Chapter 9 #2
He was watching the bathroom door I’d disappeared through.
Waiting.
When his eyes landed on me again, something flickered across his face.
Concern.
Real concern.
I didn’t sit back down.
“Ruslan,” I said flatly, “I have to go.”
His brows drew together slightly.
“See you next month.”
I turned before he could respond.
Before he could ask questions about my condition.
Before he could read too much into my sudden disappearance.
Because the last thing I needed was him analyzing my body like it was another battlefield.
Yannis was waiting near the exit.
Standing beside a corrections officer who kept a gentle hand resting on his shoulder.
His eyes were red-rimmed.
But he wasn’t crying anymore.
He looked stronger than when he first walked out of that room.
Almost composed.
“He’s with me,” I told the officer.
The man glanced down at Yannis.
“Is this your mom?”
Yannis nodded.
Small. Certain.
The officer stepped back immediately. “Take care, kid.”
Yannis walked toward me.
I placed my hand gently on his back and guided him outside.
The parking lot sunlight hit us like a physical force.
I unlocked the black SUV Ruslan had insisted on providing.
Armored. Tinted..
A constant reminder that even when he was locked behind bars, his influence followed us.
I opened the passenger door for Yannis.
He climbed in silently and buckled his seatbelt.
I walked around to the driver’s side and slid into the seat.
My hands still trembled slightly on the steering wheel.
I clenched my jaw.
What the hell was wrong with me?
The nausea.
The dizziness.
The sudden weakness.
Exhaustion had been creeping in for weeks — but this felt different.
More intrusive.
I glanced at Yannis.
He stared out the window — expression thoughtful.
Serious.
Too grown for his age.
“So you mean,” he signed suddenly, breaking the silence, “with all the power my dad has... he still couldn’t stop himself from being arrested?”
I exhaled slowly.
“Everyone’s power is limited, sweetheart.”
“Even his.”
Yannis tilted his head slightly.
“Someone betrayed him.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a conclusion he had already reached.
I glanced at him.
Smart. Observant. Dangerous traits in a child raised around power.
I didn’t answer him.
The truth wasn’t something I could casually admit. Not like this.
The reality sat heavy in my throat.
I was the reason his father was in prison.
I was the one who recorded the video.
The one who captured Ruslan in the dark — blade in hand — slitting the throats of two men without hesitation.
The footage had been brutal.
I had sent it straight to Roman.
Roman had routed it through secure channels — bypassing corrupt intermediaries — delivering it directly into the hands of federal officials in D.C.
Less than two hours later...
The estate had been surrounded.
Black federal SUVs had rolled down the driveway.
Agents had poured out in tactical formation.
Ruslan’s men — outnumbered and outgunned — had assessed the situation quickly.
They didn’t fire. They didn’t resist.
They stood down.
And when they cuffed him —
He had looked at me across the chaos.
Not with rage. Not with shock.
Not even with betrayal.
His eyes had held something heavier.
Acceptance.
Like he had always known this moment was coming.
I had smirked back at him then.
Victory tasted sharp and sweet.
After years of control.
After prison.
After manipulation.
I had finally turned the tables.
He deserved it.
He deserved consequences.
He deserved to rot behind reinforced walls.
That belief had carried me through the aftermath.
Through paperwork.
Through legal arguments.
Through the confirmation that he would never walk free again.
But now —
Sitting in a moving car.
Watching his son process power and inheritance like it was normal dinner conversation —
I wasn’t so sure anymore.
Yannis lifted his hands again.
“I’m beginning to study the kind of job my dad does...”
My chest tightened immediately.
“The mafia,” he continued.
The word didn’t come with fear.
It came with curiosity.
He looked at me. “If he built it... I’ll be his heir, no?”
I pulled the SUV to the shoulder abruptly.
The engine continued idling.
Cars rushed past us on the highway.
Life moving forward.
Ignoring the weight pressing inside this vehicle.
I turned in my seat so I could face him fully.
“Yes,” I said carefully. “You can inherit legitimate assets.”
His brow furrowed slightly — listening. “Properties.”
I counted them off. “Businesses that are registered legally. Investments. Real estate holdings.”
His eyes followed my lips as I spoke.
“But no.” My voice hardened. “You will not inherit the mafia.”
His expression shifted.
“Why?”
I leaned slightly closer — making sure he understood how serious I was.
“You see how your father ended?”
My gaze held his. “Locked away for life.”
A pause. “Many men in that life don’t even get trials.”
“They die suddenly — drive-by shootings. Ambushes. Poison in their coffee. Betrayal from people they trusted.”
His eyes widened slightly.
“Others spend decades in places like prison.”
I gestured toward the direction of the facility we had just left.
“Chained. Alone. Watching their children grow up through glass.”
My voice softened — but remained firm.
“They lose everything.”
“Freedom. Family. Future.”
“They become ghosts before they even die.”
Yannis swallowed.
He was absorbing every word.
“You deserve better,” I continued. “You deserve a normal life.”
“Peace. School dances. College. A job that doesn’t require carrying a gun or scanning rooms for threats.”
His gaze stayed fixed on mine.
“You deserve to walk outside without looking over your shoulder. To fall in love without calculating risk.”
“To build something that doesn’t explode under pressure.”
My hand reached across the console.
I squeezed his hand gently.
“You deserve to be safe.”
A beat. “You deserve to be happy.”
My throat tightened slightly.
“And I’m going to make sure you get that.”
He stared at me.
Gray eyes.
So similar to Ruslan’s.
He searched my face carefully — like he was measuring whether I believed what I was promising.
Whether I had the power to protect him from destiny.
Finally —
He nodded.
Small. Uncertain.
“Okay,” he signed.
The acceptance wasn’t enthusiastic. It was thoughtful.
I squeezed his hand again.
“Okay.”
I pulled the car back onto the highway.
The mansion came into view minutes later.
High gates. Security cameras. Armed guards stationed at intervals.
The system scanned our vehicle automatically.
The gates opened with mechanical precision.
The number of men protecting the property hadn’t decreased since Ruslan’s arrest.
If anything —
It had increased.
Petros had taken control of operations with quiet efficiency.
Keeping the empire alive while its king sat behind bars.
Shipments continued. Meetings continued.
Money continued flowing.
Power didn’t disappear. It adapted.
I saw patrol vehicles moving along the perimeter.
Men positioned at rooftops.
Armed guards stationed at entrances.
I turned a blind eye.
As long as none of it touched Yannis —
I didn’t interfere.
After betraying Ruslan. After sending him to prison for life. I had expected retaliation. Immediate eviction.
A silent sniper in the dark.
Or at least a lawyer sending formal notices stripping me of access.
Instead —
On the day of sentencing —
When the judge had declared life without parole and slammed the gavel down —
Ruslan had turned his head slowly.
He had looked straight at me across the courtroom.
His wrists shackled.
His body restrained.
And he had mouthed three words.
Stay with Yannis.
No anger. No threats. No promises of revenge.
Just that.
Later — through his lawyer — the arrangement became official.
I was allowed to remain in the mansion.
Full access. Full protection.
Financial control over designated accounts.
Travel anywhere in the world.
Luxury. Security.
Freedom — technically.
The only condition:
Yannis stayed with me.
Everything was written legally.
Signed. Filed. No hidden clauses.
No obvious traps.
I still didn’t trust it.
There was always a deeper plan with Ruslan. Always leverage hidden behind generosity.
But I hadn’t left.
Not yet.
We parked.
Yannis unbuckled quietly and turned to face me.
His expression was softer now.
Grateful.
“Thank you,” he signed. “For staying.”
His words hit harder than anything today.
I reached over and gently ruffled his hair.
Not rough like before.
Gentler. “I promised to,” I replied.
He smiled faintly — a small light breaking through the seriousness that had settled over him.
He opened the door and stepped out.
Backpack slung over one shoulder.
He walked toward the house.
Confident.
But still a child navigating an adult world.
I watched him disappear inside.
Then I sat alone in the SUV for a moment.
The nausea hit again.
Sudden. Violent.
A hot, suffocating wave surged from my stomach straight up to the back of my throat.
My body reacted before my mind could register it.
My hand flew over my mouth.
I bolted inside the mansion.
My boots slapped against the marble floors as I ran through the foyer, past the staircase, down the east hallway.
Everything blurred.
My vision tunneled.
I pushed open the nearest guest bathroom door and barely made it to the toilet before my body betrayed me completely.
I dropped to my knees on the cold tile.
My hands gripped the porcelain rim so tightly my knuckles turned white.
The first heave ripped through me.
Nothing solid came up — only sharp acid and bitter liquid burning my throat.
My stomach cramped violently again.
Another wave.
I gagged.
Dry retching.
My ribs ached from the force.
Tears gathered in my eyes — from physical strain.
A thin string of saliva hung from my lower lip.
I spat into the bowl.
Flushed.
The sound of water rushing felt loud in the small space.
My body convulsed again.
Smaller this time.
Just bile.