Chapter 7 - Rodion
Keira O'Shea.
The name kept repeating in my head as I pushed her through the back stairwell, gun still in hand, blood still warm on my knuckles.
Keira O'Shea. Daughter of Ronan O'Shea, the man my brother had put a bullet in six months ago.
The woman the Petrovics wanted for a marriage alliance. The target Gleb had warned me about.
My therapist.
The woman I'd been following for a week. The woman I couldn't stop thinking about. The woman whose fabricated identity had set off every alarm in my head, and I'd ignored them all because I wanted her to tell me the truth herself.
Well. Now I knew the truth.
We burst through the service entrance into an alley behind the building. Kolya was already there, engine running, because Kolya was always where he needed to be. I opened the back door and shoved her inside, then followed, slamming it shut behind us.
"Go," I said. "Now."
Kolya didn't ask questions. The car shot forward, tires squealing against pavement, and within seconds, we were lost in Manhattan traffic.
Keira was pressed against the opposite door, as far from me as she could get in the confined space. Her face was white. Her hands were shaking. She looked at me like I was a stranger—which, I supposed, I was.
"Who are you?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Not now."
"You just killed four people."
"They were going to take you. Would you have preferred I let them?"
She didn't answer. Just stared at me with those whiskey-colored eyes, and I saw the fear in them. Not just fear of the men who'd come for her. Fear of me.
That shouldn't have bothered me. It did.
I pulled out my phone and made calls. Yegor first—I needed the penthouse secured, every entrance covered, a full team on standby.
Then, Gleb in Chicago, because he needed to know what had happened, even if I wasn't ready to tell my brothers.
Then my lawyer, because four bodies in a therapist's office were going to require some cleanup.
Through it all, Keira sat in silence, watching me with an expression I couldn't read. The shock was fading, replaced by something harder. Calculation, maybe. She was smart—I'd known that from the first session. She was already thinking, processing, trying to figure out her next move.
Good. I needed her thinking. What I was about to propose would require her to think very carefully.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked when I finally put down the phone.
"Somewhere safe."
"I'm not your prisoner."
"No." I met her eyes. "You're not. But if I let you out of this car, you'll be dead within the hour. Those men weren't alone. There will be more. And they won't make the mistake of underestimating the situation again."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I know how these things work."
"How? Who are you?" She was leaning forward now, fear giving way to anger. "You sat in my office for three weeks. You told me about your mother, your family, your insomnia. You made me think—" She stopped, shook her head. "Was any of it real?"
"All of it was real."
"Your name isn't Zelenov."
"No."
"Then what is it?"
I considered lying. Considered giving her another false name, keeping that card hidden a little longer. But she'd find out eventually, and when she did, the deception would only make things worse.
"Rodion Rysev."
I watched the name land. Watched her search her memory, trying to place it. She'd been out of her family's world for over a decade—long enough that the name might not mean anything to her. Long enough that she might not know what my brother had done.
"Rysev," she repeated slowly. "Russian."
"Bratva. My family runs operations in Chicago, New York, Boston." I paused. "Your father and I were not on the same side."
Something flickered in her eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
"My father is dead."
"I know."
"Do you know how he died?"
I held her gaze. "Yes."
The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.
She was putting it together—I could see the pieces clicking into place behind her eyes.
Her father, killed in a warehouse six months ago.
A Russian family with operations in Chicago.
The war between the Irish and the Bratva that had been simmering for years.
"Your family," she said quietly. "Your family killed him."
"My brother. Demyan."
I expected rage. Tears. Some kind of explosion. Instead, she just looked at me with an expression I couldn't interpret.
"Good."
The word hung in the air between us. I hadn't expected that.
"Good?"
"He was a monster." Her voice was flat, emotionless.
"He beat my mother until she died from it.
He tried to drag me into his world, and when I refused, he made my life hell until I had no choice but to run.
I've spent twelve years hiding from his shadow.
" She laughed, a broken sound. "So yes. Good.
I'm glad he's dead. I just wish I could have been the one to do it. "
I didn't know what to say. This wasn't the grieving daughter I'd expected. This was something else entirely—a woman who'd been running from her own blood, who'd built a new life specifically to escape the violence I'd grown up swimming in.
We weren't so different after all.
"The men who came for you," I said. "They work for your uncle. Cormac."
"I know who they work for."
"They mentioned the Petrovics. A marriage."
Her jaw tightened. "I heard."
"Do you understand what that means?"
"I understand that my uncle wants to sell me like livestock to seal some kind of alliance." The bitterness in her voice could have cut glass. "That's how it works in that world. Women aren't people. We're assets. Bargaining chips." She looked at me. "Is it different in your world?"
"Sometimes. Not always."
"Honest, at least."
The car slowed as we approached my building—a high-rise in Tribeca with security that would make a bank jealous. Kolya pulled into the underground garage, and I waited until the doors closed behind us before I spoke again.
"The Petrovics are dangerous. More dangerous than your uncle, more dangerous than your father ever was. If they get their hands on you—"
"I know what they do." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I've treated their victims. Women who escaped their trafficking operations. I know exactly what kind of people they are."
That hit me harder than I expected. She'd been helping survivors of Petrovic brutality, and she hadn't even known her own father was allied with them. The irony was almost too cruel to contemplate.
"Then you know running isn't an option. They have resources. Reach. They found you once, they'll find you again."
"So what do you suggest? I just hide in your tower forever?"
"No."
Kolya opened her door, but she didn't move. Just looked at me, waiting.
"I have a proposal," I said.
"What kind of proposal?"
I should have softened it. Should have built up to it gradually, given her time to process. But we didn't have time, and I'd never been good at gentle.
"Marry me."
She stared at me like I'd grown a second head.
"Excuse me?"
"If you're my wife, you're under my protection. Officially. Publicly. Anyone who touches you declares war on my entire family." I held her gaze. "The Irish can't claim you. The Petrovics can't have you. You'd be untouchable."
"You're insane."
"Probably."
"I'm not marrying you. I don't even know you."
"You know me better than most people do. You've spent three weeks inside my head."
"As your therapist. Not as your—" She shook her head. "This is insane. You're insane."
"Maybe. But I'm also your best option."
She was out of the car before I could stop her, stumbling on the concrete floor of the garage. I followed, keeping my distance, watching her process what I'd said.
"There has to be another way," she said. "Witness protection. FBI. Something."
"Your family has people inside law enforcement. So do the Petrovics. You'd be dead before the paperwork was filed."
"Then I'll run. I've done it before—"
"For twelve years, you managed to stay hidden. And they still found you." I stepped closer, and she didn't back away. "How long do you think you'd last now that they know you're alive? Now that they know what you look like, where you work, how you live?"
"I could change everything. Start over—"
"You'd spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. Never staying anywhere long enough to build something real. Never trusting anyone. Never safe." I held her eyes. "Is that what you want?"
"What I want is to not be someone's property."
"You wouldn't be my property. You'd be my wife."
"Is there a difference?"
The question landed like a slap. She was right to ask it—in my world, the distinction wasn't always clear. Women married into Bratva families and disappeared into gilded cages, their identities subsumed by their husbands' names.
But that wasn't what I was offering. At least, I didn't think it was.
"Yes," I said. "There's a difference."
"What difference?"
"You'd have freedom. Resources. Protection. You could continue your work, live your life, be whoever you want to be." I paused. "The marriage would be a legal shield. Nothing more."
"Nothing more."
"Unless you wanted it to be."
I hadn't meant to say the words—they'd slipped out before I could stop them. But they were true, and we both knew it.
She was quiet for a long moment, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes searching my face for something I wasn't sure I could give her.
"Why?" she asked finally. "Why would you do this? What do you get out of it?"
It was a fair question. A smart question. And I didn't have a good answer—at least, not one that made logical sense.
"I've been watching you for a week," I admitted. "Following you. Learning your routines. Trying to figure out who you really were."
Her eyes widened. "You've been stalking me?"
"I prefer surveillance."
"That's not better."
"No. It's not." I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself, with this situation, with everything.
"I knew something was wrong. Your identity was too clean, too perfect.
I should have dug deeper. Should have figured out who you were before—" I stopped.
"But I didn't. Because I wanted you to tell me yourself. I wanted to earn your trust."
"By stalking me."
"By protecting you. Even before I knew you needed it."
She laughed—a harsh, disbelieving sound. "This is insane. You're insane. I'm standing in a parking garage with a man who just killed four people, and he's proposing marriage like it's a reasonable solution to my problems."
"It is a reasonable solution."
"It's the most unreasonable thing I've ever heard."
"Then give me a better option."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
"That's what I thought." I gestured toward the elevator. "Come upstairs. Get some rest. You don't have to decide anything tonight."
"But I do have to decide."
"Yes. Eventually."
She looked at me for a long moment, and I saw the calculation in her eyes. The fear, yes, but also the intelligence. The pragmatism. She was weighing her options, measuring the risks, trying to figure out which path led to survival.
I knew what conclusion she'd reach. There was only one answer that made sense.
Finally, she nodded.
"One night," she said. "I'll stay one night. And then we talk about this like rational adults."
"Fair enough."
We walked to the elevator in silence. I could feel her beside me, the heat of her body, the tension radiating off her in waves. She was terrified and furious and probably already planning a dozen ways to escape.
She wouldn't find any. My security was too good, and besides—she was smart enough to know I was right. Running wasn't an option. The Petrovics would find her. And what they'd do to her would make death look like mercy.
Marriage was the answer. Marriage to me.
Now I just had to convince her of that.
The elevator doors opened, and we stepped inside. She stood as far from me as possible, her back against the wall, her eyes fixed on the numbers climbing overhead.
"Rodion," she said quietly.
"Yes?"
"If I do this—if I agree to this—I need you to understand something."
"What?"
She turned to face me, and her eyes were hard.
"I'm not a damsel. I'm not going to fall at your feet with gratitude. And if you ever—ever—treat me like property, like a thing to be owned, I will find a way to destroy you. I don't care how powerful your family is. I will burn everything you love to the ground."
I believed her. Completely.
"Understood."
"Good."
The elevator doors opened onto my penthouse. She stepped out first, her spine straight, her chin high.
She looked like a queen walking into enemy territory.
I was starting to think I might be the one in danger.