Chapter 23 Vera
VERA
If someone had told me three months ago that I’d be spending my Monday night locked in a luxury panic room while my psychotic ex-boyfriend tried to kidnap me and my crime lord husband hunted down his treacherous uncle, I would have suggested they seek professional help.
Yet here we are.
I’ve been in the safe room for two hours and I’m losing my goddamn mind.
It’s a reinforced room in the basement—essentially a bunker that's been decorated by someone who thought “surviving a siege” and “Architectural Digest” weren’t mutually exclusive concepts.
There’s supplies, communications equipment, and a weapons locker that Mikhail pointed out with a meaningful look when he first brought me down here. “Just in case,” he’d said.
I hope there wouldn’t be a “just in case.”
The room is comfortable enough, I suppose. There’s a couch and a kitchenette with an espresso machine because God forbid the Volkovs suffer through a siege without quality caffeine. There’s even a bathroom with heated floors.
Nothing says “imminent danger” quite like luxury tile warming your feet.
But comfort doesn’t matter when you’re waiting for news about whether the man you love is alive or dead.
Dimitri left two hours ago, and I haven’t heard anything since.
Mikhail stands watch at the door, looking so bored he might actually fall asleep standing up.
To be fair, he’s been bored for the entire two hours, leaning against the reinforced steel, occasionally checking his phone, probably scrolling through social media while I slowly lose my mind.
He’s a soldier but he’s apparently been cosigned to being my babysitter.
My own phone sits on the table, taunting me with its silence. No calls. No texts. No “hey babe, still alive, just wounded and hunting my uncle, back soon.”
Not that Dimitri would say “hey babe.” He’s more the strong-silent-type who expresses affection through intense staring and strategic murder.
But I’d take anything right now, any sign that he’s okay.
He’s fine, I tell myself. He has to be fine.
The finger-shaped bruises on my arms from where Alexei grabbed me have turned an impressive shade of purple-black. I scowl at them. I’ve always bruised easily and it’s always irritated me because any injury looks way worse than it actually is.
I touch one bruise absently, wincing. Alexei did this. He put his hands on me hard enough to leave marks. He called me breeding stock like I’m livestock at a goddamn county fair.
Meanwhile, Dimitri kissed me like he loved me, like I’m not just a convenient womb for his nephew or niece.
The contrast would be funny if anything about this situation could be considered funny, which it absolutely cannot.
God, I hope he comes back.
The thought of losing him makes my chest tight, which is completely batshit because three months ago I was crying over Alexei’s “death.” And now I’m—
No. I was never in love with Alexei. I was in love with a carefully crafted performance, the world’s longest con job with me as the mark who never saw it coming.
What I feel for Dimitri is different. It’s the way he looks at me like I’m a person instead of a pawn. He claimed my baby without hesitation and he makes me feel safe even when literally everything is falling apart around us.
I need him to be okay.
Shouting erupts upstairs.
Mikhail’s bored expression vanishes like someone flipped a switch. He straightens, hand going to his weapon, suddenly transformed from phone scrolling guard to lethal professional.
More shouting with boots thundering. The distinctive sound of multiple men moving with the kind of purpose that usually precedes violence and property damage.
The secure radio crackles. “Breach at the north entrance. Multiple hostiles. Boss is not responding.”
I freeze.
Not responding. That’s military-speak for “we have no fucking clue if he’s alive.”
Mikhail curses in Russian that sounds extremely creative and anatomically improbable.
“Stay here,” he orders. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone except the Boss or me.”
“What’s happening?” I demand, my mouth growing dry as I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling cold. “Where’s Dimitri?”
“Lock. The. Door.” He’s at the door. "And Mrs. Volkov?” I startle, looking into Mikhail’s piercing green eyed gaze. “Whatever you hear up there, don’t open this door. Not for anyone.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m alone with my spiraling thoughts and the distant sound of my Monday night going from bad to catastrophically worse.
I lock the door. The deadbolt slides home with a click that sounds far too quiet for something that’s supposed to keep me safe. And then I wait in my luxury bunker that’s starting to feel more like a very expensive coffin.
The gunfire starts thirty seconds later and I jump like a cat who’s just gotten wet.
It’s distant at first—muffled by concrete and steel and probably several very expensive Persian rugs, but the sound is unmistakable. The rapid pop-pop-pop of automatic weapons. Shouting. A scream that cuts off mid-sound in a way that makes my stomach lurch.
I back away from the door, hand flying to my stomach, as if that will somehow protect the tiny life inside me from bullets and violence and the general shitshow my life has become.
The gunfire gets closer. Farther. Closer again. Like a tide of violence rolling through my home.
Through Dimitri’s home.
Where is he?
The wet sounds of violence filter down—bodies hitting floors, glass breaking, things I can’t unhear once I’ve heard them. And through it all, one thought is on repeat. Where is Dimitri? Is he out there? Is he hurt? Is he—
No. I won’t finish that thought. I won’t give it power. He promised to come back. Dimitri Volkov doesn’t break his promises.
At least, I hope he doesn’t. My track record on men keeping their promises is not exactly stellar.
The fighting continues for minutes that feel like hours. And then—silence. Complete, absolute, terrifying silence. I stand frozen, barely breathing, counting my heartbeats because it’s the only sound left.
One. Two. Three. Twenty. Fifty. A hundred.
Still nothing.
Then the sound of footsteps.
They’re slow and measured, coming down the stairs with the kind of casual confidence that makes my skin crawl.
They stop outside the door.
Three sharp raps. Like a neighbor asking to borrow sugar instead of a psychopath who probably just murdered his way through my security team.
“Vera?” The voice is muffled by steel but the casual and friendly tone is unmistakable. It’s the same tone he used when asking if I wanted Thai or Italian. “It’s me. Open up.”
Alexei.
And just like that, fear transforms into rage so pure I can taste it.
“Fuck off,” I call back. “I’m not opening this door.”
A pause. Then he laughs and it’s the same charming laugh that used to make my stomach flutter. Now it just makes me want to vomit. God, how did I ever find him attractive?
“Vera, be reasonable. Konstantin’s men control the estate now. Dimitri’s security team is either dead or fleeing. You can’t stay in there forever.”
Dead or fleeing. The words hit like gut punches but I don’t let myself process them.
“And even if you could,” he continues—I can practically hear his smile—”what about the baby? You’re what? Thirteen weeks now? You need proper prenatal care and nutrition. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to take care of you. Of both of you.”
Take care of me.
The sheer fucking audacity.
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” I lean against the nearby wall, matching his casual tone. “Because from where I’m standing—or, you know, locked in a panic room—it looks a lot like kidnapping.” I shrug. “But I guess when you’re a sociopath, the semantics get fuzzy.”
Silence. Good. Let that sink in.
“You tried to kidnap me,” I continue, letting the words pour out. “You grabbed me hard enough to leave bruises and shoved me into furniture. That’s your idea of taking care of me? Because I have to say, Alexei, your bedside manner needs work.”
“That was unfortunate.” His voice has an edge now. “I was frustrated. You were being difficult—”
“Difficult?” I laugh. “You mean when I refused to go quietly while you tried to kidnap me? Yeah, how unreasonable of me. Really should have been more accommodating to the man who spent eight months playing me like a fucking violin.”
“Don’t be crude, Vera,” Alexei snaps. “It doesn’t suit you.”
I make a face even though Alexei can’t see it. “You know what doesn’t suit me? Being told I was perfect breeding stock. Getting pregnant because you sabotaged the condoms—which is rape, by the way, in case you missed that particular legal memo—being used as a pawn in your sad little power fantasy.”
“Open the door.” All friendliness is gone from his voice. “We can discuss this like adults.”
“We are discussing it like adults,” I point out, actually enjoying this verbal sparring match. “I’m just doing it from behind reinforced steel because I’m an adult who learns from her mistakes. And you, Alexei, were a colossal fucking mistake.”
The silence that follows is heavy enough to feel through the door.
“Open the door, Vera,” he growls.
“No.”
Alexei snarls. “Open it or I’ll have my men break it down.”
“Good luck with that.” I examine my nails like I’m not scared shitless.
“This door is reinforced steel designed to withstand military-grade explosives. So unless you’ve got a tank out there, we’re going to be here a while.
Want me to make coffee? The espresso machine in here is nicer than anything I’ve ever seen. ”
I can practically hear him grinding his teeth.
“Where’s Dimitri?” I ask, unable to help myself. I need to know what happened to him.
Alexei laughs, that cold, horrible sound. “Dimitri is dead, Vera.”
The world tilts and it’s a good thing I’m leaning against the wall.
“Konstantin handled him personally. It’s over. Your husband is gone, and now you belong to me. The way you always should have.”
My knees buckle. I grab a nearby table, gasping.