Chapter 9 - Rodion
I didn't sleep.
I stood at the window until the sky began to lighten, watching the city shift from darkness to gray dawn, thinking about the woman in my guest room and the mess I'd made of everything.
Keira O'Shea. The name still felt wrong in my mind, ill-fitted to the woman I'd come to know.
She was Dr. Walsh to me—composed, professional, the only person who'd ever looked at me and seen something worth examining.
Now she was a target, a pawn in a game she'd spent her whole life trying to escape, and I'd dragged her right back into it.
No. That wasn't fair. Cormac had dragged her back. The Petrovics had dragged her back. I was just the man who'd happened to be in the room when it all fell apart.
The man who'd proposed marriage like it was a reasonable solution.
I poured myself another vodka and drank it without tasting it. In a few hours, I'd need to make calls. Explain to my brothers what had happened. Convince them that marrying the daughter of the man Demyan had killed was somehow a good idea.
That conversation was going to be interesting.
My phone buzzed at 6 AM. Yegor, reporting in.
The bodies at her office had been handled—moved, cleaned, disappeared.
The official story would be a gas leak, an evacuation, a building closed for repairs.
No witnesses. No questions. The NYPD officers on our payroll had already filed the appropriate paperwork.
"What about the receptionist?" I asked.
"She left before it happened. Didn't see anything."
Small mercy. I didn't want more blood on my hands than necessary.
"And the Irish?"
"They know she's gone. Cormac's been making calls all night. He's not happy."
"How unhappy?"
"Unhappy enough to reach out to the Petrovics directly. They're pressuring him to deliver. Apparently, Branko is getting impatient."
I thought about Keira's face when she'd heard that name. The fear she'd tried to hide. The way her whole body had gone rigid at the mention of a forced marriage.
"He's not getting her."
"I figured you'd say that." Yegor paused. "What's the play, boss?"
"I'll let you know."
I hung up and stared at my phone for a long moment. The next call was the one I'd been dreading.
Demyan answered on the second ring. "It's early."
"We have a situation."
A pause. I heard him moving, a door closing. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. "Tell me."
I told him. All of it—the therapy sessions, the stalking, the background check that had raised red flags I'd ignored. The Irish showing up at her office. The four men I'd killed. The proposal I'd made in the parking garage.
When I finished, the silence stretched so long I thought the call had dropped.
"Let me make sure I understand," Demyan said finally. "You've been seeing a therapist for your insomnia. That therapist turns out to be Ronan O'Shea's daughter—the woman the Petrovics want for a marriage alliance. And your solution to this problem is to marry her yourself."
"That's the summary, yes."
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Possibly."
"Rodion." His voice carried that particular weight it got when he was trying very hard to be patient. "She's O'Shea's daughter. The man I killed six months ago. His blood is on our hands, and you want to bring his child into our family?"
"She's not her father. She hated him. She's been running from that world since she was twenty-one."
"So she says."
"So I believe."
Another pause. "You believe. Based on what? Three weeks of therapy sessions and a week of surveillance?"
"Based on looking her in the eyes and seeing the truth."
Demyan exhaled slowly. I could picture him in his study, pinching the bridge of his nose the way he did when one of his brothers was giving him a headache. "Get Kirill on the line."
I conferenced with our youngest brother. Kirill answered immediately, his voice flat and alert despite the early hour. He never seemed to sleep, and when he did, he woke like a man who expected violence.
"I'm here."
"Tell him," Demyan said.
I repeated the story. Kirill listened without interrupting, without asking questions, without giving any indication of what he was thinking. That was his way—absorb everything, process it internally, deliver his verdict like a judge passing sentence.
When I finished, the silence was even longer than it had been with Demyan.
"The timeline is problematic," Kirill said finally. "She appears in your life three weeks ago. You become fixated on her. And now, conveniently, she turns out to be the exact person the Petrovics are hunting." A pause. "You don't find that suspicious?"
"She didn't know who I was. I used a false name."
"So she claims."
"I believe her."
"You keep saying that. Belief is not evidence."
"I was there, Kirill. I saw her face when those men came through the door. She was terrified. Whatever game you think she's playing, that fear was real."
"Fear can be performed. You of all people should know that."
The words landed like a slap. He wasn't wrong—I'd spent my whole life performing, hiding behind charm and smiles. But Keira wasn't like me. Her masks were different. And I'd seen behind them.
"She's not performing," I said. "Not about this."
"How can you be certain?"
"Because I've spent three weeks watching her strip away my defenses, piece by piece, until I had nothing left to hide behind. I know what it looks like when someone's walls come down. And I saw hers fall the moment those men said her real name."
Kirill was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was marginally less cold. "You care about her."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"That makes you vulnerable. Vulnerability is dangerous."
"I'm aware."
"And yet you're proceeding anyway."
"Yes."
Another long pause. I could almost hear him calculating, weighing variables, running scenarios in that frozen computer he called a mind.
"The marriage makes strategic sense," he said finally. "If she's our family, she's off the board. The Petrovics lose their prize. The Irish lose their leverage. Cormac's alliance falls apart before it begins."
"That's what I'm counting on."
"But it only works if she's genuine. If she's been planted—if she's feeding information to our enemies—we've just invited a viper into our house."
"She's not a viper."
"You can't know that."
"Then I'll take the risk."
Demyan cut in. "This isn't just your risk to take. If this goes wrong, it affects all of us. Our families. Our operations. Everything we've built."
"I know." I kept my voice steady. "That's why I'm telling you. Not asking permission—I'm not a child, and this is my decision. But I'm telling you because we're family, and family should know."
The silence that followed was different. Heavier. I could feel them both weighing my words, deciding whether to push back or accept.
Demyan spoke first. "You're certain about this?"
"Yes."
"And if you're wrong? If she betrays us?"
"Then I'll handle it myself."
More silence. Then, finally, a long exhale from Demyan.
"Alright," he said. "Do what you need to do. But keep us informed. And Rodion—"
"Yes?"
"Be careful. Whatever you feel for this woman, don't let it blind you. You're still a Rysev. You still have enemies. And right now, you're holding the one thing they want most."
"I know."
"Good. Kirill?"
"I have nothing more to add." Kirill's voice was back to its usual flatness. "Except that I'll be watching. If she makes one wrong move—if she does anything to suggest she's not what she claims—I'll know."
"Understood."
"And Rodion?" A pause, and something almost human flickered in his tone. "Congratulations on your engagement."
He hung up before I could respond. Demyan followed a moment later, leaving me alone with my phone and the pale morning light filtering through the windows.
That had gone better than expected.
I checked the time. Nearly seven. Keira might be awake by now, or she might be trying to sleep after a night as restless as mine. Either way, I needed to see her. Needed to know where we stood.
I walked to the guest room and knocked softly. No answer. I knocked again.
"Come in."
She was sitting in the armchair by the window, still wearing the robe from last night, her legs curled beneath her. She looked tired—dark circles under her eyes, tension in the set of her shoulders—but composed. Watchful. The therapist's mask firmly in place.
"Did you sleep?" I asked.
"No."
"Neither did I."
"I know. I heard you moving around." She nodded toward the chair across from her. "Sit. We need to talk."
I sat. The dynamic felt strange—reversed somehow, like we were back in her office, except she was the one in control now. Maybe she'd always been the one in control. Maybe I'd just been too distracted to notice.
"I have questions," she said.
"I expected you would."
"Timeline. If I agree to this—how quickly does it need to happen?"
"The sooner the better. Every day we wait is a day Cormac has to regroup. To find you. To try again."
"How soon?"
"Forty-eight hours. Maybe less."
Something flickered in her expression. Surprise, maybe. Or fear. She covered it quickly.
"That's fast."
"It needs to be. Once we're married, the news spreads quickly. Cormac will know within hours that you're off the table. The Petrovics will know shortly after. The faster we move, the less time they have to interfere."
She nodded slowly, processing. "And the ceremony itself? What does that look like?"
"Simple. Private. A judge I trust, a few witnesses from my security team. Nothing public, nothing elaborate."
"No family?"
"Not for the ceremony. You'll meet them eventually—Demyan, Kirill, Nina. But that can wait until things are more settled."
"Do they know? About me?"
"I told Demyan and Kirill this morning."
"And?"
"They have concerns. Questions about whether you can be trusted."
"Can you blame them?"
"No. But I told them the decision was mine. And that I was certain."
She studied me for a long moment, her whiskey-colored eyes searching my face. "Are you? Certain?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
It was the same question she'd asked last night. I still didn't have a good answer—at least, not one that made sense in any logical way.
"Because I've spent my whole life surrounded by people who lie," I said.
"People who perform, who scheme, who calculate every word and gesture.
I'm one of them. I know what deception looks like from the inside.
" I held her gaze. "And when I look at you, I don't see that.
I see someone who's tired of running. Someone who built a whole life just to escape the one she was born into.
Someone who—" I stopped, shook my head. "Someone real. "
She didn't respond. Just watched me with that unreadable expression, the one that had driven me half-mad during our sessions.
"What happens after?" she asked. "Once we're married. What does day-to-day life look like?"
"You'd live here. With me. Separate bedrooms if you want—there's plenty of space."
"And my practice?"
"We can discuss that. Going back to your office isn't safe—they know where it is now. But if you want to continue working, we can find a way. Set up something here, or at a location with better security."
"You'd let me keep working?"
"I told you last night—this isn't about controlling you. It's about protecting you."
"Those two things aren't always different."
"They are to me."
She uncurled her legs, leaning forward slightly. The movement made the robe shift, revealing a glimpse of collarbone, and I forced myself to keep my eyes on her face.
"What about us?" she asked.
"What about us?"
"You know what I'm asking. This marriage—is it purely strategic? Or are you expecting..."
"I'm not expecting anything."
"But you want something."
I could have lied. Could have told her this was purely business, a strategic alliance with no personal entanglement. That's what she wanted to hear, probably. The safe answer. The easy one.
I'd spent my whole life giving people safe, easy answers. I was tired of it.
"Yes," I said. "I want something."
"What?"
"You." The word came out rougher than I intended. "I want you. Not as a transaction. Not as a strategic asset. I want to know who you really are—not Dr. Walsh, not Keira O'Shea, but the woman underneath all the masks. I want to be the person you stop running from."
She drew in a sharp breath. I saw the impact of my words land—the way her eyes widened slightly, the way her fingers tightened on the arm of the chair.
"That's a lot to ask," she said quietly.
"I know."
"I don't know if I can give you that."
"I know that too."
"Then why say it?"
"Because you asked. And because I'm done pretending." I leaned back in my chair, giving her space. "I'm not asking you to love me. I'm not asking for anything except the chance to prove that I'm worth trusting. Whatever happens beyond that—if anything happens—is your choice. Your pace. Your terms."
She was quiet for a long moment. The morning light was growing stronger now, gilding her hair, illuminating the exhaustion on her face, and the careful calculation behind her eyes.
"Forty-eight hours," she said finally.
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a yes to the marriage. To the protection. To trying this insane arrangement and seeing if we both survive it."
"And the rest?"
"The rest..." She shook her head. "I don't know. I can't promise you anything beyond the practicalities. I can't promise feelings I'm not sure I have or trust I haven't earned yet."
"That's fair."
"Is it enough?"
I thought about all the women I'd been with—the ones who'd thrown themselves at me, who'd wanted the money or the power or the thrill of danger. None of them had ever looked at me the way Keira was looking at me now. Like I was a puzzle. A risk. A choice she was making with her eyes wide open.
"Yes," I said. "It's enough."
She nodded once, a sharp gesture that sealed the deal more firmly than any contract.
"Then let's do this." She stood, pulling the robe tighter around herself. "Forty-eight hours. Whatever arrangements you need to make, make them. I'll be ready."
"Keira."
She stopped at the door, looking back at me.
"Thank you," I said. "For trusting me."
Something shifted in her expression. Not warmth, exactly. But not coldness either. Something in between.
"Don't make me regret it."
She disappeared into the hallway, and I sat in the empty room, watching the morning light spread across the floor.
Forty-eight hours. Then Keira O'Shea would become Keira Rysev.
I pulled out my phone and started making calls.