Chapter 29 Roxy
Roxy
Makari’s private suite feels too big without him. Too bright in some places, too dark in others, as if the entire floor has been holding its breath since he left hours earlier.
I showed up not long after, at the gates. Unexpected, but Lauren let me in anyway with a level gaze. Brought me right to his section of the compound, the one anyone rarely steps into.
I’ve been pacing the length of the main living area for nearly an hour. Past the wall of windows, past the hearth, past the expensive rugs he never bothers to look at. My footsteps sound restless; the rhythm uneven.
Mak is gone. Deep in the wilderness with armed men and barely any daylight, for who knows how long. Hunting a syndicate ruthless enough to kill his people and bold enough to creep onto his land.
I’m here, in a locked-down estate, with six guards stationed in a semicircle around the suite door.
Six guards who look like they were carved out of stone.
Bratva. Not the outdoorsmen with quiet smiles and camouflage jackets I’d become used to.
These men wear their weapons openly. Their eyes are cold.
Their expressions betray nothing but vigilance.
They’re polite when I glance at them, but only in the way professionals are polite.
In the way trained men soften their edges for the woman they’ve been ordered to protect.
I peek my head out again just to see them. Just to confirm they’re there.
The closest one nods once. “Vse v poryadke, miss.” He sees the confusion on my face and translates without blinking: “Everything is fine.”
I thank him softly and shut the door again, leaning against it for a moment.
I should feel relieved. But relief would only come if Makari were here too—if I could anchor myself to the heat of his presence, to the steady certainty of his voice, to the way he looks at me in moments when he forgets to guard himself.
The estate is secure. The guards are heavily armed. And Dima is in Boston watching my family like some Russian sentinel who takes things personally.
But none of that makes the fear in my chest loosen.
It burns there, stubborn and aching.
The night drags its weight over the hill behind the estate, pouring darkness through the windows little by little.
I try sitting. It doesn’t work. I try reading.
Impossible. Every sound makes my pulse spike.
Footsteps in the hall. Radios crackling.
The whisper of the wind against the stone wall outside. There’s no way in hell I’ll ever sleep.
And finally, without thinking, my feet lead me down the hall and into Makari’s bedroom. His scent wraps around me the moment I cross the threshold.
His bed is neatly made. The closet doors are slightly ajar, as if he opened them in a rush earlier—as if he keeps tactical weapons in there; an idea so absurd I actually chuckle quietly. A jacket hangs on the back of a chair, abandoned but still carrying the imprint of his shape.
My throat tightens.
I know I should stay out of here, but I can’t. I need the closeness. I need something to hold on to that’s his.
I sink onto the edge of his bed, fingers gripping the comforter.
It hits me then—what Kat said. She spoke of love like it was a compass, something that points you toward the thing that matters most. She insisted that men like Makari don’t risk power for lust.
Only for love.
I swallow. Hard. Because something in my chest answers that truth, echoes it, trembles beneath it.
Even if she’s wrong about him—even if he doesn’t feel the same—I do.
I’m in love with him.
The realization lands like a soft devastation. No panic, no bolt of terror. Just a deep, aching acknowledgement that I’ve fallen in love with the last man I ever should have. A man who holds violence in his hands as easily as breath. A man whose world could swallow me whole if I’m not careful.
A man who wants me anyway.
My eyes sweep the room, and something on his dresser catches them—a folder, thick with documents, half-tucked beneath an expensive leather-bound journal. It’s out of place. Makari is too meticulous to leave things askew.
I rise and walk to it, fingertips tracing the embossed initials—M.M.
It isn’t locked, so I open it slowly. At first, it looks like financial paperwork.
Contracts, legal documents, the kinds of things I help with day to day in the office.
When things are running normally. And not centered around a syndicate war.
Then I see my name. And Andrea’s, printed cleanly in the middle of a trust document.
My heart lodges in my throat.
The trust is sizable. Not just enough to ease worry, or provide security, but enough to build a future. Enough to build independence. Enough to make sure Andrea would never suffer for anything—not education, not safety, not care.
It’s not the only document. Behind it is a notarized letter from his lawyer stating a transfer of inheritance “in the event of incapacitation.” A home held in our names, a long list of assets. Another large sum earmarked for Louise, for Kat, for Peter.
He planned all of this.
He planned all of this quietly. Thoroughly. It comes back to me then—that day in town, at the lawyer’s office. His asking that I stay outside. Was this what that was about?
Did he expect war, even then?
Does he think he might not come back?
My hands shake as I turn another page and find a smaller envelope tucked between the files. My name isn’t on it, but Andrea’s is.
Her full name written in Makari’s handwriting, the letters careful and slanted. Beneath it, three words:
Just in case.
I press a hand to my mouth. For a moment, I can’t open it. I’m afraid of the softness inside, afraid of what he would leave her if he thought she’d grow up without him.
When I finally slide the letter from the envelope, the first line almost breaks me.
My sweet girl, I am sorry I missed six years of your life. I did not know you existed, and that is a regret I will carry longer than anything else I have done.
If I could change anything, I would have found you sooner. I would have learned your favorite colors, your fears, your dreams. I hope you forgive me for the time I lost.
A low sob breaks loose. I fold the letter against my chest, sinking to the floor because my knees can’t hold the weight of this man and what he’s become in my life. What he’s become to my daughter. The thought of losing him tonight feels like a hollowness opening inside my sternum.
I don’t know how long I sit there, breathing in the soft scent of him, trying not to unravel completely.
A crash interrupts everything.
Shattering glass.
I jolt upright, heart slamming against my ribs. Voices shout down the hallway—men yelling in Russian, the crack of gunfire punching through the air with terrifying clarity.
Another shot. Then another. A heavy body hits the ground.
Then silence.
For one split, unbearable heartbeat, the estate holds its breath again.
I grab the nearest heavy object I can reach—a carved marble statue from Mak’s bookshelf—and grip it two-handed, pulse roaring in my ears. Footsteps approach the suite. They’re staggered, dragging. Someone wounded? I back into the shadow beside the door, breathing so quietly it hurts.
The lock clicks.
The door bursts open.
One of Mak’s guards collapses inside, blood pouring from his side. He tries to lift his weapon, but another figure shoves him forward and he falls in a heap.
Eric steps over him.
Eric—sweaty, frantic, eyes too bright. He’s holding a gun in one hand, trembling hard enough that the barrel jerks with each breath. Behind him, three men filter in. Armed strangers—not Bratva.
They must be part of the Chicago syndicate.
They killed two of the guards. My stomach lurches. Eric scans the room, wild-eyed, not seeing me yet. “Check the back,” he snaps at one of the men. “Find her. She has to be here.”
I grip the statue tighter, heart pounding in my palms.
One of the intruders stalks toward the bedroom. Another circles behind the couch. Eric moves toward the windows, scanning for movement outside.
This is my moment.
I step out of the shadows behind the man nearest me and bring the statue down with every ounce of strength I have. The crack is sickening. He drops instantly, his gun skittering across the floor.
Eric whirls. “Roxy?”
His voice is a mix of disbelief and anger. He levels the gun at me.
“You should have helped me,” he says. “If you’d just listened—if you’d given me what I needed—we wouldn’t be here.” The fury on his face twists into something uglier. “Your boyfriend isn’t here to save you this time.”
I raise the statue again. “Makari is going to hunt you down,” I say, voice shaking but firm. “He’s going to hunt all of you down.”
Eric twitches, jaw grinding. “We’re already leaving,” he snaps to his men. “We grab her if we can. If not—just go. Just go!”
They retreat toward the hall in a scramble, dragging the wounded man and stepping over the guard they killed. Eric backs toward the door last, gun still pointed at me.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says. “You have no idea what’s coming, Roxy.”
Then he runs.
I rush to the window in time to see them piling into one of the estate utility vehicles. The engine howls, tires tearing through gravel as the vehicle screeches toward the back service road.
They’re gone within seconds.
Silence falls again, choking and heavy.
I drop the statue. My arms tremble violently. The guard on the floor groans, barely conscious. The other body outside the door doesn’t move at all.
I’m breathing hard, every muscle shaking, every nerve raw. Mak is going to come back to this.
And when he does—
A shiver goes through me. He will burn the world to the ground for what happened tonight. For what almost happened to me. For what Eric dared to bring into his home.
But beneath the fear, beneath the adrenaline, something else rises too. Resolve.
I’m done being afraid. I’m done running from the truth of what I feel for him.
I wipe my tears with shaking hands, stand over the guard still alive, and press my palm against his shoulder so he knows he isn’t alone.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
His eyes are open and bright—too bright? His mouth drops open, a wet sound coming from it.
Then, a hand grips the back of my sweatshirt and yanks.
I spill over backwards, heels kicking the groaning guard on the ground as I’m dragged away from him.
“No!” I choke out, eyes on the pooling puddle of blood beneath his body.
The guard’s face is going pale fast, and everything in me wants to fight to get back to him. I don’t want Mak to lose another man.
I don’t have a choice. Whoever has me is dead silent, their grip solid as they jerk me toward the staircase. I gasp and try to catch myself, but go tumbling.
When I hit the bottom, everything hurts. My hip is bruised, and my vision swims for a moment, dizzy with pain. I can’t believe I’m still alive. People break their necks falling down stairs.
I look up, blinking, and find Eric tramping down the stairs at a fast clip.
“What the hell are you doing?” I grit out, a sharp pain going through my right side. Eric doesn’t answer, just tangles his hand in my hair and yanks again until I stumble to stand, or rather hunch, at his side.
He doesn’t slow as he heads for the exit. “Eric, you can’t do this. He’ll—”
“This is the only way, Roxy. This is all your fault. Did you know they cleared everything out? All the files, all the servers.”
He pushes me back, and I yelp, sure that a wad of hair came out.
“I didn’t know,” I grit out, honestly. Makari didn’t tell me anything about clearing out the compound, and why would he? Why should he? I wasn’t supposed to be here.
Eric’s eyes narrow as he surveys me. The scales tip one way, then the other. Please don’t do something stupid, I beg, trying to take slow, even breaths.
But then he lifts the gun and points it at me.
“You’re my best bet, Roxy. Who would’ve thought? If I have you, he’ll give me anything. I know it.”
It’s a mistake. It’s a big mistake, but Eric doesn’t listen to my protests. He points the gun toward the front door, and I walk out of it with him.