Chapter 18 - Vasily
Three days of peace.
That's what we had—three days of something that felt almost like a normal life.
Breakfasts on the terrace, her hand resting on her stomach as she sipped ginger tea.
Long afternoons in the library, where she pored over financial reports while I pretended to work and watched her instead.
Evenings in my bed, her body curved against mine, my palm pressed to the place where our child was growing.
Three days of learning what it meant to have something precious. Something fragile. Something that could be taken away.
I became insufferable, just as she'd predicted.
I tracked her movements through the house, appeared at her elbow whenever she ventured outside, questioned Yelena about every meal to ensure nothing could upset her stomach or harm the baby.
Gaby tolerated it with a patience I didn't deserve, only occasionally rolling her eyes when I suggested she rest instead of work.
"I'm pregnant, not dying," she said on the second morning, when I'd tried to convince her to stay in bed past nine.
"You're growing a human being. That requires energy."
"It requires me not to lose my mind from boredom." She'd kissed my cheek and slipped past me, heading for the library with a determination I knew better than to fight.
I let her go. But I checked the security feeds every hour, made sure a guard was always within earshot, and had Yelena report any signs of fatigue or discomfort. The staff probably thought I'd lost my mind.
Maybe I had.
But for those three days, she was safe. The baby was safe. And I allowed myself to believe, however briefly, that I could keep them that way forever.
The call from Semyon came on the morning of the fourth day.
I was in my study, reviewing security rotations, when my phone buzzed with his encrypted number. The tension in his voice was immediate, unmistakable.
"We have a problem."
I closed the door, moving away from the window where Gaby might see me from the terrace. "Tell me."
"Our sources inside the Armenian organization finally came through. Pankratov is planning a major strike—coordinated attacks on multiple holdings. The Brooklyn docks, The Trophy Room, possibly the penthouse." A pause. "He's moving within forty-eight hours."
The words hit like bullets, each one a separate wound.
The Brooklyn docks were the heart of our shipping operations—millions in legitimate cargo moving through every week, plus the less legitimate shipments that funded half our activities.
The Trophy Room was more than a club; it was a symbol, a declaration of Chernov power in Manhattan. And the penthouse—
"He knows where I live."
"He knows everything, Vasily. Lucas gave him the keys to the kingdom before you killed him." Semyon's voice was grim. "This isn't a raid. It's an extinction event. He wants to wipe us off the map."
I sank into my chair, my mind racing through possibilities. We had men, resources, contingency plans for exactly this scenario. But plans required leadership. Required the Pakhan to be present, visible, commanding.
"What's our current defensive posture?"
"Strong, but not strong enough. I've pulled in everyone we can trust, fortified the key locations, but the men are nervous.
They've been hearing rumors for weeks—that you've abandoned New York, that you care more about your wife than your empire.
" He hesitated. "They need to see you, Vasily.
They need to know their leader is standing with them. "
Every instinct screamed at me to refuse. To stay here, on this island, between Gaby and whatever darkness was coming. The thought of leaving her—leaving them—made my chest constrict with something close to panic.
But if Pankratov destroyed everything I'd built, what would I have left to protect them with? Money could be replaced, properties rebuilt. But reputation, power, the network of fear and loyalty that kept my enemies at bay—those things, once lost, were gone forever.
"How confident are we in this intelligence?" I asked.
"Confident. Three separate sources, all corroborating the same timeline. Pankratov's been stockpiling weapons, pulling in favors from the other Armenian crews. This is real, Vasily."
I closed my eyes, seeing Gaby's face. The way she'd looked this morning, sleepy and warm, her hand resting on her stomach as she'd told me about a dream she'd had. A little girl with green eyes, she'd said. Running through a garden full of flowers.
I couldn't lose that. Couldn't lose them.
But I couldn't protect them from a position of weakness either.
"I'll be on a plane within the hour," I said. "Triple the security on the island while I'm gone. No one in or out without my personal authorization."
"Already done. Kirill has his orders."
"Make sure he understands—she doesn't leave the house. Not for any reason. If anything feels wrong, anything at all, he's to get her to the safe room and contact me immediately."
"Understood." Semyon paused. "Vasily... be careful. Pankratov is desperate, and desperate men are unpredictable."
"I know." I ended the call and sat for a moment in the silence of my study, gathering myself for what came next.
The hardest part wouldn't be facing Pankratov. It would be telling Gaby I was leaving.
***
I found her in the library, curled in her favorite chair by the window.
She looked up when I entered, a smile starting on her lips—then fading as she read my expression. She'd learned to see through me in recent weeks, to recognize the tension I tried to hide.
"What's wrong?"
I crossed to her, kneeling beside the chair so our eyes were level. "I have to go to New York."
The color drained from her face. "When?"
"Now. Within the hour."
"Why? What's happened?"
I'd already decided not to tell her about the planned attacks. She had enough to worry about without adding the knowledge that everything I'd built was under siege. She needed to stay calm, stay safe, focus on the baby growing inside her.
"Business that requires my personal attention," I said. "Nothing dangerous. But I need to be there."
She studied my face, and I saw the doubt flickering in her eyes. She knew I was holding something back. But she also trusted me enough not to push.
"How long?"
"Two days. Three at most." I took her hands in mine, feeling the slight tremor in her fingers. "The security here has been tripled. Kirill has strict orders. You'll be safer on this island than anywhere else in the world."
"I'm not worried about me."
"You should be." I pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "You're carrying my child, Gabrielle. That makes you the most important person in my world. Everything else—the business, the empire, all of it—means nothing if you're not safe."
"Then stay." Her voice cracked slightly. "Send Semyon. Send anyone else. Just—don't go."
"I can't." The words tasted like ash. "There are things only the Pakhan can do. If I'm not there—"
"I know." She pulled one hand free to touch my face, her palm warm against my cheek. "I know you have to go. I just hate it."
"I hate it too."
We stayed like that for a long moment, her hand on my face, my hands wrapped around hers. The sunlight through the windows painted her in gold, and I memorized the sight—filed it away in the place where I kept everything precious, everything worth fighting for.
"Come back to me," she whispered. "Promise me."
Something passed between us—something neither of us was ready to name. It hung in the air, unspoken, too fragile to voice. I felt it pressing against my chest, demanding release, but the words wouldn't come. Not yet. Not like this, in a rushed goodbye with danger waiting on the other side.
Instead, I kissed her forehead and pressed my hand to her stomach one last time.
"I'll call every few hours," I said. "And I'll be back before you know it."
She nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Go. Before I do something stupid like lock you in the wine cellar."
I laughed despite everything—despite the dread coiling in my gut, the voice in my head screaming that this was wrong. "I'd like to see you try."
"Don't tempt me."
I made myself walk away. Made myself leave her standing there in the golden light, her hand raised in a small wave that I'd see every time I closed my eyes for the rest of my life.
At the door, I paused. Turned back.
She was still watching me, her dark eyes bright with tears she was trying not to shed.
"Soon," I said. "I'll be back soon."
Then I left, before the sight of her broke my resolve entirely.
The helicopter carried me to the mainland, where the private jet was fueled and waiting.
I spent the first hour of the flight on the phone—coordinating with Semyon, reviewing defensive positions, ensuring every contingency was in place. The New York operation would be ready for Pankratov. Whatever he was planning, we would meet it with overwhelming force.
But even as I issued orders and analyzed strategies, something nagged at the edges of my consciousness. A wrongness I couldn't quite identify. A piece that didn't fit.
I ended my last call and sat in the leather seat, staring out at the clouds without seeing them.
Pankratov was many things—brutal, ambitious, ruthless—but he wasn't stupid. He'd survived decades in a business that killed the careless. He'd built his Armenian operation from nothing, had clawed his way to power through cunning as much as violence.
So why was he telegraphing his moves?
The intelligence had been almost too clean. Three sources, all saying the same thing, all pointing to the same timeline. In my experience, real operations were messier than that. There were contradictions, gaps, pieces that didn't quite align. This had been seamless. Perfect.
Too perfect.