38. Throne of Ashes
Throne of Ashes
Vera
The gun is under Orlov’s jaw.
The room is a held breath.
Roman’s hand is still wrapped around mine—too tight, too steady, like if he loosens it for even a second, I disappear again.
I don’t let that thought take root.
Not now.
Not here.
Orlov’s eyes flick between us, calculating, measuring the distance between life and leverage.
“Careful,” he repeats softly. “You don’t want to lose the truth.”
I step forward.
Roman’s grip tightens.
“Vera—”
“Trust me,” I whisper.
It’s the same words he never says.
The same risk he never takes.
His jaw flexes.
But he doesn’t pull me back.
That’s new.
That’s everything.
I move closer to Orlov.
Slow.
Controlled.
Not afraid.
“You’re right,” I say quietly.
His brow lifts slightly.
“Oh?”
“You are the truth,” I continue. “The only one who knows how it all connects.”
Flattery.
Calculated.
He relaxes a fraction.
“You understand,” he says.
“I understand that if you die,” I say softly, “everything you built dies with you.”
His smile starts to return.
Good.
Keep him there.
Keep him talking.
“You’re smarter than Roman gives you credit for,” Orlov says.
“I think Roman knows exactly what I am,” I reply.
I glance briefly toward Viktor.
Just a flick.
Just enough.
He sees it.
Moves.
Subtle.
Behind Orlov’s line of sight.
Time stretches.
Seconds feel like minutes.
“You don’t want to die like this,” I say, stepping even closer now. “Alone. Without anyone truly understanding what you did.”
His eyes sharpen.
Pride.
That’s the lever.
“History deserves clarity,” I add.
“Yes,” he says softly. “It does.”
Behind him, Viktor’s hand signals once.
Done.
My pulse steadies.
Because now—
We have it.
Everything.
“Then tell it,” I say.
The words land.
Final.
Complete.
Orlov’s gaze flicks between us.
And something shifts.
Not fear.
Realization.
His eyes narrow slightly.
Too late.
Roman steps forward.
Cold.
Final.
“It’s over.”
Orlov’s smile falters.
Just for a second.
Then disappears.
“You think so?” he says quietly.
“I know so.”
Roman doesn’t raise his voice.
Doesn’t gesture.
Doesn’t hesitate.
He lifts his weapon.
One shot.
Clean.
Precise.
Orlov drops.
No speeches.
No drama.
No second chances.
The smiling knife finally goes silent.
It happens fast after that.
Too fast.
Like the entire city was waiting for this moment to collapse into order.
Viktor’s voice moves through the comms like a blade.
“Accounts seized.”
“Routes locked.”
“Allied factions flipping.”
“Network dismantled.”
One by one, Orlov’s pieces fall.
Money frozen.
Men captured.
Influence erased.
In minutes.
Not hours.
Not days.
Minutes.
Because Roman doesn’t dismantle things slowly.
He erases them.
My father is brought in before sunset.
Not dragged.
Not beaten.
But not untouched either.
He looks older than I remember.
Tired.
Worn.
Like the weight of everything finally caught up to him.
“Vera,” he says softly when he sees me.
I don’t move toward him.
Not yet.
“Explain,” Roman says.
No anger.
No threat.
Just expectation.
My father exhales slowly.
“I hid it,” he says.
“What,” I ask.
“Financial ties,” he admits. “Shared routes. Joint accounts. Things that made it look like I had access to Koval intel.”
“You did,” Roman says.
“Yes,” my father agrees. “But I didn’t use it.”
“Then why hide it,” I demand.
His eyes soften.
“Because I didn’t want you involved,” he says. “If anyone traced it, it would lead to you.”
The words land quietly.
Painfully.
“I was protecting you,” he adds.
“By making yourself look guilty?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Silence stretches.
Because that sounds like him.
Because it makes sense.
Because it still hurts.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
The words are simple.
Unpolished.
Real.
I step forward slowly.
Close enough to see the regret in his eyes.
Close enough to believe it.
“I believe you,” I say quietly.
His shoulders drop slightly.
Relief.
Too late.
But real.
The room settles.
The war ends not with an explosion—
But with silence.
Roman stands across from me.
Watching.
Not as a strategist.
Not as a man calculating outcomes.
Something else.
Something… human.
He steps forward.
Then—
Stops.
For a moment, I think he’s hesitating.
And then—
He drops to one knee.
The entire room stills.
My breath catches.
Because Roman Koval doesn’t kneel.
Not for anyone.
Not for anything.
Until now.
His gaze locks onto mine.
Steady.
Certain.
No calculation.
No strategy.
“Not strategy,” he says quietly.
The words feel heavier than anything he’s ever said.
“Choice.”
My heart stutters.
He holds my gaze.
“Say yes—again.”