Chapter 11 - Rodion
I woke at five, having slept perhaps two hours.
The penthouse was silent, the city still dark beyond the windows. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the woman sleeping three rooms away. My wife. The word still felt foreign, ill-fitted to the reality of our situation.
Keira Rysev. She probably hadn't slept either.
I gave up on rest and went to the kitchen, made coffee, and settled into my study to wait for the fallout. It came faster than expected.
Gleb called at six. "Word's out."
"How far?"
"Far enough. Cormac knows. He's been making calls all night—screaming at anyone who'll listen that you've stolen his property." A pause. "His word, not mine."
"And the Petrovics?"
"They know too. Branko is... not pleased."
"Define 'not pleased.'"
"He put three bullets in one of his own men this morning. Apparently, the man suggested they find a different bride." Gleb's voice was carefully neutral. "He's fixated on her. Has been since Cormac first proposed the match. This isn't just business for him anymore."
I filed that information away, adding it to the threat assessment I was building in my head. A rational enemy was predictable. An obsessed one was dangerous.
"What are they planning?"
"Nothing concrete yet. But they're talking. Cormac and old man Petrovic had a call last night that lasted two hours. Whatever they're cooking up, it's going to be ugly."
"Keep me informed."
"Always."
I hung up and stared at my phone, thinking about Branko Petrovic putting bullets in his own people because he couldn't have the woman he wanted. Thinking about Keira, three rooms away, unaware of how close she'd come to belonging to a monster like that.
She'd made the right choice. Even if she didn't fully believe it yet.
The call with my brothers came at seven. Demyan was calm, analytical, already three steps ahead in his planning. Kirill was cold, focused, asking questions that cut straight to the tactical heart of the situation.
"The Petrovics won't accept this," Kirill said. "You've taken something they consider theirs. They'll want to make an example."
"Let them try."
"This isn't bravado, Rodion. This is a strategy. What's your security posture?"
"Yegor has a full team on the building. No one gets in or out without my knowledge. I've got men watching the approaches, the garage, the service entrances. She's safe here."
"For now. But you can't keep her locked in a tower forever. Eventually, she'll need to move, to be seen. That's when they'll strike."
"I'm aware."
"Are you?" Kirill's voice sharpened slightly. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've painted a target on your back to protect a woman you barely know. A woman whose family has every reason to want us dead."
"She's not her family."
"You've said that."
Demyan cut in before I could respond. "What's done is done. The marriage is legal, public. We can't undo it, and arguing about whether it was wise is pointless." A pause. "The question now is how we protect our position. Kirill, what do you recommend?"
"Strength. Visibility. Make it clear that any move against Rodion or his wife is a move against all of us." Kirill's voice was flat, emotionless. "The Petrovics respect power. If we show weakness, they'll exploit it. If we show unity, they'll think twice."
"Agreed," Demyan said. "I'll reach out to our allies, make sure everyone knows where we stand. Kirill, can you come to New York?"
"I'll be there tonight."
"Good. Rodion—keep her close. Keep her safe. And keep us informed."
"I will."
The call ended, and I sat in the silence of my study, thinking about what Kirill had said. A target on my back. He wasn't wrong. I'd made myself vulnerable in a way I never had before, and for what? A woman I'd known for three weeks? A connection I couldn't explain or justify?
But when I thought about the alternative—Keira in Branko Petrovic's hands, Keira broken and used and discarded—the calculation became simple. Some risks were worth taking.
I heard movement in the hallway. Soft footsteps, hesitant. She was awake.
I found her in the kitchen, standing at the window with a cup of coffee cradled in her hands. She was wearing the same clothes from yesterday—the black slacks, the silk blouse—and her hair was loose around her shoulders. She looked tired. Beautiful. Completely out of place in my world.
"You're up early," I said.
She didn't turn around. "I could say the same about you."
"I had calls to make."
"About me?"
"About us. About the situation."
She nodded slowly, still staring out the window. "And? What's the verdict?"
"The Irish and the Petrovics know. They're not happy."
"I imagine not." She took a sip of her coffee. "What happens now?"
"Now we wait. See what move they make. Respond accordingly."
"That's not very specific."
"War never is."
She turned then, and I saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the strain she was trying to hide. She'd slept as poorly as I had. Maybe worse.
"Is that what this is?" she asked. "A war?"
"It's been a war for years. You're just a new front."
Something flickered in her expression. I couldn't tell if it was fear or anger or something else entirely.
"I didn't ask for this," she said quietly.
"I know."
"I spent twelve years building a life that had nothing to do with any of this. And now—" She shook her head. "Now I'm a 'front' in a war I don't understand, married to a man I barely know, waiting to see if the people who want to own me will try to take me by force."
"They won't succeed."
"You can't promise that."
"No. But I can promise I'll die before I let them have you."
The words came out harder than I intended. More honest. She stared at me, and I saw something shift in her expression—surprise, maybe, or the beginning of belief.
"Why?" she asked. "Why do you care so much? And don't tell me it's strategy. Don't tell me it's about denying the Petrovics their prize. I've spent enough time reading people to know when I'm being lied to."
I thought about deflecting. Making a joke. Hiding behind the charm that had always protected me. But she'd see through it. She always did.
"Because you're the first person who's ever looked at me and seen something worth protecting," I said. "Not the Rysev name. Not the money or the power or the danger. Just... me."
She was quiet for a long moment. The morning light was growing stronger, casting warm gold across her face, and I found myself cataloging the details—the curve of her jaw, the shadows under her eyes, the way her lips parted slightly when she was thinking.
"That's a lot of weight to put on someone you've known for three weeks," she said finally.
"I know."
"I might disappoint you."
"You might."
"I might not be worth protecting."
"That's not possible."
She looked away, and I saw the faint flush of color on her cheeks. She wasn't as immune to this as she pretended. The knowledge sent a spark of heat through my chest.
"Breakfast," she said, changing the subject with almost comic abruptness. "Is there food? I'm starving."
"There's food. Sit. I'll make something."
Her eyebrows rose. "You cook?"
"I survive. There's a difference."
"That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be."
She almost smiled. Almost. It was gone before it fully formed, but I saw it—a crack in the armor, a glimpse of the woman beneath the walls.
I made eggs. Nothing fancy—scrambled, with toast and more coffee—but she ate like she hadn't eaten in days, which she probably hadn't. I watched her across the kitchen island, trying not to be obvious about it, failing completely.
"Your eggs are getting cold," she said without looking up.
"I'm not hungry."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm an excellent liar. Just not with you."
She did look up then, meeting my eyes, and something passed between us. Awareness. Tension. The acknowledgment of a connection neither of us had asked for but couldn't seem to escape.
"This is strange," she said.
"Which part?"
"All of it. Sitting in your kitchen, eating eggs you made me, having a conversation like normal people." She set down her fork. "Twelve hours ago, I was your therapist. Now I'm your wife. The whiplash is... considerable."
"Do you regret it?"
"The marriage?"
"Any of it."
She considered the question longer than I expected. "No," she said finally. "I don't regret it. I don't understand it, I'm not sure I trust it, and I have no idea what happens next. But I don't regret it."
"That's more than I expected."
"I'm full of surprises."
"I'm beginning to realize that."
We finished breakfast in something approaching comfortable silence. She helped me clean up—insisted on it, actually, despite my protests—and I found myself watching her move through my kitchen like she belonged there. She didn't, not yet. But the image wasn't as jarring as it should have been.
"I need to contact my patients," she said when we were done. "Cancel my appointments. I can't just disappear without explanation."
"We can arrange that. Secure line, nothing traceable."
"And my apartment? My things?"
"I'll have someone pack everything and bring it here. Whatever you need."
She nodded slowly. "And how long? How long do I have to stay hidden?"
"Until we neutralize the threat."
She looked like she wanted to argue. Instead, she just sighed, a sound of exhaustion and resignation.
"I need to shower," she said. "And change. I've been wearing these clothes for two days."
"There are clothes in your room. Nina had some things sent over this morning."
"Nina?"
"She figured you'd need more than one outfit. She has strong opinions about preparedness."
Something softened in her expression. "That was... kind of her."
"She's a kind person. When she wants to be."
Keira turned to go, then stopped in the doorway. She didn't turn around.
"Rodion?"
"Yes?"
"The things you said. About seeing you. About protecting me." A pause. "I don't know what to do with that."
"You don't have to do anything with it."
"But I want to." She did turn then, and her eyes were conflicted—wary and curious and something else I couldn't name. "That's the problem. I want to understand. I want to believe you. And I don't trust that impulse."
"Why not?"
"Because people who care about me get hurt. People who protect me end up regretting it. That's been the pattern my whole life." She held my gaze. "I don't want to be the thing that destroys you."
The words hit me harder than they should have. She wasn't just scared of the Petrovics; she wasn't just running from her family's legacy. She was scared of herself. Of what caring about her might cost.
I wanted to cross the room. Wanted to take her face in my hands and tell her that I'd spent my whole life destroying myself, that she couldn't possibly make it worse, that whatever damage she thought she might do had already been done long before she walked into my life.
Instead, I stayed where I was. Gave her the space she needed.
"I'm not easy to destroy," I said. "I've had a lot of practice surviving."
"So have I. That's not the same as living."
"No. It's not."
We looked at each other across the kitchen, and I felt it again—that pull, that connection, the thing that had drawn me to her office three weeks ago and hadn't let go since. She felt it too. I could see it in the way her breath caught, the way her hands tightened at her sides.
Then she turned and walked away, and I was alone with the morning light and the lingering scent of her shampoo and the growing certainty that I was in far deeper than I'd ever intended to be.
My phone buzzed. Yegor.
"Boss. We have a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"The Petrovics just made a move. Vesuvio."
My restaurant. One of my favorites—a place I'd built from nothing, where I'd closed deals and celebrated victories and taken women I couldn't remember. A place that mattered.
"How bad?"
"Bad. They hit it an hour ago. Torched the whole building."
"Casualties?"
"Two of our men. Dead. Three more injured. The night manager is in critical condition."
"And the message?"
"'Give us the girl.'" Yegor paused. "Painted on the sidewalk out front. In case anyone missed the point."
No. They weren't being subtle. This was a declaration—a statement that they weren't going to let this go, that they were willing to escalate, that they'd burn everything I had to get what they wanted.
What they couldn't have.
"Double security on the building," I said. "And get Kirill on a plane now. We need to talk."
"Already done."
I hung up and stood in my kitchen, thinking about two dead men and a message painted on concrete. Thinking about Keira, three rooms away, showering and changing, and completely unaware that people were dying because of her.
This was war now. Real war. And it was only going to get worse.
I went to find my wife. She needed to know what we were up against.