Chapter 23 Vera
VERA
Misha's heartbeat drums steady beneath my cheek, a rhythm I want to memorize. His arm curves around my shoulders, his fingers swipe cautiously up and down along my spine. The room smells of us—sweat and skin and the faint cologne he wears. I've never felt safer or more terrified in my life.
Two hundred thousand rubles. The number circles through my mind relentlessly.
He said it means nothing to him, but it means everything to me.
How do I repay a debt that large? What does he expect in return, no matter what he claims?
My father's voice echoes in my head. Nothing comes free, Vera.
Rich men always want their pound of flesh.
But when I tilt my head to look at Misha's face, relaxed in the low light filtering through his bedroom curtains, I see only gentleness. The sharp angles of his features have softened, his ice-blue eyes warm as they meet mine.
"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs, his voice rough with exhaustion.
The rumble vibrates through my chest and I sigh softly.
I'm not sure what to say to him, because in this moment, I should be happy.
I should be feeling like the man I love more than anything in this world is in my arms and I'm safe. But I feel conflicted and concerned.
"You," I answer honestly. "This…" I gesture by shrugging one shoulder. "Everything that's happened."
His fingers still on my back. "Are you having regrets?" he asks calmly, but the emotion I should detect isn't in his tone.
"No," I say immediately, because I mean it. "No regrets." Not about Misha, anyway. My regrets all circle around Sonya, though even that makes me pause. Without Sonya, there would never have been a chance for me to meet Misha. No need for him to enter my life and sweep me off my feet.
I love him. It's not a choice I had a say in.
My heart decided it and I'm here, along for the ride now.
I love this man who appeared in my life like a storm, who offers impossible gifts and asks for nothing in return.
I love his careful hands and his quiet strength and the way he looks at me like I'm precious.
The thought should fill me with joy, but tears well up without warning, spilling hot streams down my cheeks. I'm able to hide it for a second by holding my breath, but when the moisture puddles on his chest, I know he knows.
"Vera." Misha sits up immediately, pulling me with him. "What's wrong?" His hands are on my arms, like he wants to shake me as I try to wipe the tears away, embarrassed by the sudden outburst.
"I'm sorry. I don't know why—"
"Tell me," he says gently. Then his hands are on my face, thumbs brushing along my cheek bones to dry my tears. I lean into his chest, letting him anchor me.
"I was so scared today," I whisper. "When the shooting started, when you locked me in that room. I thought… I thought I might never see you again. Or Elvin. Or Batya." The words tumble out in a rush. "I kept thinking about all the things I'd never said, never done. I was terrified."
Misha pulls me tightly against his chest, which is hammering. It's strange that my tears have this effect on him. He's so steady and certain of himself, but my pain moves him. "You're safe now," he soothes, but I don't know if those words even mean anything anymore. I've seen too much.
"But for how long?" I pull back to meet his eyes. "This isn't over, is it? Those people at the track—they're not just going to disappear."
"No," he admits. "But I'll handle it."
"How?" I snip in fear. I'm not angry with him, but he makes these sure promises that I'm supposed to believe and then things get worse.
"Misha, you had a gun today. I watched you shoot two men.
" My jaw trembles as I speak, but I don't pull away from him.
Batya wants me to be scared, but I'm determined not to fear Misha unless he proves I should be afraid of him.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Yes, I did."
"Who are you?" I ask timidly. I don't even know if I want to know the truth at this point, but not knowing is making it impossible for my heart to rest. "Really?"
For a long moment, he doesn't answer. I watch emotions flicker across his face—calculation, resignation, anger…
They all pass through his eyes, across his forehead before he sighs and presses a kiss to my temple.
It's the same sort of kiss Batya offers when he tells me we'll be late on rent again, or that the hot water has been turned off.
"You want the truth?" he asks finally.
"Yes," I mumble, still quaking inside.
"I was sent to the track to investigate the betting irregularities. To find out who was behind them and stop it."
My stomach drops. "Stop it how?"
"However necessary."
"You were sent to kill someone." It's not a question. It's my cold revelation. My gut is churning, my head throbbing. Maybe it's morning sickness or the emotion of the day, or maybe it's my nervous system telling me to run away now before he says any more.
"I was sent to end the operation. By any means."
The room suddenly feels too small, too warm. I slide away from him, pulling the sheet around myself like armor. "You were sent to kill me?"
"No." His answer is abrupt and immediate, and I believe him. "Never you."
"But you thought I was involved—"
"At first, yes. But not anymore." He reaches for me, and I flinch away. His hand drops. "Vera, I was sent to stop whoever was fixing races and bleeding money from the books. When I followed the pattern, it led to your placing the bets. But you're not the one behind it."
"So you're following me to get to Sonya."
"Yes."
I don't understand what I'm hearing. Everything between us—every conversation, every touch, every moment I thought was real—was it all part of his investigation? "How long have you known who I was?"
"Since the day we met."
The betrayal cuts deep. I stand abruptly, wrapping the sheet around me as I pace to the window where city lights glitter for miles. "So this was all—"
"No." His voice stops me. "Not this. Not what happened between us tonight." Then he's on his feet, stark naked and vulnerable, walking across the room toward me with pain etched on his face.
"How am I supposed to believe that?" I ask, turning toward him. Batya warned me this man was up to no good and I ignored him. Of course he doesn't want me. He's twice my age, rich, experienced.
"Because I'm telling you the truth now. All of it.
" He takes my hand and pulls me toward himself, and I don't back away this time.
"I'm Misha Vetrov. My brother was the Pakhan, and now it's my nephew.
I work for my family, yes, but that doesn't define who I am, Vera.
" His touch suddenly feels like ice, not the warmth of lovers any more.
Vetrov. That name is synonymous with power and violence. It causes the cold from Misha's touch to rush through my whole body. Batya's warnings echo in my memory. Stay away from those men, Vera, they're dangerous. They destroy everything they touch.
"You're Bratva," I breathe.
"Yes."
"Your family controls half of Moscow."
"Yes."
I sink onto the edge of the bed with shaking limbs. My hand flutters to my belly unconsciously as I think of the life inside me. "God, Misha. Do you know what my father will say when he finds out? What he'll think?"
"He'll think you're smart enough to judge a man by his actions, not his name." He crouches in front of me, resting his hands on my thighs.
"Will he?" I push out a dry laugh. "Batya grew up in the old country. He knows what happens to girls who get involved with men like you."
"I'm not other men."
"Aren't you?" I look up at him, this man I've fallen in love with, and see him clearly for the first time.
The controlled way he moves. The scars on his knuckles.
The tattoos that I now realize aren't just decoration—they're markers, symbols of rank and allegiance.
"You kill people. That's what you do." He's a murderer, a thief, and I've been in his bed. I carry his child in my womb.
"When I have to."
"People like Sonya?"
He doesn't answer, which is answer enough.
I close my eyes, trying to process everything. The baby growing inside me suddenly feels heavier, more real. A Vetrov baby. A Mafia child. What kind of life would that be? What sort of mother would I be, raising a child in this world of violence and secrets?
"I need you to know," Misha says quietly, "that everything I said tonight was true. About keeping you safe. About wanting to help your family. About caring for you."
"Caring for me." I repeat the words, tasting them. "Is that what this is?"
"It's more than that."
I want to believe him. God help me, I do believe him. But belief and wisdom are different things, and Batya didn't raise a fool. I know better than to trust a man whose business is built on lies and violence.
But when I look at Misha—really look at him—I don't see the cold killer Batya warned me about. I see the man who offered to save my brother without asking for anything in return. The man who held me through my tears and made love to me with infinite gentleness.
"I don't know how to do this," I whisper.
"Do what?"
"Love someone like you."
Misha's face transforms, surprise giving way to something deeper, more vulnerable. He raises both hands, cupping my face. "Don't be afraid of me, Vera. Please."
"I'm not afraid of you." I lean into his touch despite everything. "I'm afraid of what loving you means. For me. For my family."
"It means you're protected. All of you."
"And the price?"
"There is no price."
I want to believe him. But as he pulls me back to bed, as he holds me close and whispers reassurances into my hair, I lie awake staring at the ceiling. His breathing evens out beside me, but sleep refuses to come.
I'm carrying a Vetrov baby. The thought circles endlessly through my mind. What will Batya say? What will Elvin think? And Sonya—what happens when Misha finds her? Will he kill her as casually as he killed whoever was shooting at the track today?
The man sleeping beside me is beautiful and dangerous and completely beyond my understanding. I love him with a desperation that scares me, but love might not be enough to bridge the gap between his world and mine.