Chapter 20
Viktor
That endless nightmare again.
The sharp crash of shattering glass mixed with deafening gunfire, echoing through the enclosed space.
Warm liquid dripped down my wrist.
Blood ran from my fingertips, hitting the ground with dull, heavy drops.
The room filled with the roar of automatic rifles and the screams of security men as bullets tore through them. Rounds shattered paintings and decorations on the walls. Plaster dust hung thick in the air.
I turned. My gaze cut through the chaotic crossfire.
A woman lay maybe forty feet away.
She wore a white dress. Her body lay sideways on the ground, motionless. But at her chest, blood spread fast—hot red liquid pouring from the wound, turning that pure white dress into a glaring crimson.
I ran like a madman, dropping to my knees hard beside Isabella. My blood-soaked hands pressed down on the bullet hole in her chest, trying to stop the flow.
"Doctor! Get a doctor!" I roared until my voice cracked.
But the blood came too fast. Everything was useless. The life in my arms was slipping away.
I lowered my head, pressed my ear close to her lips, trying to catch Isabella's last words.
That pale face slowly lifted.
The moment my eyes focused, my blood froze solid.
It wasn't Isabella at all.
It was Hazel.
Hazel's face was deathly white. Her light amber eyes—usually warm and bright—had lost all focus now, pupils scattered and staring at nothing.
Blood bubbled from the corner of her mouth, streaming down her jaw, along her neck, disappearing into her blood-soaked collar.
"No... Hazel, look at me." My hands shook violently as I pressed down on her wound, but blood kept pouring through my fingers. "Hazel! Don't close your eyes! Keep breathing!"
Hazel's lips moved slightly. She struggled to turn her eyes toward my face. Tears mixed with blood slid from the corners of her eyes. She opened her mouth, calling my name over and over, barely audible.
"Viktor..."
With each weak cry, more blood poured out, as if it would never stop.
"No—"
I shot up in bed with a hoarse roar.
Everything in the dream had been too real.
The warmth of the blood, the sticky texture, her unfocused pupils, and the helpless desperation of watching her life drain away—it all kept torturing me.
I turned, eyes bloodshot, searching the dark bedroom for Hazel.
Heavy blackout curtains blocked the moonlight completely. Only the bedside lamp, dimmed to its lowest setting, cast weak yellow light.
Finally, I found her.
Hazel lay on her side on the far side of the wide bed, her back to me.
Without hesitation, I pulled her from the mattress and crushed her against me.
Only this real touch, this warmth, could slow my racing heart.
"Mm..." Hazel woke with a dissatisfied murmur at my rough handling, her brow furrowing.
She opened her eyes groggily, hands pushing against my chest on instinct.
"Viktor? What are you doing? You're hurting me." Her voice was thick with sleep, hoarse and soft, tinged with annoyance at being woken.
I didn't loosen my grip. I held her tighter.
"Don't move. Let me hold you."
Hazel seemed to sense something was wrong.
She stopped struggling and wrapped her arms around my waist.
"Another nightmare?" She pressed her face into the hollow of my neck, her voice soft.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't describe the suffocating terror of that dream. The despair of watching her die in front of me while I could do nothing.
I knew why I'd had that dream.
This morning, I'd received a threat from Adam Moretti.
Adam Moretti.
Head of the Italian mob on the East Coast. My mortal enemy for twenty years.
Ten years ago, during that bloody cross-country turf war, I'd been ambushed by the Moretti family on the streets of Boston.
Isabella died in my arms that day.
In revenge, three days later I put a bullet through the skull of Adam Moretti's only son.
That blood debt had made us enemies forever.
When I'd dealt with that piece of shit Tyler, I'd learned his big fish was Adam. I'd cut off Moretti's West Coast supply chain without hesitation—officially shattering our fragile truce.
Adam Moretti was a rabid dog with no bottom line.
If Hazel appeared on Adam's radar, if the Moretti family learned that a woman carrying the Gromov heir was by my side, Hazel would instantly become Adam's primary target.
I couldn't let that happen.
Suddenly, I felt a slight tremor against my abdomen.
I released Hazel abruptly, hands gripping her shoulders, pushing her back slightly as I stared at her swollen belly.
"What's wrong?" The words burst out.
Hazel blinked. Seeing my guarded expression, she laughed.
"It's just the baby moving. You're so jumpy." She looked at my stunned face and poked my chest with her finger, eyes full of amusement. "You look like an idiot who's about to be a father for the first time."
Hazel laughed harder.
She rested her head on my chest, fingers tracing lazy circles on my shirt buttons.
"Do you think it'll be a boy or a girl?" She looked up at me, eyes bright in the dim light.
"Doesn't matter." One hand around her waist, the other still stubbornly pressed to her belly, feeling those faint movements. "As long as it's yours."
Hazel liked that answer. She shifted into a more comfortable position, leaning all her weight against me.
"I've been thinking about names." Her voice softened, full of hope for the future. "If it's a boy, I want to call him Alexander. That sounds strong. If it's a girl, I think Sofia sounds beautiful."
Listening to her say those names, my heart felt gripped by an invisible hand.
Alexander. Sofia. Ordinary, beautiful, hopeful names.
Hazel had no idea what we were facing.
She didn't know that thousands of miles away on the East Coast, a vengeful old man was plotting to tear all this hope to shreds.
"The nursery needs to be redone too." Hazel continued, lost in her fantasy, fingers sketching patterns on my chest. "I want to paint the walls light blue or pale yellow.
Nothing too fancy—just safe and comfortable.
I could use those paints you got me for the studio to paint some simple cartoons on the nursery walls. What do you think?"
I watched her chattering lips, her slightly flushed cheeks bright with excitement.
The more she described this warm future, the stronger my fear and rage grew.
The manor's security was tight, but in a real gang war, no defense was unbreachable. One stray bullet, one traitor, and she and the baby would face disaster.
I couldn't let that happen.
I would never allow anyone to destroy the future she'd just described.
"Viktor?" Hazel noticed my silence and stopped talking, looking at me with confusion. "You don't like it? Or do you have other plans?"
I pulled back from my thoughts, lowered my head, and sealed her words with my lips.
Hazel seemed caught off guard by the sudden move, but soon she parted her lips, arms climbing around my shoulders, kissing me back.
A long time passed before I released her. She gasped, eyes slightly dazed.
"It's perfect." I looked into her eyes, voice low and firm. "Paint whatever you want. All the arrangements are yours."
Hazel smiled. She leaned in and kissed my jaw, then settled back against my chest.
"Then it's settled." She yawned, pregnancy fatigue returning. "Tomorrow I'll go to the studio and pick out colors..."
Her voice grew fainter. Minutes later, her breathing evened out. She was asleep again.
I lay there, holding her, not moving an inch for half an hour.
Just increasing security wasn't enough.
Defense was always harder than offense. If Moretti's target was my woman, there was someone far more suitable than Hazel.
I carefully pulled my arm from under her, tucking a pillow into her embrace to replace me.
I picked up my phone and turned it on.
The screen glowed faintly blue. I opened my contacts and found the number among the very few saved there.
Valentina Rossi.
The Rossi family had massive armed forces and deep political connections on the East Coast.
Though they shared the East Coast with the Moretti family, they'd always been in competition and conflict over territory and profits.
Valentina was a woman with striking looks and fierce ambition.
Since she was nineteen, she'd made no secret of her obsessive infatuation with me, always acting like my future wife.
Her family had indeed been trying to arrange a marriage, making her the lady of the Gromov household, hoping to combine the Rossi family's East Coast power with my West Coast operation to crush the Moretti family completely.
Nine years ago, shortly after Isabella's death, Valentina had approached me about marriage.
She'd told me she only needed the title of my wife to meet her family's expectations and solidify the Rossi family's position. She'd promised it would benefit us both—we could build an unbreakable alliance.
But I'd refused without hesitation. I didn't need an ambitious woman interfering with my territory. I hated calculated marriages.
Now, though, that offer looked tempting.
If Valentina moved into Gromov Manor with fanfare, taking over social affairs as "Viktor's fiancée," Moretti's attention would snap to her immediately.
Moretti would think I'd chosen a Rossi alliance to destroy him completely. All the assassinations, bombs, threats—they'd all target Valentina.
And Hazel, with my child in her belly, would be safe in that shadow.
I knew it was dangerous for Valentina, but she had her family's protection. Our union would help me fight Adam, and Adam wouldn't want to fight two families at once.
I stared at the phone screen, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard, typing a brief message.
—Let's meet.
I hit send.
The study fell silent. Only the city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows kept flickering.
I wasn't sure if Valentina still wanted this marriage. That confession had been a long time ago.
One minute passed. Two minutes.
Less than three minutes later, the phone screen lit up.
A reply appeared. Just one short sentence.
—I'll be there soon.