

“You love it,” I tease.

“I love you,” he corrects, his voice low and serious.

The words still make my heart skip, even after everything we’ve been through. “I love you too,” I whisper back.

As the car carries us toward home, I rest my head against Vasiliy’s shoulder. Outside, New York stretches around us, a city of endless possibilities and hidden dangers. Whatever comes next, we will face it together.

THE END