Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Artyom
The message from New York comes at the exact moment I’m sitting by the window with a cup of black coffee I haven’t even tried to drink, the surface still untouched and cooling in my hands.
The light outside is soft and bluish, the kind of pale morning that should feel calm and quiet, yet nothing about me feels calm, not after what she saw, after the way she looked at me in that basement doorway as if she’d finally understood the kind of man she’s tied herself to and wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.
Every time I close my eyes, I hear the echo of her footsteps walking away from me, imagine her slipping out of my reach, imagine the look she’d give me if she ever realized just how dark it gets inside my head when it comes to her and why I’m never fully at ease unless I know exactly where she is.
I ended up going into Mikhail’s room about an hour ago, pretending I had something urgent to discuss. I just needed distance from her.
We haven’t spoken since the basement. Not a single word.
So, when my phone vibrates on the table, sharp against the quiet, Mikhail glances over from the couch where he’s tying his shoes, he narrows his eyes at me, half suspicious, half annoyed, and mutters, “What now?”
I read the message once.
“It’s from NY,” I say. “Father’s very sick.”
Mikhail’s hands still. “Sick how?”
I hand him the phone without speaking. He reads the message once, eyebrows tightening, and then reads it again slower, letting out a long breath that sounds more resigned than surprised.
Something tightens low in my chest, that familiar cold pressure that comes whenever my father’s name is involved, because nothing about this feels real.
Vladimir Morozov doesn’t get sick, and even if he did, he wouldn’t announce it through one of his men, in the middle of a week filled with problems he left me to deal with.
This feels like a classic move from him.
“Gravely ill,” he murmurs, the words flat and suspicious. “He never uses that phrasing.”
“That’s because it isn’t true,” I say, sinking back into the chair, the phone now buzzing silently in my palm as other notifications follow. “This is him pulling strings. He wants something, as always.”
Mikhail doesn’t argue immediately, which only irritates me more. He leans back, hands resting loosely on his knees, and studies me with that calm, infuriating patience he developed after we nearly killed each other a dozen times as teenagers. “He’s old, Tyoma. It could be real.”
“If he were dying, the entire house would be crawling with doctors,” I mutter. “Instead, we get a formally worded message right after someone tried to take Kira.”
Mikhail rubs a hand over his face. “I know how he works, but… people change when they get older. They panic, they get dramatic, they—”
“He doesn’t panic,” I snap, then lower my voice. “He’s a manipulative prick and you know it.”
Mikhail holds my gaze, then nods slowly, giving in. “All right. Then whether it’s real or manipulation, we go. It’s dangerous to ignore it.”
I exhale through my nose, long and sharp. He’s right about that. Ignoring father creates new problems, and I have enough to deal with, without adding him to the list.
“Let’s get the girls,” I say, standing. “If we’re leaving, we’re all leaving.”
He smirks. “I’ll handle that.”
I leave him to it and head to Kira’s door, and suddenly, the stillness inside me tightens.
I raise my hand to knock but pause for a second longer than I should. Maybe because her silence felt heavier than any accusation she could’ve thrown at me after seeing.
I knock once, quietly.
“Kira,” I say, voice low. “We have to go.”
There’s a soft rustle inside, then footsteps approach.
The door opens slowly, and she appears in the frame, hair messy and falling over one shoulder, wearing one of my shirts.
The fabric hangs loose on her, brushing mid-thigh, soft and wrinkled and for a moment I forget every coherent thought I had.
Her eyes lift to mine quickly, then drop again, and I can’t tell if she’s avoiding me because she’s scared or because she doesn’t know how to look at me now. Either way, it hits harder than it should.
“We need to pack,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “There’s been… news. From New York.”
She nods once, quiet, and steps back to let me in, but I don’t move. It’s too small in there, too intimate, too much risk of saying something I shouldn’t. So, I stay by the doorway instead.
“Five minutes,” I add. “Just grab what you need.”
She turns to gather her things, and when she bends she reveals the soft curve of her bare skin where my hands should be, although she probably wants nothing to do with me right now.
Heat punches through my chest, sharp and immediate and I look away, jaw tight.
When she returns, dressed properly this time—tight jeans, a simple top, hair pulled back with a shaking hand—I still feel the pull between us, the memory of her breath against my throat when she fell asleep against me last night.
The way she trembled in my hands after the attack, trusting me in ways she shouldn’t.
I force it down. There’s no room for this now.
“We leave in ten,” I say, stepping back into the hall so she can pass without brushing against me, because if she does, I don’t trust myself not to reach for her again. “Come downstairs when you’re ready.”
She nods slowly, fingers curling around the edge of the table. “Is—did something happen?”
“My father is ill,” I say, keeping my eyes on her because I need to see her reaction. “He wants me back immediately.”
Something flickers in her face—worry, confusion, maybe guilt, because of what she saw last night or because she doesn’t know whether she’s allowed to care.
“Kira,” I say quietly.
She stiffens. “Yes?”
I move toward her slowly, giving her time to pull back. She doesn’t, but every inch of her goes tense.
“I know that what you saw,” I say, keeping my voice low, steady. “I know it was… too much.”
She swallows, throat tight. “I wasn’t supposed to see any of that.”
“No,” I admit. “You weren’t.”
A long breath leaves her, shaky. “But I did, and I’m still here.”
Her eyes finally lift to mine, just for a moment, but it’s enough. The fear is still there, but so is something else that pulls at me in a way that makes everything inside me tense and unsteady.
“I don’t run,” she says softly.
For a moment, I lose every word I might’ve said. My chest tightens. My hands curl. I want to touch her, pull her in, tell her she doesn’t have to be afraid of me, even though she should be.
But I don’t get the chance because Mikhail bursts into the room.
“We move in ten minutes,” he says. “Camorra cleared the way. The cars are ready.”
Her eyes drop again, a small movement that feels like she’s pulling a curtain between us, and whatever fragile thread existed in the doorway snaps.
I let out a slow breath I didn’t mean to hold, step back just enough to give her space, and tell myself not to think about how different this could have felt if what happened hadn’t happened.
I go downstairs with her trailing a few steps behind and every part of me is painfully aware of the distance she’s trying to keep without making it obvious.
Mikhail is already in the lobby wrestling with Milana, who has decided she’d rather die than wake up before noon, while Calina stands beside them with her arms crossed, fully dressed, pretending she isn’t amused.
“Finally,” Calina says when she sees me, rolling her eyes in that deceptively dramatic way she uses when she’s actually worried. “Milana is being impossible.”
“I’m not impossible,” Milana mutters, pushing Mikhail’s hand off her shoulder. “I’m exhausted. These time zones are ruining my life.”
“Get in the car,” I say, and it comes out harsher than intended, but no one fights me on it.
The hotel doors slide open, letting in a warm rush of early sunlight, and we step out together.
Two black SUVs wait by the curb, engines already running.
The girls go in first, bickering quietly about who gets which seat.
Mikhail follows them, shaking his head. I open the door for Kira and she climbs in without looking at me.
I settle beside her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her legs, close enough that one wrong movement would have her thigh brushing mine. I force my hand to stay on my knee, not on her, not anywhere near the soft skin she exposed when she bent over to grab her bag earlier.
The door shuts, sealing us inside.
The drive starts slow. The city peels away behind tinted windows, and the silence in the car gains its own weight.
Kira sits angled just slightly away from me, her shoulder turned, her focus glued to the view outside as if staring at passing streets will keep her mind busy enough to forget I’m here.
When the airport finally comes into view through the glass, she goes almost completely still, her lips parting just slightly, drawing in a shaky breath, and color drains from her face.
That’s when I remember her fear of flying.
I watch her swallow hard, her fingers tightening again around the leather strap.
And despite everything, the cold distance she tried to put between us this morning or the way she flinched when she saw me at her door, something in me shifts because I don’t want her stepping onto that plane alone with this fear, and I don’t want her thinking for even a second that I won’t notice.
Kira’s fear settles over her the moment she steps onto the jet, tightening around her until she can barely breathe, and even though I know I should give her space, the sight of her curled in on herself forces me to reach for her, steadying her hand with mine as the engines rise beneath us.
She tries to pull away but ends up gripping me harder when the plane lifts, her nails digging into my palm with every tremor of turbulence, her pulse quick and unsteady, her body leaning instinctively toward my warmth despite everything standing between us.
I feel her fight it, feel the embarrassment heat her skin, feel that sharp, unwelcome pull in my chest grow heavier as she holds on to me like I’m the only solid thing in the air.
By the time the jet descends hours later, she’s exhausted, still tense but breathing a little easier, and the moment the doors open, all the fragile quiet between us shatters.
We step out into the cold New York early morning and into the waiting cars, the drive to the Morozov estate fast and silent, the trees blurring past the window until the iron gates rise into view and the mansion appears.
My father is waiting, sitting upright, dressed perfectly, not a trace of illness anywhere on him. When he lifts his glass in greeting, he smiles as if he’s already won.
A cold, heavy fury hits me like a strike to the gut.
“You look well,” I say, voice cutting through the room. “Very well, actually. So forgive me if I’m confused about the message I received.”
Vladimir rises slowly, gripping his cane like it’s part of a performance.
“Son,” he says with false weakness. “I’m glad you came.”
“You’re not dying,” I spit.
He shrugs. “Not today.”
My jaw clenches so hard I feel my teeth grind. Behind me, Kira stiffens, as my father’s eyes slide to her, running over her face, her body, taking in every detail like she’s something he ordered and is inspecting for flaws.
My vision goes dark for a second.
“Don’t look at her like that,” I say, stepping slightly in front of her.
He smiles, small and poisonous. “So this is the woman who makes my son defy me.”
“She is my fiancée,” I say. “And you don’t talk to her like that.”
His brows rise. “Fiancée?”
I feel her reaction behind me—a tiny inhale, a tremor.
“Yes,” I say, voice steady. “We’re getting married.”
“When?”
“Within the week.”
A stunned silence hits the room. Kira’s breath catches, sharp, shocked, almost panicked—but she doesn’t say a word.
My father studies me for a long moment, then laughs under his breath. “Oh, Artyom,” he says. “You’re a terrible liar when you’re emotional.”
“I’m not lying.”
His eyes slide to Kira again, colder this time, calculating. “If that is true,” he says softly, “then I suppose we’ll see what kind of woman you’ve chained yourself to.”
I take a step toward him, stopping only when Kira’s hand brushes the back of my arm—a silent plea not to explode. For a moment, the room holds its breath as Mikhail watches silently from the doorway, ready to intervene. And my father smiles again, satisfied.
“Welcome home,” he says.
But all I can think about is the way Kira’s body pressed into mine when she flinched at my declaration, the heat of her breath behind me, the panic in her eyes, and how, despite all that, she didn’t step away.
And for the first time since I became Pakhan, since I took this crown from a man who never deserved it, I realize something terrifying and absolute: I said it because the thought of losing her has become something I cannot fucking tolerate.