Chapter 22 - Vasily
Athens suited her.
I watched her from the doorway of the penthouse balcony, where she sat curled in a chair with a book she wasn't really reading.
The morning light caught the auburn in her hair, turned her skin golden.
The bruise on her cheek had faded to a pale yellow, barely visible.
The cut on her throat was healing cleanly—a thin pink line that would disappear entirely within weeks.
She was recovering. Each day, a little more of the shadows left her eyes. Each night, her sleep grew less restless, the nightmares coming less frequently.
I should have been focused on the empire. On the aftermath of the war, the power vacuums, the repositioning that always followed violence on this scale. Semyon had been calling constantly, flooding my inbox with reports and analyses that demanded attention.
But I couldn't stop watching her.
"You're staring again," she said without looking up from her book.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing." But she smiled, and the sight of it loosened something in my chest that had been tight for days. "Come sit with me."
I crossed to the balcony and settled into the chair beside hers.
The Acropolis rose in the distance, ancient and eternal, a reminder that empires rose and fell while some things endured.
I'd never cared much for history before.
Now I found myself thinking about legacy.
About what would remain when I was gone.
"You're brooding," she observed. "I can hear you thinking from here."
"I don't brood."
"You absolutely brood. You get this furrow between your eyebrows—" She reached over and pressed her finger to the spot in question. "Right there. It's very dramatic."
I caught her hand and brought it to my lips. "I prefer 'contemplative.'"
"Brooding." She smiled again, softer this time. "What are you contemplating so dramatically?"
"You. Us. The future."
"Heavy thoughts for ten in the morning."
"I've never had much to think about before. Beyond the organization, the business." I turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to her palm. "You've complicated things."
"Good complicated or bad complicated?"
"Good." I met her eyes. "Terrifying. But good."
***
The call from Semyon came an hour later.
I took it in the study, leaving Gaby on the balcony with her book and a fresh cup of the ginger tea she'd grown to tolerate. The moment I heard my brother's voice, I knew the news was mixed.
"Kirill is out of surgery," he said without preamble. "Lost his spleen and about a foot of intestine, but the doctors say he'll make a full recovery. He's already complaining about the hospital food."
Relief washed through me. Kirill had served our family for fifteen years. Had taken bullets meant for me more than once. Losing him would have been a blow I wasn't sure I could absorb.
"And the others?"
"Twelve dead. Eight wounded, three of those critical but stable.
" Semyon's voice was flat, clinical. The voice he used when the numbers were bad and emotion wouldn't help.
"The island is damaged but salvageable. Structural engineers say the main house can be rebuilt within six months.
The security infrastructure will need to be redesigned from the ground up. "
"Do it. Whatever it costs."
"Already in motion." A pause. "There's something else."
I'd known there would be. There was always something else.
"Pankratov's death has created a vacuum in the Armenian organization.
Most of his lieutenants are dead or scattered.
The ones who survived are fighting among themselves for scraps.
" Semyon hesitated. "But there's a complication.
Aram had a younger brother—Tigran. He's been living in Yerevan for the past decade, supposedly retired from the business. Our sources say he's resurfaced."
"Resurfaced how?"
"He flew into Athens two days ago. Has been meeting with what's left of Aram's network. Making promises, gathering loyalists." Another pause. "He's not a direct threat—not yet. He doesn't have the resources or the manpower to move against us. But he's patient. Calculating. Different from Aram."
"More dangerous?"
"Potentially. Aram was driven by ambition. Tigran is driven by family. We killed his brother, Vasily. Beat him to death with your bare hands. That's not something a man forgets."
I thought of Gabrielle on the balcony. Of the child growing inside her. Of the future I was only beginning to imagine.
"Keep eyes on him. I want to know every move he makes, every contact, every breath. If he so much as looks in our direction—"
"You'll know before he finishes turning his head." Semyon's voice softened slightly. "How is she?"
"Healing. Stronger every day."
"And the baby?"
"Fine. The doctors confirmed it yesterday. No complications."
"Good." A rare warmth crept into my brother's tone. "That's good, Vasily. You deserve this. Both of you."
I wasn't sure I agreed. Wasn't sure I deserved any of the gifts I'd been given—her love, our child, the future unfolding before us. But I was learning to accept them anyway.
"We're coming back to New York," I said. "Within the week. She needs to—there are things she needs to face. People she needs to see."
"The friend? The father?"
"Yes."
"I'll make the arrangements. Security detail, safe transport, the penthouse prepared." He paused. "Vasily... are you sure about this? Bringing her back to where it started?"
"She needs closure. I won't deny her that."
"Even if it changes things? Even if being back there, seeing her old life—"
"Even then." I cut him off, not wanting to hear the fears I'd already wrestled with voiced aloud. "I trust her, Semyon. Whatever she decides, however she feels—I trust her."
Silence on the line. Then: "You've changed."
"She changed me."
"I know." Something that might have been approval colored his voice. "I'll have everything ready. Just let me know when you want to fly."
I found her in the bedroom when I finished with Semyon's call.
She was standing at the window, looking out at the city, her hand resting on the small swell of her stomach. The pose had become familiar over the past few days—she touched the baby constantly now, as if reassuring herself it was still there. Still safe.
"News?" she asked without turning.
"Kirill survived. He's recovering."
Her shoulders relaxed. She'd met Kirill only a handful of times, but he'd fought to protect her. Had nearly died for her. That meant something.
"And Yelena?"
"Bruised but unbroken. Already demanding to return to work."
A small laugh escaped her. "That sounds like her."
I crossed the room and stood behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. She leaned back into me, her head resting against my shoulder.
"What else?" she asked. "I can tell there's more."
I considered lying. Considered shielding her from the news about Tigran, about the threat that might be gathering on the horizon. But we'd moved past lies. Past the secrets and manipulations that had defined the beginning of our relationship.
"Pankratov had a brother. Younger and supposedly retired from the business. He's resurfacing. Making noise."
She tensed in my arms. "Is he coming after us?"
"Not immediately. He doesn't have the resources—not yet. But Semyon thinks he might try eventually."
"Because you killed Aram."
"Yes."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she turned in my arms to face me, her dark eyes searching mine.
"Will it ever end? The violence, the threats, the looking over our shoulders?"
I wanted to lie. Wanted to promise her a future of peace and safety, where our child could grow up without the shadow of my sins hanging over them.
But I couldn't.
"I don't know," I admitted. "The life I've built—the world I live in—it doesn't offer guarantees.
There will always be enemies, rivals, men who want what I have.
" I touched her face, tracing the line of her jaw.
"But I will spend every day of the rest of my life protecting you. Both of you. Whatever it takes."
"I know you will." She rose on her toes and kissed me—soft, lingering. "I'm not afraid, Vasily. Not anymore. Whatever comes, we'll face it together."
Together. The word still felt foreign, still surprised me every time she said it. I'd spent my entire life alone in the ways that mattered—surrounded by soldiers and lieutenants and sycophants, but truly alone. She'd changed that. Had carved out a space in my chest and made it her home.
"I spoke to Semyon about something else," I said when the kiss ended. "About going back to New York."
Her breath caught. "New York?"
"You need to face what you left behind. Lisa. Your father. The life you were living before I—" I stopped, the words sticking in my throat.
"Before you kidnapped me," she finished. No accusation in her voice. Just acknowledgment of the truth.
"Yes. Before that." I took her hands in mine. "I can't undo what I did. Can't give you back the life I stole. But I can give you the chance to say goodbye to it properly. To choose what comes next with clear eyes."
"Vasily..." She looked up at me, her expression soft with something I was still learning to recognize. "I've already chosen. I chose you. I chose us."
"I know. But you made that choice under duress.
In captivity, in danger, with limited options.
" I forced myself to continue, even though every word felt like a blade.
"I need you to make it again. In New York, surrounded by your old life, with nothing forcing you to stay with me.
I need to know that you're choosing this—choosing me—freely. "
"You're scared." She said it gently, without judgment. "You're scared I'll change my mind."
"Yes." There was no point denying it. "I'm terrified."
She stepped closer, pressing her body against mine. Her hands slid up my chest to rest on my shoulders, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.