CHAPTER 7
Interrogation by Blood and Legacy
The Morozov estate sprawls across twelve acres of manicured grounds, a fortress disguised as old-money elegance. Iron gates swing open as our car approaches, and I count the guards—six visible, probably twice that hidden in the tree line and along the perimeter walls.
Ilya hasn't spoken since we left his penthouse. His hand rests on my thigh, warm through the thin fabric of the dress he chose for me. Black. Conservative. The kind of thing a woman wears when she wants to be taken seriously by men who view her as disposable.
"My father will try to break you." His voice cuts through the silence as the car winds up the gravel drive. "He'll use your past, your father's crimes, everything he knows about the last seven years. Don't let him."
"I've survived worse than an old man asking questions."
"Viktor Morozov is not an old man asking questions." Ilya's grip tightens on my thigh. "He's the architect of an empire built on calculated brutality. He's killed men for less than the look you're giving me right now."
I meet his gaze without flinching. "Then I'll make sure my face is appropriately terrified."
"Nadia." His voice drops, and I hear something beneath the command—something that sounds almost like concern. "This isn't a game. If he decides you're more trouble than you're worth, I won't be able to stop what happens next."
"You could have warned me about this before I agreed to help you."
"Would it have changed anything?"
I consider the question. The car pulls to a stop in front of a stone mansion that looks like it was transplanted from the Russian countryside, all sharp angles and narrow windows designed for defense rather than light.
"No," I admit. "It wouldn't have."
Ilya's thumb traces a circle on my thigh, and the contact sends heat spreading through my chest. "Then remember what I told you. Prove your value. Show him the woman who pulled that trigger without hesitation."
"And if that's not enough?"
His expression hardens into something cold and dangerous. "Then we'll find out exactly how far I'm willing to go to keep you."
The door opens before I can respond. Dmitri stands on the steps, his face unreadable as he watches us exit the vehicle. He hasn't spoken to me directly since the counterattack, but I've felt his gaze tracking my movements, cataloging every interaction between me and his brother.
"Father's waiting in the study." Dmitri's voice is flat. "He's been reviewing the files for three hours."
"Which files?" Ilya asks.
"All of them. Her father's operations. The Chechen alliance. The bodies from the garage." Dmitri's gaze flicks to me, and I see something that might be grudging respect buried beneath the hostility. "He wants to know why she's still breathing."
"Then let's not keep him waiting."
The interior of the mansion is all dark wood and expensive art, the kind of wealth that whispers rather than shouts.
I catalog exits as we walk—two visible, probably more hidden behind the tapestries and bookshelves.
Guards stationed at every intersection, their eyes tracking our progress with professional interest.
Viktor Morozov's study occupies the entire west wing of the second floor. The doors are solid oak, reinforced with steel I can see glinting at the edges. Two guards flank the entrance, and they step aside as Ilya approaches.
"Wait here," he tells Dmitri.
"Father requested—"
"I said wait."
The brothers stare at each other for a long moment, and I watch the power dynamics shift between them. Dmitri is older, but Ilya carries himself with an authority that transcends birth order. After a moment, Dmitri steps back.
Ilya opens the door and guides me through with a hand on the small of my back. The contact is proprietary, deliberate—a message to whoever's watching that I belong to him.
Viktor Morozov sits behind a desk that could double as a small aircraft carrier, surrounded by papers and photographs that I recognize even from across the room. My father's face stares up from a dozen crime scene photos, and I force myself not to react.
"So." Viktor's voice is gravel wrapped in silk, the kind of tone that makes men confess to crimes they didn't commit. "This is the Petrova girl."
"Nadia." I keep my voice steady. "My name is Nadia."
Viktor's eyes narrow. He's older than I expected—late sixties, with silver hair and the weathered face of a man who's survived things that would kill lesser men. But his gaze is sharp, predatory, and I understand immediately why Ilya warned me.
This is not a man who forgives weakness.
"Sit." Viktor gestures to a chair positioned directly in front of his desk. No armrests. No cushioning. Designed to make the occupant feel exposed and vulnerable.
I sit. Ilya takes a position behind me, close enough that I can feel his presence but far enough that Viktor can see my face without obstruction.
"My son tells me you've proven useful." Viktor picks up one of the photographs—my father's body, sprawled across a warehouse floor with three bullets in his chest. "He tells me you helped eliminate a reconnaissance team and provided intelligence that may have saved his life."
"I did."
"Why?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with implications. I know what he's really asking: why would a woman whose father was killed by Morozov soldiers choose to help the family that destroyed her bloodline?
"Because I want to live." I hold his gaze without flinching. "And because my father's legacy is not something I'm interested in protecting."
"Your father built an empire that rivaled ours for nearly a decade. He killed thirty-seven Morozov soldiers, including my brother's eldest son." Viktor's voice doesn't change, but I see the violence simmering beneath the surface. "You expect me to believe you feel nothing for his memory?"
"I feel plenty for his memory." I lean forward, letting him see the truth in my eyes.
"I feel rage that he was too arrogant to see the alliance crumbling around him.
I feel contempt for the men who followed him into a war they couldn't win.
And I feel relief that I escaped before his enemies could use me as leverage against him. "
"And now you're leverage against his remaining organization instead."
"Now I'm an asset." I keep my voice flat, clinical.
"One who knows the names, locations, and operational patterns of every man who served under my father.
One who can identify the weaknesses in their security and the fractures in their loyalty.
One who chose to help your son instead of running, because I understand that survival in this world requires choosing the winning side. "
Viktor studies me for a long moment. Then he picks up another file—thicker, more recent—and slides it across the desk.
"Alexei Volkov." The name hits me like a physical blow, but I don't let it show. "Your father's second-in-command. Currently operating out of a warehouse district in Brooklyn, rebuilding what's left of the Petrova organization."
"I know who he is."
"He's planning retaliation against my family. Specifically, against my son." Viktor's gaze flicks to Ilya, then back to me. "He believes that eliminating Ilya will destabilize our operations enough to allow him to reclaim territory your father lost."
I process this information, filing away the implications. Alexei was always ambitious—too ambitious for a second-in-command. My father kept him in check through a combination of fear and reward, but with that restraint removed...
"He'll move within the month." I hear myself speaking, the words coming from somewhere deep and tactical. "Alexei doesn't have the patience for long-term planning. He'll want to strike before you have time to consolidate your position."
"You know his patterns?"
"I know everything about him." I meet Viktor's gaze without flinching. "I know his safe houses, his suppliers, the women he trusts and the men he doesn't. I know the fractures in his organization and the lieutenants who would turn on him for the right price."
"And you're willing to provide this information?"
The question is a test. I know it. Viktor knows I know it. But the answer is the same regardless.
"Yes."
"Even knowing that the intelligence you provide will be used to destroy what remains of your father's legacy?"
"My father's legacy is a pile of corpses and a name that gets people killed." I let the bitterness seep into my voice, because it's real and Viktor will recognize authenticity. "I spent seven years running from that legacy. I'm done running."
Viktor leans back in his chair, and I see something shift in his expression. Not warmth—men like Viktor Morozov don't do warmth—but a grudging acknowledgment that I've passed some invisible test.
"My son believes you're worth protecting." Viktor's gaze moves to Ilya, and I feel the weight of their silent communication. "He's risking his standing in this family to keep you alive. I want to know why."
The question isn't directed at me. It's directed at Ilya, and I feel him tense behind me.
"Because she's an asset we can't afford to lose.
" Ilya's voice is controlled, but I hear the edge beneath it.
"Because her intelligence has already proven more valuable than months of surveillance.
And because eliminating her now would be a waste of resources when she can help us destroy Volkov's operation from the inside. "
"That's not what I asked." Viktor's voice goes cold. "I asked why you're risking your standing. Your position. Everything you've built in this organization." His gaze moves back to me, and I see the calculation behind his eyes. "What is this woman to you, Ilya?"
The silence stretches. I feel Ilya's presence behind me, solid and dangerous, and I understand that this moment will define everything that comes next.
"She's mine." Ilya's voice drops to something low and possessive. "And I protect what's mine."
Viktor's expression doesn't change. But I see something flicker in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or recognition of something he's seen before.
"Then you'll be responsible for her." Viktor stands, and the movement carries the weight of a verdict.
"If she betrays us, you'll be the one to pull the trigger.
If her intelligence proves false, you'll answer for it.
And if Volkov's retaliation succeeds because of information she withheld.
.." He trails off, letting the implication hang in the air.
"Understood." Ilya's hand settles on my shoulder, and the contact sends electricity racing down my spine. "She won't betray us."
"We'll see." Viktor picks up the file on Alexei and holds it out to me.
"You have seventy-two hours to provide actionable intelligence on Volkov's operations.
If what you give us leads to his elimination, you'll have earned your place in this family.
" His gaze hardens. "If not, my son's protection won't save you. "
I take the file. The paper is heavy in my hands, weighted with the implications of what I'm agreeing to.
"I understand."
"Then we're done here." Viktor dismisses us with a wave, already turning back to his desk. "Ilya, take her somewhere she can work. And keep her out of trouble."
Ilya guides me toward the door, his hand still on my shoulder. I feel Viktor's gaze following us, calculating and cold, and I know that I've passed the first test but failed to earn his trust.
That will come later. Or it won't.
Either way, I'm committed now.
---
The car ride back to Ilya's penthouse is silent, but the tension between us has shifted. It's no longer the cold calculation of captor and captive—it's something warmer, more dangerous.
Ilya's hand finds mine in the darkness of the back seat, and his fingers intertwine with mine. The contact is gentle, almost tentative, and I realize that this is the first time he's touched me without an audience.
"You did well." His voice is low, intimate. "Better than I expected."
"Your father still wants me dead."
"My father wants everyone dead. It's his default position." Ilya's thumb traces circles on my palm, and the sensation makes my breath catch. "But you impressed him. That's not easy to do."
"I told him I'd help destroy what's left of my father's organization."
"I know."
"I meant it."
Ilya's grip tightens on my hand. "I know that too."
The car pulls into the underground garage of his building, and we sit in silence as the engine cuts off. The driver exits, leaving us alone in the darkness.
"What happens now?" I ask.
Ilya turns to face me, and in the dim light I see something in his expression that I've never seen before. Vulnerability. Want. The kind of naked desire that strips away all the masks and leaves only truth.
"Now," he says, "I stop pretending I'm keeping you alive because you're useful."
His hand slides to the back of my neck, and he pulls me toward him with a force that makes my heart race. The kiss is different from the one in the garage—slower, deeper, the kind of kiss that promises things neither of us has said out loud.
I fist my fingers in his shirt and pull him closer, and when his tongue slides against mine I make a sound that would embarrass me if I could think clearly enough to care.
"Nadia." He breathes my name against my lips, and the sound of it sends heat pooling low in my stomach. "Tell me to stop."
"No."
"Tell me this is just survival. Just strategy. Tell me you're using me the way I'm supposed to be using you."
I pull back far enough to meet his eyes. "Would you believe me if I did?"
His smile is sharp and dangerous. "No."
"Then stop asking questions and take me upstairs."
Ilya's expression shifts, and I see the moment he stops fighting whatever this is between us. His hand tightens on my neck, possessive and demanding, and when he speaks his voice has gone rough with something that sounds like surrender.
"As you wish."