Chapter 31 Vera
VERA
Isit in the leather chair across from Misha's desk with my hands folded in my lap to hide the trembling that hasn't completely stopped since we left the luxury box where Sonya died.
The adrenaline continues to course through my system, making my heart race and my thoughts scatter like leaves in an autumn wind.
I'm going to need therapy after all of this violence.
Through the tall windows, I can see the organized chaos of cleanup operations.
Men in dark clothing move across the grounds, coordinated by radio communications that crackle through the night air.
Floodlights illuminate areas where evidence must be collected or disposed of, and police caution tape sections off areas where the authorities don’t want anyone.
Misha stands near the windows, his silhouette framed by the artificial daylight of the security lights.
His shirt bears stains from our ordeal—river water, concrete dust, and darker patches that might be blood.
The expensive fabric clings to his lean frame, outlining muscles that my fingers have traced a dozen times now.
"It's finished," he says quietly. "The Radich organization is broken. Sonya's dead, their key personnel are eliminated or captured, and their financial resources belong to us now."
The words bring relief, but they also carry implications that my mind struggles to process completely.
This world of violence and retribution operates by rules I'm still learning, codes of conduct that seem alien to someone raised with conventional morality.
Yet I'm part of this world now, bound to it by love and pregnancy and the choices I've made over these past months.
"What happens to the people your men captured?" I ask, though part of me dreads the answer.
"They'll be questioned about any remaining Radich operations, then disposed of according to their value as sources of intelligence." His tone seems surreal, discussing murder with the same casual inflection another man might use to describe his business transactions.
The clinical description makes me shudder as I recognize how completely my perspective has changed.
Months ago, such casual discussion of killing would've horrified me.
Now I understand the necessity, the cold logic that governs survival in a world where mercy is often indistinguishable from weakness.
"And us?" I ask, hugging my arms over my stomach. "What happens to us now?"
He turns from the window, and I see something in his eyes that I've never seen before.
Not the calculating coldness that he wears like armor or the predatory awareness that makes him dangerous to his enemies.
Something warmer, more human, vulnerable in ways that he's never allowed himself to be with anyone else.
"That depends on what you want," he says, moving toward me cautiously. "Your debt to the Radich family died with Sonya. You're free to walk away and return to your old life and forget this world exists."
Freedom from violence, from the constant awareness that death lurks behind every decision, from the moral compromises that come with loving a man who kills without hesitation.
The offer doesn't even tempt me. The thought of leaving him, of walking away from what we have, creates a hollow ache in my chest that feels worse than fear.
"Is that what you want?" I counter. "For me to disappear and pretend none of this happened?"
"No." Misha is fighting to maintain control. I watch his jaw work to steady himself, and then he says, "What I want is dangerous for both of us. What I want could get you killed if my enemies decide you're a weakness they can exploit."
"What do you want, Misha?"
He reaches my chair and kneels beside it, bringing his eyes level with mine.
His hands find my face, thumbs tracing the line of my cheekbones in a gesture so familiar to me now it's as warm as sunrise over the ocean on a cloudless day.
The same hands that killed people tonight now touch me with reverent care, as if I'm made of precious crystal that might shatter under too much pressure.
"I want you to stay," he whispers. "I want to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep with you in my arms every night.
I want to watch our child grow up strong and smart and safe under my protection.
I want to build a life with you that exists beyond the violence and the business and the constant threat of death. "
Tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them, emotional overflow from weeks of accumulated stress and fear finally finding release.
His words paint a picture of normalcy that seems impossibly beautiful after the chaos we've endured together.
The simple domestic happiness that most people take for granted becomes an exotic dream when your world revolves around criminal enterprises and violent retribution.
"Can we have that?" I ask. "Can people like you actually build a normal life?"
"I don't know," he admits, "but I want to try. For you, for our child, for the future we could create together."
The office door opens without warning, interrupting our moment of intimacy with the harsh reality of ongoing operations. Nikolai Barinov enters. His face shows the exhaustion that comes from managing multiple crises simultaneously, but there's satisfaction in his expression as he surveys the scene.
"The cleanup is nearly complete," he reports to Misha. "All evidence has been secured or disposed of. Witnesses have been debriefed, and official reports are being filed according to our predetermined narrative."
Misha rises from his position beside my chair, transforming back into the cold professional who commands respect and fear in equal measure.
The vulnerable man who spoke of building a life together disappears behind the mask he wears for the world, though I can see glimpses of him in the way his eyes keep returning to my face.
"Casualties?" Misha asks.
"Minimal among our people. Three wounded, none seriously. The medical team has already treated their injuries and established cover stories for any hospital visits that might be necessary."
The clinical discussion of violence and its aftermath continues around me, but my attention drifts to what Misha revealed.
He wants a future together, to build something beyond the criminal empire that defines his current existence.
But can a man like him ever truly escape the world that shaped him?
Can I accept the compromises that come with loving someone whose hands will always carry the stain of blood?
"What about law enforcement response?" Misha continues his debriefing.
"Contained. Local police are investigating a territorial dispute between rival criminal organizations, exactly as planned. Federal authorities show no interest in the case, and media coverage will focus on general crime statistics rather than specific details."
The conversation washes over me as I study Misha's profile, noting the sharp angles of his face and the premature lines around his eyes from the stressful life he lives.
He's beautiful in a dangerous way, like a perfectly balanced blade that could cut you if handled carelessly.
The combination of physical appeal and lethal capability creates an attraction that goes beyond simple chemistry.
"Excellent work," Misha tells the fixer. "Your handling of this situation has been exemplary. I'll make sure the family leadership knows about your contributions."
Nikolai nods and turns toward me, and I see something unexpected in his expression. Not the dismissive assessment I've grown accustomed to from men in his position, but something approaching respect.
"Ms. Kovalenko," he says formally. "Your cooperation throughout this operation has been noted and appreciated. The family won't forget your service."
The words create a strange tightness in my throat.
Recognition from someone like Nikolai Barinov carries weight in this world, acknowledgment that I've proven myself worthy of consideration rather than simple tolerance.
It's not the kind of validation I ever expected to want, but receiving it feels oddly meaningful.
"Thank you," I manage, unsure what other response would be appropriate.
He nods again and heads toward the door, pausing only to deliver a final report. "The track will reopen next week for normal operations. All systems have been tested and cleared, and security protocols have been updated to prevent similar incidents."
The door closes behind Barinov as he heads out, leaving Misha and me alone in the office where this all began tonight.
I feel exhausted and ready to go home and rest. With Sonya off my back and Misha promising to pay for Elvin's treatment, I deserve some time off work at the track.
But not too much. I still love these horses too dearly to be away for too long.
"He respects you," Misha observes, moving back to where I sit. "That's not easily earned from someone like Nikolai."
"Does it matter?"
"In this world, respect is currency. It opens doors, creates opportunities, provides protection when circumstances become dangerous. Having Nikolai's good opinion could be valuable in the future."
The future. That word keeps recurring in our conversations. What does the future look like for a woman pregnant with the child of a Bratva operative? What kind of life can we build together when violence remains an occupational hazard?
"Tell me about Elvin's treatment," I say, deflecting from questions I'm not ready to answer completely. "What exactly did you arrange?"
Misha's expression softens as he settles into the chair behind his desk. "There is a private oncology clinic in central Moscow. It has the best cancer specialists money can buy, with access to experimental treatments not available through public healthcare. No expense spared and no corners cut."