Chapter 7 Vera #3
The tension in the room is suffocating. I can feel everyone watching me, assessing me, judging me. My father still won’t meet my eyes. Uncle Marcus is staring at me with something that looks like satisfaction, like he’s pleased with how broken I look.
I want to crawl out of my own skin.
Konstantin stands, clearing his throat. “Thank you all for coming. I know this isn’t easy for either family, but these meetings are necessary if we want the peace to hold.
We have several items on the agenda today—primarily the division of dock territories and the renegotiation of the shipping routes through—”
His voice drones on, but I can’t focus on the words. The room is too warm and crowded. It’s too full of people who hate each other. The smell of cologne is making my stomach turn. I can feel sweat starting to break out on my forehead and down my back.
I sneak a glance at my father. He’s staring at the table, his hands folded in front of him, refusing to look at me. My throat swells with tears. It’s like I’m already dead to him.
The betrayal hits me fresh and sharp. He gave me to Dimitri knowing exactly what it would mean, and now he can’t even look at what he’s done.
Dimitri shifts beside me, and his hand moves from the back of my chair to my shoulder. It’s a message to everyone in this room, but his thumb brushes against my collarbone, just once, so subtle I almost miss it. Almost like... comfort?
I’m seriously imagining things.
“Which brings us to the question of the eastern territories,” Konstantin is saying. “We’ve had reports of increased activity from the Bratva, and we need to coordinate our response.”
The nausea hits me.
One second, I’m fine and the next, the room is spinning. Cold sweat breaks out across my entire body. My vision blurs at the edges. The smell of cologne is overwhelming, choking me, mixing with the industrial cleaner.
I’m going to be sick. Right here. In front of everyone.
I press my hand to my mouth, trying to breathe through it, but it’s not working. The room tilts dangerously. Black spots dance across my vision.
Dimitri leans in close, his voice low and urgent. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, unable to speak. If I open my mouth, everything is coming up. I can feel it rising in my throat, and I can taste the bile.
“Vera.” His hand tightens on my shoulder. “Look at me.”
I can’t. I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing in short, shallow gasps, fighting with everything I have to keep control.
“She doesn’t look well,” someone says. My uncle, I think.
“Should we call a break?” Konstantin suggests.
“No,” Dimitri says sharply. “We’re fine. Just give her a moment—”
Then everything happens at once.
The window explodes.
Glass shatters inward with a sound like the world breaking apart. Someone screams. Then gunfire—rapid, deafening, so loud it drowns out every other sound.
Bullets tear through the walls and the air where my head was just moments ago. The conference table splinters. Someone else screams. Chaos erupts as everyone dives for cover.
I freeze. My mind goes completely blank, unable to process what’s happening. This isn’t real. This can’t be real. This doesn’t happen at peace meetings, this doesn’t—
Dimitri moves.
He grabs me so hard it knocks the wind out of me, practically throwing me to the ground.
My knees slam into the floor, pain exploding through my legs, but I don’t have time to register it before he’s on top of me, covering my entire body with his, one hand pressing my head down, the other arm wrapped around my middle.
His weight crushes me against the floor. I can’t breathe, move, or see anything except the industrial carpet inches from my face. More gunfire. More screaming. The smell of gunpowder burns my nose.
“Stay down,” Dimitri growls in my ear, his voice rough with fear. Actual fear. “Don’t move. Don’t fucking move.”
I can feel his heart pounding against my back, racing so fast it feels like it might burst. His breath is harsh in my hair, coming in sharp gasps. His body is tensed over mine like a shield, protecting me from the bullets that keep coming.
He’s terrified.
The man who never shows fear, who maintains control no matter what, is terrified. I can feel it in the way he’s holding me and the ragged edge to his breathing.
“Dimitri—” I try to say, but he cuts me off.
“Shut up. Just shut up and stay still.”
More gunfire. Someone’s shouting orders—Konstantin, maybe, or Roman. I hear my father’s panicked voice, calling for his men. The sounds blur together into a nightmare of violence and terror.
Then Dimitri is moving, hauling me up with bruising force. “Come on. Now.”
He half-drags, half-carries me across the room. I glimpse bodies on the floor (guards, I think, I can’t tell, there’s so much blood) and then we’re through a door I didn’t know was there.
A panic room. Reinforced walls, no windows, a heavy door that Dimitri slams shut behind us with a clang that echoes like a tomb sealing.
The gunfire is muffled now, distant. We’re alone in this small, dark space. Emergency lights cast everything in a sickly red glow.
I collapse against the wall, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. My ears are ringing. I can taste blood—I bit my tongue at some point, but didn’t even notice. My dress is torn at the knee from hitting the floor.
Dimitri leans against the door, breathing hard. His suit jacket is shredded on one side. And there’s blood.
“You’re bleeding,” I gasp, pointing at his arm.
He glances down like he’s just noticing. “It’s nothing. It barely grazed me.”
“You were shot,” I protest.
“I said it’s nothing.” He presses his hand against the wound. “We need to stay here until it’s clear.”
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, my legs unable to hold me up anymore. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving me shaky and weak and suddenly, horribly nauseous again.
“My father,” I whisper. “Did you see—”
“He was running for the exit last I saw,” Dimitri says flatly. “Guess saving himself was the priority.”
The words shouldn’t hurt or surprise me, but they do. Of course my father ran. Of course he didn’t check on me or try to protect me or care if I lived or died.
Why would he? He already traded me away.
I press my face into my knees, trying to hold back the sobs threatening to break free. I won’t cry. I won’t break down. Not here. Not in front of Dimitri.
“Hey.” His voice is closer. I look up to find him crouched in front of me, his expression unreadable in the red emergency lighting. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head.
“Are you sure? Check yourself. Sometimes you don’t feel injuries right away when the adrenaline is high.”
I do a mental inventory. Bruised knees and bruised ribs from where he slammed into me. But nothing bleeding. Nothing broken. “I’m fine.”
He nods, then sits down beside me, still pressing his hand against his arm. The blood is seeping through his fingers. It looks worse than he’s letting on.
“You need to bandage that,” I say.
“Later.”
“Dimitri—”
“I said later.” His voice is sharp. Then, softer, “Just... sit still. Don’t move. Don’t do anything stupid.”
We sit in silence, the muffled sound of gunfire slowly dying away outside. Minutes tick by. Five. Ten. Twenty.
Finally, Dimitri’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out, reads something, then nods. “All clear. They’re gone.”
I exhale in relief. “Who was it?”
“Bratva, probably. Or someone else trying to sabotage the peace.” He stands, wincing slightly. “Either way, this just became significantly more complicated.”
He helps me up, his hand firm on my elbow, and we emerge from the panic room.
The conference room looks like a war zone. Bullet holes everywhere. Shattered glass. The conference table split down the middle. And blood. So, so much blood.
Three guards are down—two Volkovs, one Ashford. Medics are already working on them. Everyone else is shouting, arguing, and pointing fingers. The Ashfords are blaming the Volkovs. The Volkovs are blaming the Ashfords. Complete chaos.
I stand in the middle of it, numb and disconnected, watching like it’s happening to someone else.
Because all I can think about is the moment Dimitri threw himself over me.
The man who hates my family. Who married me for revenge. Who makes my life a living hell every single day.
That man just saved my life without hesitation. Without thinking. Like it was instinct.
Like he couldn’t bear for me to be hurt.
“Vera.”
I blink, focusing on Dimitri. He’s standing in front of me, blood still seeping from his arm, his expression harder than granite.
“We’re leaving,” he says. “Now.”
I gape. “But—”
“Now.”
He guides me toward the exit with a hand on my lower back, past my father, who still won’t look at me. We move past Uncle Marcus, who’s arguing loudly with Konstantin about security measures.
At the door, Dimitri pauses. He turns back to address both families, his voice cutting through the chaos.
“Here's what’s going to happen,” he announces. “Vera and I are leaving. And until we figure out who just tried to kill us all, she doesn’t leave my sight. Not for a second.”
His hand moves from my back to my arm, fingers wrapping around my elbow possessively.
“She’s my wife,” he continues, staring directly at my father. “My responsibility. And I protect what’s mine. So if anyone has a problem with that, you can take it up with me personally.”
The threat in his voice is unmistakable.
Then we’re out the door and into the SUV. Guards swarm around us with their weapons drawn. The driver peels out before the door is even fully closed.
I sit in the back seat, still trembling, trying to process everything that just happened. The gunfire. The chaos. My father running away. Dimitri covering my body with his.
“You saved me,” I whisper.
He doesn’t look at me, staring out the window, his nostrils flaring. “Someone has to. Clearly your own family won’t.”
“You could have been killed,” I point out.
He scoffs. “I wasn’t.”
“You were shot!” I protest.
“It’s a graze.” He finally turns to look at me, and I can’t read the look in his eyes, but it’s intense and conflicted and almost... vulnerable. “You’re not safe. Neither of us are. Which means you don’t leave my sight. Understand?”
I nod slowly. “Is that protection or another prison?”
His hand is still on my arm. As we sit there in the back of the SUV, speeding away from the attempted massacre, his fingers tighten just slightly. Not enough to hurt, but just enough that I can feel the warmth of his palm through my sleeve.
“I don’t know,” he says quietly, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he sounds uncertain. “I honestly don’t know.”
His hand lingers on my arm for a moment longer. Then he pulls away, turning back to the window, and the walls come up again.
But I felt it. That moment of uncertainty. That brief crack in his armor.
The man who hates me just saved my life.
And neither of us knows what the hell that means.