Chapter Twenty-One - Vivienne
The war room is quieter at night. No smoke from the men’s endless cigarettes, no constant shuffle of boots or muttered arguments over territory. Just me, the creak of the chair beneath me, and the faint hum of the lamp casting long shadows across the maps and files scattered on the table.
I tell myself I’m only here to work through the backlog Alexei handed me earlier. He trusts me with these papers now, classified ledgers and coded reports that most in the Bratva wouldn’t dare leave in another’s hands.
It still amazes me, the way he’s let me into the veins of this empire after I swore to cut its heart out. He doesn’t just tolerate my presence; he wants me to be a part of what I hated, to thread myself into the fabric of the Bratva.
The strangest part is, I don’t hate the work. At first, I thought I’d despise it, that I’d find it all beneath me or sickening, but it’s almost… entertaining. The puzzle of numbers, the coded language, the thrill of finding the weak point in a plan—it hooks into me like a drug.
Some nights I look up and realize hours have passed, my pen smeared with ink, my pulse racing like I’m preparing for trial again, like I’m back in the courtroom fighting tooth and nail.
Tonight, the stack of documents is older. Outdated operations, years-old run through ports and border towns. I sort them idly, slipping each into its proper pile, muttering under my breath about whoever thought it was smart to leave them in such chaos.
That’s when I see it.
A folder mislabeled, tucked deep in the wrong stack. My fingers hesitate on it. The tab reads West Dock Disputes, 2005, in a different hand than the rest, almost an afterthought. Something about the crooked letters makes me pause.
Curiosity wins. I slide the file free and open it.
At first it looks like the others, with typed orders, coded names, signatures of approval. I skim quickly, half ready to dismiss it. A single phrase jumps out. My father’s name.
I freeze, the letters blurring before my eyes.
I read it again, slower this time. Then again.
My hands begin to shake. The report isn’t about dock disputes.
It’s a record of a joint operation, one that straddled the line between the Bratva and government officials.
A collaboration. The kind of collusion whispered about but never proven.
The kind of thing that makes the world tilt on its axis.
In the middle of it, my father. Target.
The signatures are there. Meetings logged. A final order scrawled in sharp ink, signed by Alexei’s father. Not just a Bratva hit. Not revenge. It was orchestrated. Political and criminal power hand-in-hand, deciding my father’s death like they were crossing another item off their to-do list.
My stomach lurches. I push the papers away, shutting the folder hard enough to make the lamp rattle.
It doesn’t change the fact that my father is gone. That I buried him, swore vengeance, let grief fuel me into this mess. The betrayal cuts deeper now I’ve had time to get to know him. I can’t hold him at arm’s length anymore.
Knowing that the man I’ve started to let close—the one whose touch still lingers on my skin, whose voice still echoes in my head—is the son of the man who signed the order.
I close my eyes and the memories flood back.
My father’s paranoia in those last weeks, the way he jumped at shadows, double-checked the locks, spoke in half sentences like someone might be listening.
I thought it was just fear of the Bratva tightening their grip.
Everyone said it was a vendetta, that he’d finally stepped too far. Too quick. Too easy.
Now I see it for what it was. Not just underworld politics. Not just the Sharov name. The whole damn system conspired to bury him, and Alexei’s blood runs through the same veins that bled mine dry.
I press my hands flat on the desk, willing them to stop shaking. The folder lies there like a loaded gun, daring me to pick it back up, to confront him with it. To demand answers he might not even know how to give.
Do I tell him? Do I look into those gray eyes and ask him if he knew? If he’s known all along and has been playing me the way his father played everyone else?
It shouldn’t matter. That’s what I tell myself. Of course he knew, why wouldn’t he? It was different, though, when Alexei was just some asshole I didn’t know. When all I cared about was my father, and Alexei didn’t matter.
Or do I keep it to myself, hold it close like another weapon, another piece of leverage in a war that never really ended?
I can’t think straight. My pulse hammers in my ears, my breath uneven.
I thought I was beginning to understand him. To trust him, even in small, broken pieces. I thought maybe, beneath the violence and lies, there was a man who wanted more than blood on his hands.
Now all I can see is his father’s name, black ink etched over my father’s death.
The worst part? I don’t know if it changes anything between us. That terrifies me most of all.
***
I spend most of the next day avoiding him. It isn’t hard; Alexei has his empire to manage, his endless calls and meetings, his men trailing after him like dogs waiting for scraps.
I make excuses to be elsewhere, bury myself in paperwork that doesn’t need my eyes, linger in corners where no one bothers me. Every time his voice echoes down the hall, my stomach twists. The file still burns in my mind, every line of ink a wound I can’t stop touching.
By late afternoon, I force myself to join a training session with his men.
I’ve been doing it more often, mostly to prove I can, partly to remind myself I’m not just the woman sitting beside him in meetings.
I can still fight. I can still bare my teeth.
The men circle with knives dulled at the tips, fists wrapped in tape, sweat dripping under the bare bulbs.
I spar with one of them, a broad-shouldered man who underestimates me the second we face off. He grins, lazy, already certain he’ll win. It makes my blood boil. He lunges, I sidestep, and the smirk never leaves his face. Something in me snaps.
“Take me seriously,” I snarl, driving my elbow into his ribs hard enough to make him grunt. He staggers back, shock flashing in his eyes. The other men laugh under their breath, but I don’t. My pulse hammers, rage rising so sharp it blinds me.
The room stills. All eyes are on me now. I feel Alexei’s presence before I see him. He stands at the edge of the mat, arms folded, gray eyes fixed on me. His men straighten instantly, waiting for his word, but he says nothing. Just watches as I wipe sweat from my face, jaw tight, chest heaving.
I leave the mat without another word.
He finds me later in the hall, when the sweat has dried and I’ve convinced myself no one will call me on the outburst. He doesn’t waste time.
“You’re distracted,” he says. It isn’t a question.
“I’m fine.”
His gaze sharpens. “You snapped at Milan like you wanted to cut his throat.”
“He wasn’t taking me seriously.”
“You don’t care about that.” His voice is calm, low, but there’s steel under it. “Something else is eating you.”
I force myself to meet his eyes, even though my heart is racing. “I’m just tired.”
For a moment, I think he’ll press, drag the truth out of me whether I want to give it or not. He doesn’t. He studies me, searching for cracks in my lie, then gives a short nod. “Rest, then.”
The simplicity of it stings worse than any interrogation. He doesn’t believe me, but he lets it go. The tension between us lingers like smoke after fire, heavy and choking.
***
Later, when the house has gone quiet, I return to the war room. The file waits where I left it, tucked beneath stacks of ledgers. My hands shake as I pull it free again.
I read slower this time, forcing myself to look past the surface. I study every name, every date, every signature. The pieces slot together like bones of a corpse long buried.
The officials who signed off on the operation aren’t relics of the past. They’re still here. Ministers. Judges. Men in suits who shake hands on television and preach justice with polished smiles. Men who hide behind layers of legal immunity and deep-rooted alliances while blood stains their cuffs.
My father wasn’t silenced because he owed money, or because he crossed the wrong Bratva boss. He was silenced because he tried to expose them. He saw too much, spoke too loudly, and they erased him before the truth could spread.
The realization hollows me out. All this time, I thought revenge meant cutting into the Bratva, bleeding Alexei’s empire dry until it collapsed. I thought his world killed my father. But it wasn’t that simple. It never is.
My father was caught between two monsters; the criminals who pull strings in the dark, and the government that pretends to be clean while gripping the same bloody threads.
I shut the file, pressing my palms flat against the cover to stop the trembling.
Now I see the choice clearly, a blade pressed to my throat. I can bury this. Stay silent, survive quietly in the place I’ve carved for myself beside Alexei. Pretend the truth never touched me. Pretend I can still hate only him, blame only him, and maybe, in time, forget.
Or I can use what I’ve gained. The power he’s handed me, the respect I’ve forced from his men, the access I never should have been given.
I can turn it into a weapon sharper than any knife.
I can finish what my father started. I can tear the system down from the inside, expose every name, every lie, every tie between blood and politics.
Except if I do, if I open this wound, it won’t just be the Council or the government who pays. It’ll be Alexei. The son of the man who signed the order. The man who, without realizing it, has made me strong enough to do what he never expected.
The lamp buzzes above me, shadows stretching long across the table. My reflection stares back from the glossy folder, pale and hollow-eyed.
I sit in the war room long after midnight, the file heavy beneath my hand. My mind spins with names, faces, signatures. Every word feels like poison in my blood.
I can almost hear my father’s voice again. His warnings, his quiet paranoia in those last weeks. He wasn’t afraid of shadows. He was afraid of men in suits. Men who smiled as they ordered his death.
I should tell Alexei. The thought needles me, twisting until my stomach aches. If I hand him this truth, what would he do? Would he deny it, swear ignorance? Or would he admit it and prove every suspicion I’ve ever had—that he’s never actually cared about me?
Yet something stops me. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s the way he’s begun to look at me during meetings, like I’m more than just a shield or a pawn. Maybe it’s the memory of his hand on my back, steadying me when I faltered in front of his men.
I close the folder and shove it back beneath the stack, burying it where no one will see. Not yet.
For now, I’ll keep it close. I’ll keep working, keep earning ground. I’ll wait until I know which side of me will win? The daughter hungry for revenge, or the woman who’s learning, against her will, how to stand beside him?
The choice isn’t ready to be made, but when it comes, it’ll break more than one of us.