Chapter 29
Valentina
Two Weeks Later
Two weeks pass inside Kirill's penthouse like we've been swallowed whole by the walls.
I used to joke about how massive this place was, how it stretched across two floors with enough space to fit every secret Kirill has ever hidden.
Now it's a luxurious prison wrapped in anxiety and forced patience.
No one leaves for anything. The only fresh air we get is on his rooftop, but even that is in small increments. Whenever I look down at the city, it's the slightest reminder that the world outside still lives on.
The only visitor is Liam. He delivers us groceries, still pissed no one is telling him anything. But Kirill said it was better if he didn't know the details. Not until everything is burned to the ground.
Each day, the walls press further inward.
The morning starts the same. The six of us wake in different patterns of exhaustion, then find new ways to share space without imploding.
The babies coo or cry, depending on which one needs what.
Someone brews coffee that tastes progressively more desperate.
Someone else scrolls through channels with the same energy as a hostage mapping escape routes with their eyes.
The men spend hours in Kirill's private gym.
The sounds drift into the hallway of fists hitting heavy bags, the sharp breaths of sparring, and the occasional curse when someone gets clipped harder than they expected.
Two days ago, all three of them came out of the gym soaked in blood.
Sean had a fat, bloody lip. Brax had a swollen, bruised eye.
And Kirill's scar swelled across his face.
All of them were grinning, the happiest we'd seen any of them in months.
When they aren't beating each other's bodies, they're crawling on the floor with the twins. Sometimes they argue over how to handle the strategy with the membership, whiteboarding their contingencies like they're planning for Armageddon.
Despite all the suffocating tension, we're holding it together. It's not easy with six adults, two babies, and zero certainty about whether we'll all be alive in a week.
And yet I haven't once woken up dreading being trapped with them.
Even the arguments burn out fast, soothed by exhaustion or the weight of the bigger threat pressing down on all of us.
The best part is that Brax can't keep his hands off me.
Being trapped like this has lit something under both of us, turning every inch of space we share into something charged.
He touches my back when he walks past. His arms wrap around me during conversations that have nothing to do with danger.
He'll pull me into shadowed corners like the desire might suffocate him if he waits another second.
Some days, we barely make it through breakfast before he drags me to a guest room, locks the door, and reminds me how fast his blood runs when he's near me.
Other days, it's late at night, whispers against my throat, his mouth staking territory across my skin as if the danger outside has carved out a new, hungrier version of him.
I'm not complaining, but the obsession threads with something darker. It's a residue of fear neither of us addresses out loud. It's as if our world is about to collapse, so he wants to claim every part of me before he no longer can.
Today, the babies finally nap at the same time, which is a rare miracle.
So Zara, Fiona, and I sit at the table in the family room with a Scrabble board between us.
We all try to forget that we're waiting to see if the men who promised to destroy half the world's criminal infrastructure can pull it off without dying, thus saving us from our own fate.
Zara lays down five tiles and grins. "Siphon. Triple word score."
Fiona drops her head back with a groan. "I swear you're cheating."
"I swear I'm just smarter," Zara fires back.
I look at my tiles and try not to laugh. "Smarts and cheating aren't mutually exclusive, you know."
Zara flips her hair like she's accepting an award. "Bless you, Valentina, for acknowledging my gifts."
Fiona snorts. "Gift is a strong word."
Zara grumbles into her mug. "Your attitude could use an exorcism. Plus, I never cheat."
I hold my tiles close and search the board. None of my letters wants to cooperate. I groan, "I hate all of these."
"Same," Fiona says.
"It's because your vocabulary keeps shrinking," Zara teases.
Fiona argues, "That's because I haven't left this place in two weeks. I'm losing brain cells."
Zara presses a hand to her belly. "You're growing a baby. You're literally making brain cells."
Fiona shoots her a glare. "Not mine."
I laugh under my breath. It's been so long since anything felt normal that even pointless bickering over board games offers relief.
Across the room, the men are in the kitchen, clustered around the stove, attempting to cook. But they're just as antsy.
Sean groans dramatically. "Kirill, for the love of God, those are chopped, not sliced."
Kirill stares at the cutting board as if Sean has personally insulted his ancestry. "Your instructions were vague."
Brax's laugh drifts across the island. "He's right. You said 'cut them.'"
Sean points at him. "You stay out of this."
Brax grunts, absolutely unbothered. "No. I won the card tournament. You lost. You cook, I supervise. That was the bet."
Kirill's eye twitches. "Still think you stacked the deck."
"No need for me to do that. I have pure skills," Brax boasts, then takes another swig of beer.
He glances over his shoulder at me, and the warm flicker in his eyes transforms the air in my lungs.
It's the same dangerous expression that says he's counting down the hours, or maybe minutes, until he pulls me into a dark corner again.
I rise, thinking I'll excuse myself to the bedroom, when Kirill's phone buzzes, stopping me dead in my tracks.
But it's not just me.
Sean stops moving. Brax's jaw goes rigid. Zara's mug halts midair. Fiona freezes with a tile in her hand.
Kirill pulls his phone from his pocket and glances at the screen. His eyes dart across it, then he lifts his head. "The last council member's flight arrived. I'm sending the time out."
A stillness rolls across the space so heavy it presses down on my ribs. Even the walls seem to exhale, recognizing the threshold we've just crossed.
Three days ago, Kirill sent instructions that every Omni and Royal Council member was to attend a mandatory meeting tonight. He stated that the time would be announced an hour before.
Brax pins his gaze on mine.
My heart races.
Silence fills every corner of the penthouse. No one moves at first. Even the air stops shifting. Tension sharpens into something solid, something that digs its claws into the atmosphere and refuses to let go. My chest tightens under it.
"We've got sixty minutes until showtime. Anyone want a fresh drink?" Brax asks.
"I'll take a glass of wine," I reply.
"Me too," Zara says.
"Water for me," Fiona states.
Brax hands the guys a beer, pours two glasses of wine, and gives Fiona a bottle of water.
The next hour drags like a slow suffocation. We gather in the kitchen, watching Sean and Kirill make beef stir fry. When it's done, we take the plates into Kirill's office and turn on the 13 screens on the table.
The babies wake from their nap, their cries slicing through the quiet. I go with Zara to get them. I lift Willow into my arms and bring her into the office. She cups my face with her tiny hand, oblivious to the war circling around her. I rock her gently, humming without thinking, my voice uneven.
Brax passes behind me, brushing a hand across my back like he's checking that I'm still breathing.
Zara bounces River, murmuring nonsense to him softly. Fiona plays with her broccoli, pushing it with her fork. Kirill presses buttons on hidden panels around the penthouse, double-checking every lock. Sean paces, stops, rubs his forehead, then resumes pacing.
The clock in his office ticks loudly. The tension mounts higher, and we all sit on the edge of our seats. The first SUV arrives, and a Royal Council member enters what will soon be their coffin.
The moon pulls itself up over the water outside, heavy and bright, casting a pale glow across the lake. Brax takes a seat with me and tickles Willow.
She giggles.
I smile at him, thinking about what a good dad he'd make.
"It's time," Kirill says finally.
Those two words hit harder than any ritual announcement I've ever heard.
The live feed shows all the different locations across the world. And at every site, the O'Connors planted death.
Please work.
Brax rises, stands behind me, and puts his hands on my shoulders.
I look up.
He winks, then leans down and kisses me softly on the lips.
Kirill slides the list of every Omni and Royal Council name to me. One by one, figures begin entering the buildings on different screens. All the highest-ranking bastards who thought they'd own my babies and me.
I cross out names as they appear.
Tiberio Marino.
Alessandrina Rossi.
Paddy O'Malley.
Lucien Ivanov.
Svetlana Petrov.
Kaitlyn Bailey
Franco Abruzzo
Names I once respected. Names I once believed held enough power to change the world.
Brax leans down and murmurs, "Want me to do it?"
I realize my hand is trembling. I force it to stop and shake my head. "No. I have this."
Something about checking off the name of the person who thought they'd steal my eggs gives me satisfaction.
When the last person arrives on the screen, I put the check mark next to their name. My voice barely comes out. "They're all inside."
Brax straightens slowly. His face hardens, transforming into something lethal. "Kirill. Give the orders."
Kirill types three commands on his phone.
In under thirty seconds, screen after screen erupts in flames. Explosions bloom like expanding suns, walls collapse inward, ancient structures implode as if the earth itself refuses to hold them anymore.
One by one, the feeds cut out with static.
Sean lunges toward the TV mounted on the wall and switches it to a news channel.
The broadcast is immediate with all the major headlines about simultaneous explosions across multiple continents.
Every channel says the same thing. Each reporter speaks with a mix of terror, bewilderment, and urgent speculation.
No one understands what happened except for the six of us and the O'Connors.
We sit in silence, our eyes glued to the screen, waiting for signs of life or a monster so powerful that they survive and walk out of the rubble.
The smoke only thickens. The news drones on, and nothing moves.
Sean's phone rings. He answers it on speakerphone. "Liam."
"Assuming that was you?"
"Yep."
"Is it over?" Liam questions.
"It's over enough," Sean replies.
A moment of silence fills the line then Liam says, "I want a full report tomorrow."
Sean glances at Brax and states, "We'll see you at ten." He hangs up.
Brax sits and pulls me closer, his expression a mix of vicious triumph and sarcasm. He murmurs, "Told you, Minx. No one's turning you into their baby factory."
A laugh bursts out of me, full of nerves and relief. It's not funny. They could have accomplished everything they wanted had he not cracked into the files. Yet all I can do is laugh. Then my eyes water and my lips shake.
"Hey. It's alright. No one is coming near you," Brax assures, tugging me into his chest.
My emotions win, and I sob against his shirt, unable to stop the onslaught of tears.
Zara's voice turns raw. "Is it really over?"
I take a deep breath and turn toward the others.
The question lingers in the middle of the room like a ghost, with everyone staring at Kirill.
He steps forward, points at the computer, and orders sharply, "Brax. Turn on the chatter."
Brax immediately types on the keyboard. Lines of encrypted text flood the screen as the membership's private channels ignite.
Thousands of messages pop up on the screen.
What just happened?
Who attacked us?
Are we at war?
The membership panics with the instant confusion we anticipated.
Kirill takes over the keyboard. The room holds its breath as his fingers fly across the keys. Then a message from Kirill's secured identity flashes across every screen.
All members check in immediately. Stay where you are until I can assess what happened. Do not travel or continue communication after you check in. This is an order.
He opens another chat box.
Within seconds, responses pour in with members obeying his order. For thirty minutes, it comes in fast and furious, then slows to a trickle. Ten minutes pass with nothing.
Brax pushes away from the desk and rises. He reaches down and pulls me up. "Show's over. Time to go to bed, Minx. We should sleep well tonight."
And for the first time since the Underworld branded my chest, he might be right.