Chapter 40
Anton
My fingers twitch first. Then my toes. Shoulder screams. Chest feels like someone’s standing on it with steel-toed boots.
But I can move.
I focus on that. On the burn in my ribs. The ache in my arm. The IV line taped to the back of my hand.
They’re still talking. Still peeling fruit like the world didn’t just tilt off its axis.
My jaw clenches. I drag air through my teeth, force my lungs to expand past the bandages.
Move.
My hand curls into a fist. The sheet bunches under my fingers.
Move, you fucking coward.
I shift my weight. The mattress creaks.
No one looks.
Good.
I plant my palm on the bed rail. Push. My shoulder protests—loud, vicious, the kind of pain that makes your vision white out. I breathe through it. Push harder.
My legs swing over the side of the bed. Bare feet hit cold tile.
The room spins. I grip the rail with both hands, knuckles white, and force myself upright.
That’s when Lev glances over.
His apple stops mid-peel. “Oh, shit.”
Everyone turns.
I yank the IV out of my hand. Blood wells up. I don’t care.
“Boss—” Boris starts.
“No.” My voice comes out rough, wrecked. “No one fucking stops me.”
Dima stands. “You can’t—”
“Watch me.”
I take a step. My legs nearly give out. I catch the bed frame, hold myself up through sheer spite.
Dr. Vera’s sedative is still dragging at my blood, making everything slow and heavy. I’m going to kill her for this. Slowly. With her own scalpel.
“Anton, sit the fuck down,” Lev says, moving toward me. “You’re bleeding again.”
“Good.”
“That’s not—”
I shove past him. Nearly fall. Catch the wall instead. My chest is on fire. Shoulder’s still screaming. I don’t give a fuck.
“Where is she?”
Silence.
I turn, lock eyes with Lev. “Where. Is. She?”
He stares at me for a long second. Then his face softens—just a fraction. Just enough.
“Three doors down,” he says quietly. “Right side. ICU partition.”
I don’t thank him. Just push off the wall and start walking.
Every step is agony. Every breath a war. The hallway stretches out like a tunnel, fluorescents buzzing overhead, sterile white tiles blurring at the edges.
Behind me, I hear Boris mutter, “He’s going to die before he gets there.”
“Probably,” Dima says.
“Should we stop him?”
“No.”
I keep walking.
Three doors. Right side.
My hand finds the wall. Then the frame. Then the handle.
I push the door open.
And there she is.
Mary.
Lying still. Too still. Wires and monitors and bandages. Her face is pale, lips bloodless. Hair pulled back from her forehead. Hands resting on top of the blanket like she’s just sleeping.
But she’s not sleeping.
She’s fighting.
For herself. For me. For—
The monitor beeps. Steady. Slow.
I drag myself to the side of the bed, grip the rail to keep from collapsing.My hand finds hers. Fingers cold, too cold.“Mary,” I whisper.
Nothing.
The main monitor beeps beside her—steady, deliberate.Then, under it, I catch another sound. Fainter. Faster. A rapid fluttering, like wings.
Not hers.
My breath catches.
The baby.
They’ve got a fetal monitor strapped across her stomach—small speaker, steady rhythm. The sound is so quick it almost doesn’t seem human. A heartbeat fighting to stay alive.
“Stay with me, malyshka.” I lean closer, forehead nearly touching hers. “Both of you. Stay.”
Nothing answers. Just the slow beep of her heart. The fragile rush of the other.
My grip tightens around her hand. She’s ice. I should call Dr. Vera, get someone in here, but I can’t move. Can’t let go.
The stitches in my chest are tearing again; warm blood seeps down my side.
My vision swims.
None of it matters.
Because she’s here. Still breathing. Still fighting.And I’m not letting go until she opens her eyes.
Minutes pass. Or hours. I don’t know.
Time doesn’t exist in this room. Just the beeping. The breathing. The waiting.
Then—
Her fingers twitch in mine.
I go still. Hold my breath.
Another twitch. Stronger this time.
“Mary.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “Come back.”
Her eyelids flutter.
My pulse kicks. “That’s it. Come back to me.”
Slowly—too fucking slowly—her eyes open.
Unfocused. Glassy. That hazel I’ve memorized in every shade of light, now dull and confused.
But open.
She blinks once. Twice. Her gaze drifts past me, around the room, then back.
When her eyes finally land on mine, something in my chest cracks.
Not breaks. Cracks. Like ice under pressure.
Because she’s looking at me like she doesn’t know where she is. Like she’s still trapped somewhere I can’t reach.
“Anton?” Her voice is barely there. Hoarse. Broken.
“I’m here.”
Her brow furrows. She tries to sit up.
I press her shoulder back down. Not rough. Firm. “Don’t move.”
She winces, hand going to her stomach. Panic flashes across her face.
“What—?”
“You’re safe.” I keep my hand on her shoulder, grounding her. “You’re in the clinic. You’ve been out for two days.”
Her breathing picks up. The monitor beeps faster.
“Easy.” My other hand moves to her wrist, fingers finding her pulse. Too fast. “Breathe.”
She does. Shaky. Uneven. But she does.
Her eyes search mine. Still glassy. Still pale. Like all the color’s been drained out of her.
It hurts more than the bullets.
More than the shoulder that’s on fire. More than the chest that feels like it’s caving in.
Because this—seeing her like this—is worse than dying.
“I thought—” Her voice breaks. “I thought you were—”
“I’m alive.” I lean closer, make her look at me. “So are you.”
Tears well up. Spill over. She doesn’t even try to stop them.
My jaw clenches. I’ve seen men bleed out. Watched them beg. Watched them die.
Never bothered me.
But her tears? They gut me.
I reach out and slide a strand of hair from her face. It sticks to her cheek, damp with tears and sweat. My fingers follow, rough against her skin, tracing the line down to her jaw.
She’s shaking. I can feel it.
I use my thumb to catch the tear before it falls, rubbing it away like it offends me for touching her first.
She closes her eyes. More tears slip free. “The gun. I-I pulled the trigger.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes snap open. “Timofey—”
“Dead.”
She stares at me. Breath caught. Waiting for something. Judgment, maybe. Or disgust.
She won’t get either.
“You saved my life,” I say. Not thanking her. Just stating fact.
Her lip trembles. “I killed him.”
“Yes. You did. For me.”
The words land heavily. Final.
She breaks.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet collapse—shoulders shaking, breath hitching, tears falling faster than she can wipe them away.
I don’t comfort her. Don’t tell her it’s okay.
Because it’s not.
She killed a man. That doesn’t wash off. Doesn’t fade. She’ll carry it forever.
But she’s alive. And so am I.
That’s what matters.
I wait. Let her cry. My hand stays on her wrist, feeling her pulse gradually slow.
When she finally stops, she looks at me. Eyes red. Face wet. Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“I heard them talk,” she whispers, voice rough from tears. “About the baby.”
I don’t move. Just watch her.
“Six weeks.” I pause. “It’s mine.”
Her breath stutters. “Anton—”
“You’re keeping it.”
Not a question. A statement.
She stares at me. Opens her mouth. Closes it.
For a second, there’s nothing. No crying. No panic. Just her eyes on me—wide, searching, like she’s trying to figure out if she heard me right.
Then something shifts. The faintest tremor in her chin, a flicker of confusion behind the shock.
“You… want it?” she whispers.
I hold her gaze. “I do.”
Her lashes lower, and I can’t tell if she’s blinking back more tears or trying to hide behind them.
Her lips part like she’s about to argue, but no words come. Just a shaky breath. Her chest rises and falls too fast, her pulse jumping under my fingers.
She’s not angry. She’s scared. Unsure what to do with something that sounds a lot like hope.
I lean in closer. “You’re keeping it.”
Her eyes flick between mine, searching for a lie and finding none.
“I didn’t agree to—” she starts, then stops herself. “You’re… serious?”
“Dead serious.”
She looks at me for a long time, searching. Like she‘s trying to see past the blood and the scars and the violence to find something worth trusting. Like she’s trying to read the truth beneath my skin.
And fuck, she’ll find it.
Because it’s there—raw and brutal and unspoken.
I love this woman.
I’ve never said those words. Not to my mother before she died. Not to my father, who bled out for Igor’s mistakes. Not to anyone in this godforsaken brotherhood.
But I’m in love with this woman.
I don’t say it. Can’t. The words would break something between us that’s already fragile enough.
My hand moves from her wrist to her jaw. Not rough. Firm. Grounding.
“So… you just decided that this is our decision?” she whispers, a tiny spark of disbelief beneath the fear.
“I did.” I lean in closer, my breath brushing her lips. “Someone had to.”
Her eyes flick toward the door, then back to me, like she’s looking for an escape route she already knows she won’t take.
“God, you’re so bossy,” she mutters under her breath.
I almost smile.
“This is mine.” My other hand brushes her stomach through the blanket. Flat. Warm. Alive. “You’re mine. That doesn’t change because you’re scared.”
She’s shaking. From fear, from exhaustion—I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter.
I tilt her chin up, force her to meet my eyes. “Even if you decide you don’t want me in your life, you’ll never get rid of me. I’ll always be right here.” My thumb drags slowly over her jaw, down to her throat. “In your head. In your blood. In every fucking thing you touch.”
Her lips part, a shaky breath slipping out.
“I want—” she starts.
“I know what you want.” My eyes lock on hers. “You want to run. You want your old life back.”
Pause.
“You’re not getting it.”
Her breath stutters. “Anton—”
“You shot a man for me. You bled for me.” My grip tightens on her jaw. Just enough. “You think I’m letting you walk away now? While you’re carrying my child?”
She stares at me. Silent. Tears still wet on her cheeks.
“You’re permanent, Mary. Whether you like it or not.”
Her hand shoots up.
Slaps right over my mouth.
I freeze.
She’s glaring at me. Eyes red from crying but sharp. Focused.
“Let me talk, Anton.” Her voice is hoarse but steady. No tremor. No hesitation.
My jaw tightens under her palm.
She doesn’t move her hand. Just stares at me. Waiting.
After a long moment, I nod once.
Her hand slides from my mouth, down my jaw, tracing the stubble there before she finds my wrist. She grabs it—small fingers, steady grip—and pulls it toward her.
Before I can ask what the hell she’s doing, she presses my hand against her stomach.
“I don’t want my old life, Anton.”
My chest goes tight.
She’s still holding my hand there, over the place where something small and new is fighting to live.
“I don’t want the bank. Or Evan. Or pretending I’m fine.” Her eyes lift to mine, sharp, unshaking. “I don’t want safe. I want this. You. Even when it’s chaos. Even when it hurts.”
I can’t breathe for a second. Not properly.
“I shot him,” she says. Voice raw. “I killed a man. For you. And I’d do it again.”
I say nothing. Just watch.
“But that doesn’t mean you get to make every decision for me.” Her breathing is still uneven, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “I‘m pregnant. I know. I heard the doctors.” She pulls in a long breath. “And I’m scared. Terrified, actually.”
Pause.
“But I’m not running. I’m not leaving. So stop acting like you have to trap me here. I’m staying,” she says quietly. “Because I want to. Not because you commanded it.”
Silence.
The monitor beeps. Her pulse under my fingers is still too fast.
But her eyes are clear now. Certain.
“Okay?” she asks.
I search her face. This woman who shot a man. Who’s carrying my child. Who just put her hand over my mouth and told me to shut up.
My mouth curves. Just slightly.
“Okay.”
Her shoulders drop, relief flooding her face.
“But you’re still moving into the penthouse,” I add. “Permanently.”
Her eyes narrow. “Anton—”
“Not negotiable.” My thumb brushes her jaw. “That part stands.”
Her mouth opens—probably to argue—but I’m done listening.
I tilt her chin up and close the distance.
The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s desperate, aching, full of everything I haven’t said since the moment she pulled that trigger. Her breath catches against my mouth, and for a second, I taste salt. Tears. Morphine. Life.
She’s trembling, but she doesn’t pull away. Her fingers clutch at my shoulder, right where the bandages start, and I feel every pulse of her heartbeat through the layers of gauze. It hurts—Christ, it hurts—but I take it anyway.
Because she’s here. Breathing. Warm. Mine.
She parts her lips, just enough for me to taste her breath, soft and uneven. The smell of antiseptic and her skin—sweet, familiar—burns through the sterile air.
I breathe her in like I’ve been drowning.
When I pull back, our foreheads touch. Her lashes brush my cheek. Neither of us speaks. The machines hum around us, keeping score of everything we almost lost.
I trace the edge of her face with my thumb. She leans into it, eyes closed.
There’s no promise in it. No words. Just the quiet truth between us—the kind that doesn’t need saying.
I’d burn the world down before I lose her again.