Chapter 26
Sergei
“This hearing is a formality, Mr. Orlov. You understand that?”
Judge Galeotti’s voice cuts through the courtroom, and I force myself not to look at Elena’s smug face across the aisle.
She’s wearing pearls and a powder-blue suit that screams respectable mother, and her lawyer—some shark in Armani, who bills more per hour than most people make in a month—is already shuffling papers like he’s won.
“I understand, Your Honor.” My voice comes out steady. Controlled. Nothing like the violence churning underneath.
Izzy sits beside me, her hand finding mine under the table. She’s wearing navy silk that makes her blue eyes electric, black hair swept up to expose her throat. She looks like old money and steel, and when she squeezes my fingers, I feel that steel transfer to me.
The courtroom smells like furniture polish and desperation. Elena’s side is packed—her parents, her sister, that cousin who never liked me. All of them shooting daggers with their eyes, all of them convinced I’m a monster.
They’re not entirely wrong.
“The court has reviewed Mrs. Orlov’s petition for full custody.
” Judge Galeotti adjusts her glasses, scanning documents.
“Given recent events, and here I’m definitely talking about the attack at The Plaza and the incident at Mila’s school, the court finds cause for concern regarding Mr. Orlov’s ability to provide a safe environment. ”
My jaw locks. Every instinct screams to argue, to fight back, but our lawyer—a sharp woman in her forties, who Tallulah recommended—gave me explicit instructions. Stay calm. Let her handle it. Don’t give them ammunition.
Elena’s lawyer stands, all theatrical gestures and practiced outrage.
“Your Honor, if I may—my client has documented multiple instances of violence in Mr. Orlov’s presence.
The child has been exposed to dangerous situations, criminal activity, and individuals of questionable character.
” His gaze slides to Izzy, dismissive and cruel.
“We believe full custody is in Mila’s best interest.”
Individuals of questionable character. He means my wife. The woman who’s been more of a mother to Mila in two months than Elena’s been in years.
My hand tightens on Izzy’s. She doesn’t flinch.
Our lawyer rises smoothly, her voice measured and sharp.
“Your Honor, Mr. Orlov has never endangered his daughter. The incidents in question were attempts on Mrs. Isabelle Orlov’s life, believed to be orchestrated by Matthew Ashford himself.
Mr. Orlov protected his family from external threats—threats that have nothing to do with his fitness as a parent.
That’s not instability. That’s exemplary parenting. ”
“The fact remains,” Elena’s shark continues, pacing like he’s performing for an invisible jury, “that violence follows Mr. Orlov wherever he goes. His background as a Bratva enforcer, his associates, his very presence attracts danger like a magnet. The child’s mother has every right to remove her from that environment before something terrible happens. ”
Before. Like it’s inevitable. Like I’m a loaded gun waiting to go off.
Maybe I am.
Judge Galeotti looks at me over her glasses. “Mr. Orlov, do you have anything to say?”
I stand, releasing Izzy’s hand. The loss of her touch feels like losing armor, but I force my spine straight, my shoulders back. The Wolf doesn’t cower.
“I love my daughter, Your Honor. She’s the reason I left my old life behind.
The reason I built something legitimate, something safe.
Every decision I make—every single one—is about protecting her.
” My voice roughens despite my best efforts.
“Her mother’s using isolated incidents to paint a narrative that isn’t true.
Mila is happy with me. Thriving. She has structure, stability, love.
She’s learning that the world isn’t black and white, that people can change, that protecting the ones you love matters more than anything else. ”
I pause, meeting Judge Galeotti’s eyes. “Taking her from me doesn’t protect her. It punishes me for crimes I haven’t committed while I’ve been raising her. And it teaches her that fear matters more than family.”
Silence falls. Even Elena’s lawyer seems momentarily at a loss.
Then he recovers, that oily smile spreading. “Beautifully said, Mr. Orlov. Truly moving. But actions speak louder than words. And your actions show a clear pattern of violence, criminal associations, and endangerment. You cannot deny—”
“Objection.” Our lawyer cuts him off, her voice ice.
“Mrs. Elena Orlov has her own questionable associations. In fact, we have evidence that her entire custody battle is being funded by Matthew Ashford—a man currently under federal spotlight, pending investigation for multiple felonies, including conspiracy to commit murder, fraud, and racketeering.”
The courtroom erupts. Whispers cascade like falling dominoes. Elena’s face goes from smug to white in the span of a heartbeat. Her lawyer’s stuttering, papers rustling, but our lawyer’s already moving forward with a folder.
“That’s a serious allegation, Counselor,” Judge Galeotti says.
“We have documentation, Your Honor.” Our lawyer slides the folder across the bench with practiced precision.
“Bank transfers showing Matthew Ashford paying Mrs. Orlov’s legal fees.
Six figures worth. Phone records showing dozens of calls between them over the past two months.
Text messages discussing strategy. Mrs. Orlov may claim ignorance about Mr. Ashford’s criminal activities, but she’s certainly benefited from them financially—and coordinated with him extensively. ”
I watch Elena’s composure shatter like safety glass. Her lawyer’s whispering frantically in her ear, but the damage is spreading like wildfire. Judge Galeotti is reading through the documents with increasing disapproval, her mouth thinning into a hard line.
“This changes the complexion of the case significantly.” The judge looks at Elena, and there’s no sympathy in her expression. “Mrs. Orlov, did you know about Mr. Ashford’s alleged crimes when you accepted his financial support?”
Elena’s mouth opens. Closes. Her hands twist in her lap, pearls clicking together. “I—he’s a family friend. My daughter’s stepmother’s uncle. He offered to help with legal costs when he heard about the custody dispute. I didn’t know about any criminal activity. I would never—”
“Save it for your own investigation.” Judge Galeotti’s voice is steel wrapped in judicial courtesy.
“Given these revelations, and the fact that Mr. Ashford’s alleged crimes include targeting Mrs. Isabelle Orlov—the very person caring for the child in question—I’m denying the petition for emergency custody modification.
In fact, I’m assigning Mila over to Mr. Orlov as a temporary custody arrangement.
We’ll revisit this matter in six months, after Mr. Ashford’s legal situation has been resolved and we have clearer information. ”
The gavel comes down with finality.
Victory tastes like ash in my mouth. I should feel relief. Triumph. Something other than this hollow waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop sensation.
Elena’s face contorts with rage. She stands so fast, her chair scrapes, pointing at me across the aisle like she’s casting a curse.
“This isn’t over. You think you’ve won? You’ve just signed her death warrant, Sergei.
Everyone around you ends up dead. Everyone.
Your wife will be next, and then what? Then you’ll finally understand what you’ve done—”
“Mrs. Orlov, control yourself or I’ll hold you in contempt—”
But Elena’s already storming out, heels clicking like gunshots on polished floor. Her lawyer scrambles after her, briefcase banging against his leg, and her family follows in a wave of expensive perfume and judgment.
The courtroom empties in her wake. I stand there, pulse hammering, trying to process what just happened.
We won.
Even better than that.
I got Mila.
Izzy’s arms wrap around me from behind, her face pressed between my shoulder blades. I feel her trembling—adrenaline crash, probably, from hours of sitting still while our lives hung in the balance.
“You did it,” she whispers against my back. “She’s yours.”
“Ours.” The word slips out before I can stop it, before I can remember this is supposed to be temporary. “Mila’s ours.”
She stiffens against me, but she doesn’t pull away. We stand like that while our lawyer collects her papers, while the bailiff escorts Judge Galeotti out, while the world continues spinning around us like nothing monumental just happened.
Then Izzy’s phone buzzes.
She pulls it out, and I watch the color drain from her face. Her blue eyes go wide, then dark, and her hand starts shaking so badly the phone nearly slips.
“Sergei.” Her voice is hollow. “It’s Wesley. He says—” She swallows hard. “Elena’s car just exploded. On the way to her house. With her inside.”
Everything stops.
The air leaves my lungs. My brain stutters, trying to process words that don’t make sense. “What?”
But I’m already moving, pulling her toward the exit. My phone’s out, dialing contacts I haven’t used in years—Bratva connections who’ll know what happened before the news does.
“When?” I bark into Izzy’s phone when she just stands there. “Wesley. When did it happen?”
“Ten minutes ago,” his voice crackles through the speaker. “Emergency services are on scene. Fire department, cops, the works. I’m sending coordinates now. Sergei—it’s bad. Real bad.”
The coordinates ping through. Near Elena’s brownstone. The place where I used to live, where Mila was born, where my marriage fell apart over years of cold silences and colder beds.
We’re in my SUV in under a minute. I peel out of the courthouse parking garage, tires screaming, and Izzy doesn’t tell me to slow down. She just grips the door handle with white knuckles and stares straight ahead.
“It’s Matthew,” she says quietly. “He did this.”