Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
T he belt of the treadmill hums beneath my sneakers, a steady, relentless whir that isn't nearly fast enough to outrun the noise in my head.
I’ve been running for forty-five minutes.
My chest is tight, my lungs burning, and my grey tank top is damp with sweat, but my brain won't shut up. I keep seeing the look on Mikhail’s face from this morning, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For years, my past was a weapon used to keep me in line, and I just handed the handle of that weapon to a Morozov.
He said he would help me. He promised. But what if he gets back from the hospital and realizes a child is too high a price to pay for a wife?
Was I being stupid when I decided to trust him?
My sneakers slap the belt in a frantic rhythm. I’m exhausted and sore from last night, but the anxiety is a motor that won't stop running.
The gym door clicks open.
I keep my eyes fixed on the blank wall, my breathing shallow and loud over the machine's whir. I hear his steps on the rubber matting—a slow, heavy tread I’d recognize anywhere now.
Mikhail steps up to the treadmill. He’s dressed in a clean black suit, his dark hair damp and combed back, though the bruise on his jaw is still a vivid purple. Massive, solid, and completely calm, he reaches out and hits the emergency stop button.
The belt jerks to a halt. I stumble, my hands flying to the handrails to keep from face-planting onto the console. I let out a sharp, irritated gasp, glaring at him with a heaving chest.
"I was in the middle of a mile, Mikhail," I pant, wiping sweat from my forehead.
"You need a break," he says, his voice a low, quiet rumble, hands tucked into his pockets. "Or you’re going to run yourself into the floor."
"It’s better than sitting in the bedroom waiting for you to decide if you’re going to throw me out," I snap, the fear in my throat too heavy to carry. I step off the belt, my legs trembling. "Did you see Artyom?"
"I did," Mikhail says.
"And?" My heart does a hard, nervous thump. "Did you tell him?"
Mikhail doesn't answer immediately. He steps closer, instantly swallowing the distance between us. His large, scarred hand cups the back of my neck, his thumb grazing the skin behind my ear.
"I told him everything," he says, his blue eyes searching my face with quiet intensity.
I freeze, my breath catching. "And what did he say? Is he drafting the divorce papers, or is he just going to have me put in a crate?"
"He told me that the only opinion that matters in this house is mine," Mikhail murmurs, pulling me a fraction closer. "And I already told you my opinion this morning. The truth changes nothing between us."
"Mikhail, my father?—"
"I don't care about Boris," he interrupts, his voice dropping into a rough, firm register. "And I don't care about what happened all those years ago. You are my wife. We are in this together. We are locked in, there’s no other way out. Do you understand me?"
I look up at him, my eyes stinging with sudden, ridiculous warmth. I’m sweaty and wearing a faded grey tank top, but the way he’s looking at me makes me feel like I’m wearing diamonds.
"You're very stubborn," I whisper.
"It’s a family trait," he says, a small, dark smile touching his lips.
He leans down and kisses me. It’s not the punishing, rough kiss from last night, but something slow, deep, and steadying.
I close my eyes, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders, my fingers digging into the expensive wool of his suit jacket.
It feels like an anchor holding me to the earth while the storm tries to pull me away.
A knock on the gym door breaks the silence.
We both freeze. Mikhail pulls back slowly, his jaw clenching as he looks toward the frosted glass.
"What?" he growls.
The door opens a crack, and Lev’s tense face appears. "Mikhail. We have a situation downstairs."
"If it’s the docks, tell Konstantin to handle it," Mikhail snaps.
"It’s not the docks," Lev says, his voice dropping. "Your father is downstairs. And Boris Petrov is with him."
The temperature in the gym drops. My hand falls from Mikhail’s shoulder, my fingers curling into a fist. Boris and Vladimir.
"T-They're here?" I ask, my voice thin.
"They’re in the dining room," Lev nods. "They brought three guards, but Stefan has them contained in the foyer. They say it’s a social visit."
Mikhail lets out a low, dangerous hiss, his blue eyes turning to flint. "A social visit. Of course." He looks down at me, touching my cheek. "Go upstairs. Change. Stay in the room."
"No," I say, my stubbornness flaring instantly. I pull back, crossing my arms. "I’m not hiding in the bedroom like a naughty child. I’m coming down."
Mikhail studies me for a long beat, a mixture of irritation and pride flickering in his eyes. "You’re going to be the death of me, wife."
"Probably," I say, walking past him to the door. "But at least you'll die entertained, husband."
We head downstairs. The atmosphere feels heavy, the hallway guards standing at attention with their hands resting on their holsters.
When we enter the dining room, the scene is exactly what I expected.
Vladimir Morozov and my father are sitting at the long mahogany table. A plate of cold meats and a bottle of high-end vodka sit untouched between them. Vladimir is nursing a glass, his eyes bloodshot and flat. Boris leans on his silver-headed cane, looking entirely too comfortable in our chairs.
"Ah," Boris says, his lip curling as he sees us enter. His gaze tracks my damp hair and oversized black hoodie. "There she is. The lady of the house.”
"Mikhail," Vladimir says, his voice a dry rasp. "We came to discuss the North Dock expansion. And the... unfortunate event at the Queens plant."
"There is nothing to discuss, Father," Mikhail says, standing behind my chair as I sit. His palms are heavy and hot on my shoulders, a physical barrier between me and the two men across the table. "The Queens plant is being handled. The inventory is relocated."
"Relocated where?" Boris asks, leaning forward, eyes narrow. "The Petrov network needs to know the new routes, son. We have shipments scheduled for the weekend. We can't have our trucks idling because you're having security issues."
"The shipments will go out on time," Mikhail says. "But the routes are no longer your concern, Boris."
"No longer our concern?" Boris lets out a dry, clicking laugh. "We are partners, boy. The alliance was built on shared infrastructure. If you're hiding the transit points, you're violating the contract."
"The contract was with Artyom," Mikhail counters, his voice a low, warning rumble. "And Artyom is currently recovering. Until he’s back, I’m the one running the operations."
Vladimir sets his glass down with a slow, deliberate click. "Mikhail. Boris is offering to help us rebuild. He has warehouses in Jersey that can handle the surplus while Queens is offline. It’s a logical solution."
"It’s a parasite’s solution," Mikhail growls.
He leans forward, hands flat on the table, his blue eyes fixing on his father.
"You think I don't see what you're doing?
You think I don't know that you two have been whispering in the dark since the warehouse raid?
If you wanted a bigger share of the business, Father, you shouldn't have retired. "
"I am still the former Pakhan!" Vladimir roars, slamming his fist on the table.
"And Artyom is the current one," Mikhail says, his voice calm and lethal. "If you want to talk about shares, why are you sitting in my dining room? Go to the hospital. Talk to Artyom. See if he wants to give you his seat."
The silence in the room is heavy. Vladimir blinks, his arrogance faltering as he looks into his son’s eyes.
"We have other options," Mikhail continues, adjusting his cuffs with a terrifying calm. "I’ve spent the morning speaking with Konstantin. And I have three new partners from Brooklyn who are very eager to handle our surplus. We don't need your warehouses, Boris. And we don't need your advice."
Boris’s face darkens, the mention of our Brooklyn contacts clearly hitting a nerve. He stands up, leaning heavily on his cane as he glares at me.
"You think you're clever, boy," Boris says, his voice dropping into a quiet, nasty hiss as he turns to me.
"And you… you think because you’ve found a new protector, you can forget where you came from.
You should remember who still holds the keys to your happiness, child.
Some secrets don't stay buried forever."
I feel the blood drain from my face.
Mikhail stands up slowly, walking around the corner of the table. His steps are slow and deliberate on the hardwood until he’s standing inches from my father, his broad chest completely blocking Boris from my view.
"You have five seconds to get out of my house," Mikhail says, his voice a low, terrifying whisper.
"Mikhail—" Vladimir starts.
"You too, old man," Mikhail growls, not looking back. "Both of you. Get the hell out before I decide that the alliance isn't worth the lead it takes to put you down."
"You are threatening your father-in-law?" Boris sneers, though he takes a step back, hand tightening on his cane.
"I'm not threatening you. I'm telling you," Mikhail says, his teeth bared in a jagged grin. "In this house, her word is my word. If you speak to my wife like that again under my roof, I won't just throw you out—I’ll make sure you don't have a tongue left to speak with. Now get out."
Boris glares at me, his eyes dark with a promise of violence, before turning toward the foyer. Vladimir follows him, his expression a mix of fury and embarrassment.
A minute later, the heavy oak doors of the foyer slam shut.
The silence in the dining room is suffocating. I stay in my chair, hands shaking around my mug as the sour taste of adrenaline hangs in the air.
"He’s going to do it," I whisper, my voice cracking as I look up at Mikhail. "He’s going to tell everyone. He’s going to move Oleg. He knows we’re looking."
Mikhail walks back to my side, but I pull away, standing up and pacing toward the window.
"Irina, stop," he says, his voice firm.
"No! You don't understand!" I spin around, panic clogging my throat. "He has my son, Mikhail! He has him in a house in Jersey, and I don't even have the address yet! Aris is probably dead or running, and if my father realizes we're working together, he’ll just... he’ll make him disappear!"
"We’re going to find him," Mikhail says, stepping into my space to grab my upper arms. "I told you, I have Konstantin. He’s already dealing with it. If there is a trust fund or a shell company in Jersey with Boris’s name on it, we’ll find the deed by tonight."
"And if we don't?" I push against his chest, my eyes hot with tears I refuse to let fall.
"If we’re too late? You think you have time because of your casino contacts, but Boris doesn't play by the rules, Mikhail!
He nearly blew up your brother yesterday!
He doesn't care about the docks anymore—he wants to ruin you! "
"Then let him try," Mikhail growls, his grip tightening, blue eyes flashing with wild, dangerous energy. "He thinks he can use a child to put me on my knees, but he’s about to find out what happens when you touch what’s mine. I am going to tear New York apart, Irina. I’m going to find your boy, and then I’m going to make sure your father never draws another breath. "
"Mikhail..."
"Don't," he says, his forehead resting against mine. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving. " I promise you."
I look into his eyes, the terror and hope swirling in my chest. We're standing in the middle of a burning house, the match struck by my own father.
But as I feel Mikhail’s hands on my arms, solid and hot, I realize that for the first time in years, I’m not running from the fire. I’m standing right next to the man who’s going to help me burn it all down.
He pulls me closer, his hands sliding up to cup my jaw, and seals his lips over mine in a fierce, desperate kiss.
He is reassuring me he will never break his promise.
And I believe him, I really do.