Chapter 20
Anton is getting closer
ROMAN
Night falls like a blade. Beyond the window, thunderclouds betray the coming storm. We’ve slept most of the day.
Valentina’s still beside me, breathing steadily. Her skin gleams silver in the moonlight spilling through the window—marred only by my bruises.
I slide from the bed, careful not to shift the mattress. The first thing I do is retrieve the morphine dose from the drawer, check the vial, and draw just enough into the syringe to keep her under for another twelve hours.
After what I did to her body, she needs more sleep. Real, healing sleep.
I press a kiss to her temple, then inject her. She winces, but my wife falls back asleep instantly.
“Rest, my Jewel,” I murmur. “You’re safe. And mine.”
She sighs, like she heard me. Like she agrees.
I pull on black slacks, tie a cotton robe loosely around my waist, and take one last look at her—this firestorm of a woman I dragged into my darkness. She’s already adapting to my world. But I won’t let it consume her. I’ll burn everything else down before I let her burn.
Doing so means keeping a keen eye on my father and brother and their affairs, including their affiliates. Or my father’s targets. Just because I refused to take his commission doesn’t mean someone else won’t do the job.
They are not aware of the small empire I’ve built. I’ve taken great pains and money to ensure it, including bribing government officials to keep planes from flying overhead, except for the ones I permit. The only way off the island is by puddle jumper.
I step into the hall just as Father Mikhail emerges from the shadows like a ghost in his cassock.
“She still sleeps?” he asks, his voice low, cautious.
“For now.” I keep walking, but of course, he follows.
“You’ve still told her nothing.”
I stop. Turn. My arms, firm at my sides. “You’re a priest, Mikhail. Stay in your lane.”
He sighs, folding his hands behind his back. “Even as a priest, I’m not blind. You know this deception will rot through whatever bond you’re forming with her.”
“She was promised to me,” I grit out, stepping closer.
“For decades, I bled. And for six years, I prepared everything for her. And my father had the gall, the utter disrespect, to hand over what was rightfully mine by our clan laws. And my younger brother—” My voice hardens.
“He tried to take what was always mine.”
Mikhail studies me. “You’d rather be Cain than let her go.”
“If that’s what it takes.” I ball my hands into fists. “It’s done. The vow’s broken. The past burned. You’ve already seen what she is. How significant. How she’s molding herself to this world like it was always meant to fit around her.”
He nods slowly. “Which is why you should tell her even more, Roman. Not less. Trust that she’ll break that mold—and become something even greater.”
His words sting, but not enough to wound. I clench my jaw. “She will know when I choose. I’ll give her the truth—on my terms.” I pause. “But I appreciate your honesty. I’d never forbid you from speaking it.”
Mikhail inclines his head. “My loyalty is to you. You know why.”
“I do. And I don’t take it lightly.” I grip his shoulder, chest tightening. “But remember who I am to this island. I am king here. And kings don’t share their thrones.”
He bows his head slightly. “Understood.”
I leave him in the corridor, his thoughts trailing behind me like incense smoke.
When I reach my office, I lock the door, sit, and activate the encrypted interface. Next, I open my glass mini freezer and pour myself two shots of vodka.
My system opens like a blooming wound—black-market contracts, bounty commissions, organ trades, crypto assassinations—all part of my kingdom’s bloodstream.
One name catches my eye.
ACHERON
BOUNTY: 12 MILLION USD
LOCATION: UNKNOWN
REPUTATION: HIGH-RISK. HIGH REWARD.
My interest sharpens. I stroke my jaw, intrigued.
I know the name. Who the fuck doesn’t? World-class masked stage artist. Abducted some unknown virgin and turned her into an exhibit.
Everleigh something. I received an invitation to the performance.
Wild story—but Acheron is unhinged in more performative ways than I.
I had no doubt the exhibit would be as insane as he is artistic.
But I know a few things the bounty doesn’t list.
He steals art. Not for profit—for reparation. Holocaust pieces. Family treasures stripped by monsters and returned by another kind. I’ve tracked his paths in Budapest and Warsaw. A ghost with purpose.
I flex my knuckles, considering it. I could take him if I wanted. But it would be messy. Unfulfilling. I don’t get hard for ghosts. And I respect him.
I archive the bounty. Decline the contract.
I have more important prey to protect. And she’s sleeping in my bed.
Let someone else try to kill the masked collector. I’d love to be there when they try, but I won’t be leaving Valentina anytime soon. I’ve earned myself some holiday time.
I’ll spend every moment with her. Mostly? Inside her.
I toss back the last of the vodka, letting the ice and fire settle in my throat. Then I kill the screen, lock down the system, and rise—already thinking of sliding back beneath the sheets beside her.
But a sharp knock hits the door. And urgent.
I make my way to the door and swing it open to find Yuri, my chief of security. He’s wearing his tactical gear, soaked from the rain.
“What is it?”
“Storm’s coming in harder than forecasted,” he says. “But that’s not why I’m here. There’s something you need to see.”
Veins throb with tension in my arm as I ball one hand into a fist. I follow him down the hall, past the west wing, until we reach the security center.
Monitors line the walls, most showing thermal sweeps, drone feeds, radar blips, and rotating infrared scans from the outer perimeter—both sky and sea.
He taps a screen. “This is fifteen minutes ago. Look here.”
The grainy video shows two vessels circling slowly. Big ones. Not fishing boats.
“Coast Guard?” I ask.
“Unlikely,” Yuri mutters, eyes narrowed. “No official transponder signals. No lights. They’re dark-floating. Could be private yachts, but—”
Private yachts would not be out in rough weather.
He taps another angle from a low-flying recon drone. A momentary blur reveals a figure moving on deck. Tactical vest. Something slung across their back.
“Mercs,” I murmur.
“That’s my read.”
Fuck. I drag a hand through my hair, pulse spiking. This has Anton written all over it—and our father. My jaw clenches as a wave of guilt burns through me. I should’ve taken her somewhere remote. A secluded tropical island. A private bungalow. Anywhere but here.
But this is home. My sanctuary. The only place that’s ever truly been mine. I’ve poured years—and millions—into carving this slice of Alaskan wilderness into something untraceable. Untouchable.
Hiding in plain sight, so close to the mainland and the family estate, had always felt like a masterstroke. Now? It just feels reckless.
I exhale through my nose. “They’re not making landfall in that storm.”
“No,” Yuri agrees. “Winds are climbing to sixty knots by midnight. If they don’t pull out, the sea will eat them.”
“Let it.”
Yuri nods. “That’s not all.”
Of course it’s not.
He brings up another screen. “We caught a puddle jumper circling the outer zone just before the weather shifted. Three loops. No descent. No distress signal.”
I stiffen. “No one’s supposed to be in our airspace.”
“I know. We’ve kept it clean for years. Your bribes still hold with aviation, but someone either didn’t get the memo or decided they didn’t care.”
I glance at the storm map—lightning, wind, a cell of violent weather dragging across the sea like claws. Good. “Did they crash?”
“We didn’t have to wait that long.” Yuri punches a few more commands. “Falcon Drone 7 was patrolling the northwest quadrant. We flagged the jumper as a threat. The drone fired a strike round before they could enter the radius.”
A pause.
“No survivors, Roman.”
I don’t blink.
“Clean it up,” I say.
Yuri nods. “Already dispatched recovery to sweep once the weather clears. No transponder debris. Everything burns in salt and fire. Anyone on the other end would suspect it was the storm.”
Good. I stare at the live feed. Wind howls past the manor, trees bending like they’re begging. Let the sea drag their secrets under. But if they come again—if anyone gets closer—
They won’t need a storm to die.
Zina is waiting for me in the hall.
Shalun, shifts restlessly on her shoulder, feathers slightly puffed from the pressure drop. He feels the storm in his bones.
“Report,” I say, already on edge.
Hands behind her back, Zina gives a small nod. “Supply drop’s done. Pilot touched down just before the winds started kicking. I told him to stay until it clears. He’s got his usual quarters ready.”
“Good. I don’t want him flying out in this.”
“I know,” she says, then holds out a slim, matte-black parcel. No markings. No name. Just the kind of thing that reeks of intention.
My brow lifts. “What’s this?”
“It came with the last supply drop. I assume from one of your dead drops. Already scanned—no incendiaries, no drugs,” she adds quickly, reading my mind. “Clear.”
I take the package and nod once. “Thank you.”
No need to sound the alarm. Yet.
It could be a harmless token from my mother—she’s sentimental in strange, inconvenient ways. Or a gesture of gratitude from one of the many overlords who owe their continued empires to my blade. These kinds of things trickle through the network at times.
As long as the other networks—my comms, supply lines, contracts, and alliances—remain uncompromised, then this is just noise. Background static. I can handle noise.
Zina steps back. Shalun lets out a soft churr, and they disappear down the corridor.
Back in my office, the wind whines against the glass, thunder cracking. I slide my thumb beneath the seal of the package and peel it open.
Inside is a small velvet ring box. Dark red, almost black in the low light. I hesitate only a second before flipping it open. I stare at it, not breathing.
A crest ring rests within. Ornate. Lavish. Heavy with warning sentiment and crusted with blood. A Makarova crest ring.
Anton.
I don’t need a lab to know. But protocol has its place, and I drop the sample into the scanner slot beside my desk. A few seconds pass before the display confirms it.
DNA Match: Anton Makarova.
Not a gift. A message. A fucking threat. And a damn dangerous one. As if he suspected what I would do. And made his own warning preparations.
I bring up the digital interface again, locking into my secured network.
One of your dead drops was activated.
Package retrieved and routed through your authorized secondary.
Cleared by Viktorin.
Viktorin. He wouldn’t send this unless forced. Which means Anton’s reach is growing. Bribery. Coercion. Or worse.
My fingers dance across the console, initiating a new round of code encryption. Route Zeta is now dead. So are couriers 2 and 7.
I reroute the supply drops. And keep the defense systems on hair-trigger protocol.
Anton is getting closer. And he won’t hesitate to destroy everything that belongs to me.
I curl my fingers around the box, my knuckles whitening as fury boils to the surface. If Anton wants her back…
Over my dead body.
He wants a wedding. I’ll give him a funeral.