Chapter Twenty-Seven
The days following the warehouse raid settle into a rhythm that is as terrifying as it is comforting. The penthouse becomes a fortress, the walls reinforced with new security measures that Yuri installs with grim efficiency.
Inside these walls, the violence feels distant, muffled by the thick glass and the constant hum of the climate control.
I find myself trusting Nikita in a way I never thought possible.
It’s not just the big things—the way he took a bullet for me, or the way he burned down a city block to send a message.
It’s the small things. The way he tracks my movements with his eyes when we’re in the same room, not like a jailer, but like a man who is afraid his shadow might disappear.
The way he hands me a cup of coffee exactly how I like it before I even ask.
He still hasn’t told me everything about Ayaan. I’ve watched him carefully, studied the micro-expressions when I ask questions, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way he averts his gaze just a fraction of a second too long.
I’ve come to believe he doesn’t know the truth. He knows pieces, fragments of a puzzle he’s been trying to solve since the night my brother disappeared. He’s not the enemy holding my brother captive; he’s the one trying to pull him out of the fire.
That realization shifts something fundamental in me. The fear doesn’t vanish—how can it when I’m married to the Bratva?—but it transmutes into something else. Into a potent, heady mix of gratitude and lust.
I catch myself daydreaming constantly.
I’ll be standing in the kitchen, staring out at the skyline, and I’ll feel phantom hands on my hips. I’ll remember the weight of him pressing me into the mattress, the guttural sound of his voice in my ear, the way he looked at me—like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
It’s distracting. It’s dangerous.
Mostly, it’s inevitable.
He’s in the living room when I walk in, a tablet in his hand, reviewing files. He’s wearing a suit, dark gray and tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders. He looks every inch the Pakhan, the ruler of this dark empire.
He looks up as I enter, his eyes tracking me across the room. The air thickens instantly, that invisible tether pulling tight between us.
“Come here,” he says. It’s not a request, but it’s not a command either. It’s simply an inevitability.
I walk over to the couch. He sets the tablet down and pulls me onto his lap. I go willingly, straddling his thighs, my hands resting on his chest. The fabric of his jacket is smooth under my palms.
“You’re distracted,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
“Just thinking,” I say.
“About?”
“Us.”
His lips twitch. “What conclusions have you drawn?”
“That I’m in trouble.”
“Deep trouble.”
He leans up and kisses me. It’s slow, devastatingly thorough. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting me, claiming me. I melt against him, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
This is what it means to be his. Not just the danger or the protection. It’s this connection, this fire that burns between us, consuming everything else until there’s only ash and us.
“We have to go out,” he says against my lips, regret clear in his voice.
“Now? It’s late.”
“Yuri found a lead at a storage facility in Brooklyn. I need to check it before Lorenzo moves the product.”
The mention of Lorenzo’s name is like a bucket of ice water. The heat cools, replaced by a familiar cold knot of dread.
“Is it safe?”
“Nothing is safe,” he says, standing up and setting me on my feet. “But I’ll be there, and I’ll keep you safe.”
I nod, forcing myself to switch modes. From lover to accomplice. From soft to hard.
“Let me get my coat.”
The drive to Brooklyn is tense. The SUV is armored, but that doesn’t stop the anxiety from clawing at my throat. Nikita sits beside me, his hand resting on my thigh, a heavy, grounding weight. He’s checking his gun, the slide clicking softly in the quiet cab.
We turn down a narrow street lined with industrial warehouses. It’s dark, the streetlights flickering overhead. The area is abandoned, a graveyard of rust and shadows.
“Stop here,” Nikita tells the driver.
We get out. The air smells of the river and rotting garbage. It’s quiet, maybe too quiet.
“Stay close,” Nikita murmurs, positioning himself between me and the street.
We walk toward a corrugated metal door. Yuri is already there, picking the lock. With a soft click, the door swings open.
“Clear,” Yuri says, stepping inside.
We follow him into the warehouse. It’s cavernous, filled with towering stacks of shipping crates. It’s a maze, a perfect place for an ambush.
I hear it then: the scuff of a boot on concrete. The metallic click of a safety being disengaged.
“Nikita,” I whisper.
“I know.”
It happens fast. Lights flood the warehouse, blindingly bright. I flinch, throwing my arm up to shield my eyes.
“Drop your weapons!”
Shadows move from behind the crates. Men with assault rifles, their faces covered by balaclavas. We are surrounded. Ten, twelve, fifteen of them. Too many.
Checkmate.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I press closer to Nikita, my hand gripping his jacket. I can feel the tension radiating off him, coiled and ready to snap.
A man steps forward from the center of the circle. He’s tall, wearing a suit that strains at the shoulders, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.
“Mr. Gromov,” the man says. “You’re a hard man to kill.”
“I already killed your boss. Give it up.”
“He might be dead, but there’s still plenty of us to take his place.”
The man raises his hand, a signal to his men. The circle tightens. The barrels of the rifles inch closer.
My breath catches in my throat.
I look at Nikita. He’s not looking at the men. He’s looking at me. His expression is calm, almost peaceful. He reaches into his pocket, but he doesn’t pull out a gun. He pulls out a small, black remote.
“What are you doing?” the lead man asks, his eyes narrowing.
“Ending the game.”
Nikita presses the button. A loud crack echoes through the warehouse. The far wall explodes inward, debris flying in every direction. Smoke pours in, thick and choking.
Through the dust, I see Nikita’s men. A tactical team in full body armor, moving with precision and lethal intent
“Fire!”
The warehouse erupts into chaos.
Nikita grabs me, spinning me around and shoving me behind a stack of crates. “Stay down!”
“Wha—”
“Stay down!”
He vaults over the crate, drawing his weapon. I hear the pop of his silencer. I hear screams.
I peek around the edge of the crate. It’s a massacre. Nikita’s men are decimating Lorenzo’s. They have the high ground, the element of surprise, and superior training.
Nikita moves like a predator. He’s fast, efficient. He takes cover, fires, moves. Two men drop before they even know he’s there.
I scan the chaos, looking for the leader. I spot him near the side door, barking orders into a radio.
And then I see Antonio.
He’s standing near the leader, his face calm, his hands resting on his waist. He looks out of place, untouched by the violence swirling around him.
“Antonio!” I scream, before I can stop myself.
His head snaps toward me.
Nikita hears me. He turns, following my gaze. He sees Antonio.
Antonio doesn’t run. He doesn’t pull a gun. He just stands there, watching Nikita.
I don’t understand. What is happening? Is this a trap?
The leader of Lorenzo’s men sees the tide turning. His men are dropping like flies. He realizes he’s lost.
“Retreat!” he screams. “Fall back!”
He turns to run, but Nikita is faster.
He closes the distance in seconds, tackling the man to the ground. They struggle, rolling on the concrete. The leader is big, fueled by desperation, but Nikita is fueled by something colder. Harder.
I watch, horrified, as Nikita gains the upper hand. He pins the man down, his knees on his shoulders.
“Tell Lorenzo,” Nikita growls, his voice loud enough to carry over the gunfire. “Tell him the next time he sends a dog to do a man’s job, I’ll send the head back in a box.”
He draws his knife.
“No!” the man begs.
The blade flashes. The man goes still, blood pouring from a hole in his neck.
Silence falls over the warehouse, sudden and absolute.
Nikita stands up, wiping the blade on his trousers. He looks around, checking his men. “Status?”
“Clear,” Yuri calls out.
“All clear.”
Nikita sheathes his knife and turns to me. He walks over, his steps heavy. I can see the adrenaline fading, leaving him exhausted.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I… yes. What about Antonio?”
“Antonio is fine.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. Why didn’t you shoot him?”
Instead of answering, he pulls me out from behind the crates. We walk toward the center of the warehouse. Yuri is standing with Antonio, talking to him in low tones.
Antonio turns as we approach.
I freeze. Up close now, I can see a similarity in the way he shifts.
“Freya,” Antonio says. His voice is deeper than I remember, rougher, but it’s him.
“Ayaan?”
My knees buckle. I would have hit the concrete if Nikita hadn’t caught me.
“It’s me,” he says.
He steps closer, lifting his hand. There, on the inside of his wrist, is a small, irregular birthmark. A splash of coffee-colored skin shaped like a crescent moon.
I touched that mark a thousand times when we were kids. I traced it when he taught me how to ride a bike. I held onto it when he left for college.
I reach out, my fingers trembling, and brush against his skin. It’s real. He’s real.
“You’re alive,” I whisper, the tears finally spilling over. “You’re alive.”
I close the gap between us, throwing myself into his arms.
He catches me, lifting me off my feet. He smells like gunpowder and sweat, but underneath it, there’s the faint, familiar scent of his old leather jacket. The scent of home.
“I thought you were dead,” I sob into his shoulder. “I looked everywhere. I found the ring… I found the file…”
“I know,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you. I swear, I did.”