Chapter 25 Vera
VERA
I wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows.
For one confused, blissful moment, I think last night was a nightmare, but then I move, and every muscle in my body protests.
I look down at my clothes. I’m still wearing yesterday’s blood stained outfit (gross, I slept in jeans?). My hands are dirty gripping that gun and my arms still bear the finger-shaped marks from where Alexei grabbed me.
Reality crashes back.
The attack. The safe room. Alexei alive and trying to take me. The firefight. Dimitri wounded but alive.
And the words we said to each other.
I love you.
I turn my head on the pillow and find him already awake, propped on his good arm, watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His hair is mussed from sleep, the bandage on his shoulder stark white against his skin, but those gray eyes are fully alert and focused entirely on me.
“Hi,” I say softly, my heart pounding.
“Hi yourself.” Despite everything—the blood, the violence, the chaos—there’s warmth in his eyes, something that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was, and I just couldn’t see it.
“How’s your shoulder?” I ask.
“Hurts like hell.” He shifts so he’s on his back and reaches out, brushing hair back from my face. It makes me shiver. “How are you?”
“Sore. Confused about what day it is. Pretty sure I need a shower.” I pause. “Also possibly traumatized, but I’ll deal with that later.”
His mouth quirks. “That’s my girl. Compartmentalizing like a champion.”
I ignore how my heart races when he calls me my girl. “I learned from the best.” I catch his hand, holding it against my cheek. “So. We said some things last night.”
Dimitri makes a pleased noise. “We did,” he agrees.
“Big things.”
“Very big things.” His thumb strokes my cheekbone. “Any regrets?”
“About telling you I love you?” I consider it, enjoying the feeling of his rough fingers against my face. “No. About the timing? Maybe. It would’ve been nicer to do it without the gunshot wounds and near-death experience.”
“I don’t know.” He leans down and kisses me softly. “I thought the ambiance was perfect. Very romantic. Lots of adrenaline.”
A strangled laugh escapes me. “You have a weird definition of romantic.”
“Says the woman who shot at people with me,” Dimitri counters.
“Badly,” I correct. “I shot at people badly. There’s a distinction.”
He grins—actually grins—and I realize this is what happiness looks like on Dimitri Volkov. And the fact that it’s currently directed entirely at me makes warmth spread throughout me.
Then his expression sobers. “We need to talk about what happens next.”
Well, that kills the mood immediately. “Konstantin and Alexei,” I sigh, already missing his hand as he drops it from my face.
“Yes.” He sits up carefully, wincing as the movement pulls his injured shoulder. “They’re not going to stop. Last night was a tactical retreat, not a surrender. They’ll regroup and plan another attack.”
I pluck at the bedsheets, hating that he’s right. “So what do we do?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I can practically see him working through scenarios. “We call a meeting with both families and lay out everything.”
I stare at him, unsure if I heard him correctly. “You want to tell them Alexei is alive? That Konstantin orchestrated all of this?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“They won’t believe you.” I sit up too, ignoring my protesting muscles. “Konstantin is respected. Trusted. He’s been part of the Volkov family for decades. And Alexei is supposed to be dead.”
“Then we show them proof.” His voice is hard now, determined. “I’ve compiled everything, the financial records, phone logs, forensic evidence, security footage. We give them no choice but to see the truth.”
I think about my father, about how he barely looked at me during the wedding. The man negotiated me away like I was a bargaining chip to save the family from war.
“My family won’t side with us,” I say quietly, hating how pathetic it sounds. “My father thinks you’re—”
“Your father was manipulated too,” Dimitri interrupts gently, giving Vincent Ashford more grace than is warranted.
“Konstantin needed both families at war to make this work. Vincent believed he was sending you to a monster. He believed he was saving everyone.” His hand finds mine.
“When he sees the truth... he might surprise you.”
I want to believe my father actually cares enough to be angry about the manipulation, but I’ve learned not to get my hopes up.
“Okay,” I say. “So we call a meeting and show them the evidence. Then what?”
“Then we unite against the real enemy.” Dimitri’s voice is cold with promise. “And we finally end this.”
The meeting is set for that afternoon at the luxury hotel in town. Surprisingly, it’s owned by neither family but respected by both so it made it a perfect location.
I spend the morning showering away the grime and blood from yesterday and changing into fresh clothes that don’t have gunpowder and blood on it. Dimitri moves carefully, his injured shoulder making him stiff, but he refuses pain medication.
“I need to be sharp,” he tells me when I argue and nearly shove the pain pills down his throat. “I need to be able to think clearly.”
“You’re going to pass out,” I tell him, annoyed at his stubbornness.
“I’ve functioned on worse.” He adjusts his tie in the mirror one-handed, which looks difficult but he manages. “Besides, if I pass out, you can catch me. You’re very strong as you held a gun and everything.”
I groan, chucking the vial of pills on the bed. “I’m never living that down, am I?”
“Never.” He turns to look at me, and his expression softens, his normally cold gray eyes growing warm. “You were incredible, by the way. In case I didn’t mention it clearly enough while we were actively being shot at.”
“You mentioned it.” I cross to him, straightening his collar and inhaling his cologne and the smell of his soap. God it makes my knees weak. “Between telling me my aim was terrible and that I was going to shoot you.”
He raises a dark brow. “Your aim was terrible. Did you forget that you hit a light fixture?”
“I was under pressure!”
He catches my hand and brings it to his lips. “You were perfect,” he murmurs. “Terrible aim and all.”
And just like that, the banter fades into something heavier.
“We’re really doing this,” I say softly, relishing the feel of his lips on my skin.
He nods. “We are.” He lets go of my hand but laces our fingers together and gently squeezes.
“What if it goes wrong?” I fret, trying to ground myself with his touch. “What if they don’t believe us?”
“Then we deal with it.” His gray eyes are steady.
“Okay,” I say, not entirely convinced.
Dimitri removes his hand from mine and tips my face up before he kisses me. It’s a slow and deep kiss and for a moment I let myself believe everything will be okay.
Then we go to war.
The hotel’s top-floor conference room is elegant in that old-money way with dark wood paneling, a massive table that could seat twenty, and crystal chandeliers casting warm light over what’s about to become a very ugly conversation.
Both families arrive with heavy security. Everyone is armed, suspicious, with barely contained hostility crackling in the air.
The Volkovs line one side of the table. I don’t recognize many faces but an older, portly man scowls so deeply I’m surprised he doesn’t start growling. A younger man with a buzz cut (maybe around my age) looks like he wants to start shooting immediately.
The Ashfords line the other side. My father is at the center, looking grim. Uncle Marcus is on his right, arms crossed while various cousins and associates keep glancing at me with confusion, like they can’t figure out what I’m doing here.
And at the head of the table, Dimitri and I sit side by side.
His hand rests on the table near mine—not touching, but close enough to be deliberate. When he speaks, I lean slightly toward him. When I shift in my seat, his attention flickers to me briefly before returning to the room.
While we’re trying to be discreet, the intimacy between us is obvious, going by the stunned looks on both sides. I can see my father’s shock, too at how Dimitri turns protectively towards me.
He looks like someone just told him gravity works sideways.
“Thank you all for coming,” Dimitri begins, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “I know this is unusual, but what I’m about to tell you requires both families to hear it together.”
“Get on with it,” the portly scowling man growls. “Some of us have business.”
Dimitri doesn’t react. Instead, he pulls out a tablet and projects an image onto the screen behind him.
“I couldn’t agree more, Boris,” he tells the man before turning to the screen. “Three months ago, Alexei Volkov was murdered.”
Nods around the table. My father’s jaw tightens.
“Except he wasn’t,” Dimitri continues.
The room erupts with shouts in Russian and English. Chairs scrape against the floor and hands move toward weapons.
“Lies!” Boris roars. “We buried him! We had a funeral!”
“Bullshit,” the man with the buzz cut spits. “The Ashfords started this war by killing him—”
“We did no such thing!” Uncle Marcus surges to his feet. “Your family started this war!”
“You shot first! At the peace meeting!”
“Because your people provoked us!”
"LIES!"
“Manipulated us—”
“Ashford scum—”
“Volkov dogs—”
The security teams move in, creating barriers. Hands are actually on weapons, and it’s seconds from becoming a bloodbath. I stare at Dimitri in alarm. I really hope he knows what the fuck he’s doing.
But Dimitri doesn’t raise his voice or do anything, except stand there and somehow the authority in that simple action makes people hesitate.
“Watch the screen,” he says quietly.
The mall footage plays. It’s time-stamped from three days ago.
And there’s Alexei clear as day, his baseball hat pulled low but his face is still visible.
The room goes silent.
“That’s…” Boris stammers, his face white. “That’s impossible. He’s dead, Dima. We buried him.”