Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Artyom
The drive back from the hospital is quiet in a way that makes everything feel heavier than it should.
Kira sits beside me, her hair a little messy from my hands, her lips still swollen, her pulse jumping at her throat every time we pass under a streetlight, and I keep telling myself not to focus on any of it, not after what we just saw, not after her brother was dragged into a car by men who knew exactly what they were doing.
But I still taste her on my mouth, and I still feel her body against mine, and none of that is helping me think straight.
Her knee touches mine when I take a turn, and she sucks in a breath like her body reacts before she can stop it.
Something tightens low in my stomach, and I have to force my hand to stay on the wheel instead of pulling over and dragging her into my lap, because right now isn’t the moment for that, even if every part of me wants it.
She glances at me once, then again, trying to figure out what’s going through my head, and the truth is I don’t know how to explain any of it. I’m angry, I’m worried, and I’m still hard from what happened in that room, and none of that comes out in a way that wouldn’t make things worse.
When we pull into the driveway, my house lights are on, and Calina and Milana are waiting in the foyer. The moment we step inside, Mikhail behind us, Calina crosses her arms and looks between us with a glare that says she’s been pacing for a while.
“Where have you two been?” she demands.
Kira tenses beside me, and I catch the way both my sisters notice it—the faint color on her cheeks, the way she moves a little slower than usual, the way she keeps tugging her sleeves down like she doesn’t want them to see the marks on her wrists.
Milana steps forward and puts her hands on Kira’s shoulders, her voice sharper than usual.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” she says, but her tone wavers, the worry slipping through despite the scolding.
Kira opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I step in, placing my hand lightly on the small of her back, letting her know she doesn’t have to explain anything.
“She was with me,” I say simply. “We were… busy.”
Calina’s mouth curves immediately. “Busy,” she repeats, drawing the word out like she’s tasting it.
Milana lifts an eyebrow. “So that’s why she forgot we exist.”
Kira’s face goes red instantly, and she lets out a small, helpless sound that makes both of them laugh.
“Oh, come here,” Milana says, stepping closer and brushing her thumb over Kira’s cheek as if she’s checking for bruises. “You look tired. And very distracted.”
Calina nudges her lightly. “Let’s get her upstairs before she disappears on us again.”
Kira groans under her breath, which only makes Milana grin wider. Then she looks up at me again, waiting for a cue she doesn’t realize she’s asking for.
“Go,” I tell her quietly. My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “I’ll take care of everything down here.”
Her fingers graze mine as she moves past—a quick, delicate touch that feels like someone dragging fire across my skin—and then she disappears up the stairs with them.
And the second she’s out of sight, my focus shifts back to the one thing I can’t ignore.
I turn to Mikhail. “Office. Now. Bring the senior men.”
His smirk disappears, replaced by something sharper. He nods once and heads down the hall.
As he gathers everyone, I take a moment in the foyer, letting the calm of the house settle around me.
It doesn’t help. The anger, the questions, the possibility of who sent those men—all of it sits under my skin like a pressure I can’t release.
By the time the men file into the office and take their seats, the tension in me has settled into something cold and focused.
The meeting drags on for over an hour. We study footage, compare reports, and pull apart every detail we have.
The men who took Lucas didn’t stumble into the situation.
They moved with intention, and I know they were trained men, not amateurs.
Someone with reach and money sent them. Someone who either doesn’t know who they’re provoking or knows exactly who I am and thinks I won’t retaliate.
Neither option sits well with me.
By the time we finish, nothing feels resolved.
No names, no clear leads, just the knowledge that this wasn’t random.
And even with my men discussing next steps, I feel something else tugging at me, a pull that has nothing to do with strategy, and it has nothing to do with my father who called for me.
Kira is upstairs.
I leave the office first and let Mikhail wrap up the last instructions.
The corridor outside is dim and quiet, the house settling into that late-night stillness where every sound carries.
I start toward the stairs, expecting silence, but halfway up I hear their voices drifting down, laughter mixed in. It stops me halfway up the stairs.
After everything that happened tonight, she’s laughing with them. It hits me in a way I don’t anticipate, something simple and tight low in my chest, I don’t have a name for and wouldn’t admit to even if I did.
I stand there for a moment letting the sound calm something in me.
Then I force myself to turn away and head back down the stairs, because Vladimir sent for me earlier, and ignoring him is a mistake I’m not willing to make tonight.
He doesn’t reach out this late unless something is wrong, or unless he intends to make it wrong, so I can’t put this off.
I make my way through the hallway, the house quiet except for the low hum of the lights and the distant murmur of the women upstairs. By the time I reach the east side of the house, the warmth from hearing Kira’s laugh has faded, replaced by the sharp focus I always need around him.
He’s in his study with a glass of whiskey, staring out the window like he’s thinking about something far away. He doesn’t look at me when I walk in.
“Sit,” he says.
I stay where I am. He notices but doesn’t comment, just lets the silence drag long enough that it feels like a test. He always does this, waits to see if I’ll fill the silence for him, knowing very well I never do.
“I hear things about a certain distraction you have,” he finally says, turning the glass in his hand.
He doesn’t say her name, but he doesn’t have to. I feel my shoulders tense.
“She’s not anyone’s concern but mine,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Stay out of it.”
He laughs, a short, sharp sound. “Everything connected to you is my concern.” He turns his head at that, slow, like he’s actually taking me in for the first time. He’s amused.
“That’s none of your business,” I say.
“She is my business,” he snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut through the room. “She’s in the way.”
My hands curl slowly at my sides, I keep my stance relaxed, but my whole body is tight.
“Stop,” I say quietly, stepping closer to his desk. My shoulders tense and my hands curl at my sides, but my voice stays even. “Choose your next words carefully.”
He finally looks up at me, sets his glass down with a soft clink, and laces his fingers together like he’s about to discuss numbers instead of the woman I love. He leans back slightly, studying me with that blank, practiced expression he uses when he thinks he has the upper hand.
“This girl will cost you alliances,” he says, meeting my stare without flinching. “She’ll cost you power. She’ll cost you respect. Let her go before it becomes a problem you can’t fix.”
I feel my jaw lock. I shift my weight forward, planting my feet, and the certainty settles in my chest so clearly it almost steadies me.
“No,” I say, holding his gaze.
His eyes narrow just a little, the only sign he didn’t expect that answer. He tilts his head, studying me like he’s trying to pinpoint where the shift happened, where his influence stopped working.
“So that’s it,” he says. “That’s your final word.”
“Yes.”
He gives one slow nod, his hand sliding back to the glass but not lifting it. That nod says more than anything he’s said aloud. It tells me he already has a plan. It tells me he thinks he’s still in control. It tells me he’s not done.
“You’re making a mistake,” he says, his tone flat while his eyes stay focused and sharp. “But you’ll learn.”
He lifts the whiskey to his mouth with a steady hand, and something in the way he says it gets under my skin. It’s the voice he uses when he’s already made a decision and is waiting for the fallout.
I shift my stance and watch him carefully. “What are you planning?”
He gives a thin smile, barely a twitch of his mouth. “Nothing at all.”
He’s lying. Before I can push the question again, he moves on as if the conversation never shifted. “Mikhail leaves for Italy in the morning.”
I straighten a little, my shoulders pulling back. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Yes,” he says, and he sets his glass down with a quiet tap. “I already told him.”
My jaw tightens, but I keep my expression still.
“You don’t give orders to my people behind my back,” my voice stays low, but the air between us changes.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “Your people? He’s my son.”
“And he’s my brother,” I say, stepping a little closer. “You don’t get to move him around like a pawn without going through me.”
He huffs a small breath through his nose, annoyed but pretending he’s above it. “He’s needed in Italy. You don’t understand what’s happening there.”
I fold my arms, feeling the muscles in my shoulders tighten. “I understand enough to know you’re hiding something.”
His eyes sharpen in a way that tells me he didn’t like that response. His fingers tap once against the desk before he clasps his hands together again.
“Send him off,” he says. “Now.”
“No,” I say, steady. “He stays for the wedding.”
“He won’t,” he answers, leaning back slightly in his chair, the picture of control. “Because I told him not to.”
I take a slow breath, not out of patience, but because I’m close to flipping the desk over. This has nothing to do with business. He’s moving pieces around to isolate me, to pull support away from me before he makes whatever move he’s planning. And the center of that plan is obvious.
He wants Kira exposed.
I feel the decision settle in my chest as I lower my voice. “If you try to hurt her—”
He cuts me off with a shrug, like he’s brushing lint from his jacket. “I don’t have to hurt her. Life will do that for me.”
His tone is casual, but the intent behind it isn’t. He grabs his glass again, lifts it, and turns his attention back to the window, dismissing me without even saying the words.
I stand there long enough for him to understand I’m not leaving because he ended the conversation. I’m leaving because if I stay, I’ll drag him across the desk and do something that can’t be undone.
Then I walk out and close the door behind me, calm on the outside and burning everywhere else.
Mikhail is waiting for me on the balcony outside the guest room, leaning on the railing with a cigarette between his fingers. He hasn’t lit it yet, just rolls it back and forth like he’s trying to keep his hands busy.
“I guess he told you,” he says when I step outside. His voice is low, and he doesn’t meet my eyes right away.
“Why didn’t you come to me first?” I ask. I don’t bother hiding the irritation; he hears it anyway.
He lifts one shoulder in a slow shrug. “He’s our father.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say, stepping beside him. I rest my hands on the railing, watching him out of the corner of my eye.
He finally lights the cigarette, flicks the ash once, and exhales a long stream of smoke into the cold air. His shoulders drop slightly, like the breath took something out of him.
“I was going to tell you,” he says. “He made it sound urgent. And… I think he’s right about one thing.”
My jaw tightens. “About what?”
“That something’s happening in Italy. Something big.” He glances at me, tapping his thumb against the railing. “And I should be there.”
I don’t say anything for a moment. The balcony is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the faint laughter coming from upstairs. The sound hits me again.
Mikhail follows my glance upward, then looks back at me.
“You’ve changed,” I say, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “Grown up. You’re still a pain in my ass, but you’re… a better pain.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Thanks, I guess.”
“I mean it,” I add. “You’re handling things well over there. You’re different since you moved over.”
The compliment lands harder than I expect. He swallows and looks down at the floor, toeing at a loose tile with his shoe.
“I miss being home,” he says after a moment. “I miss all of you. I miss… being wanted here.”
“You are wanted,” I tell him. “By me. By everyone here. Even by Calina, though she’d rather choke than admit it.”
He snorts under his breath, but it softens him. His shoulders loosen a little, then his expression shifts. He puts out the cigarette, grinding it under his heel, and turns to face me fully.
“Artyom,” he says, voice lower now, “she’s the one for you.”
I feel something tighten in my chest, but I hold his stare. I don’t answer yet, and he doesn’t need me to.
“And Father knows it too,” he goes on. “And he hates it. So, whatever you do, keep her safe. Don’t give him a way to get near her.”
My stomach knots because he’s right. He flicks the cigarette over the railing, brushing ash from his fingers. The wind hits us both, cold and sharp.
“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” he says.
“You better,” I answer. “Or I’ll drag you back myself.”
He grins, shaking his head. “Love you too, brother.”
He pulls me into a quick hug before he steps away like he didn’t want to be caught caring too much.