Chapter 40
THEA
Iset down the Byzantine history book I wasn’t really reading and move to the window.
I watch as Gabriel’s black sedan comes to a stop and three doors open. Dante, the driver, steps out first, scanning the grounds in the way he always does.
Then Amanda emerges, her phone pressed to her ear, heels striking the stone steps loud enough to be heard inside of the house.
Gabriel finally steps out of the car, and I can tell by the look on his face that something is wrong.
His expression is tight and focused, and he moves with long, purposeful strides. There’s a tightness to his shoulders, a set to his jaw that I’ve only seen once before—the night he brought me here from the auction.
I meet them in the foyer.
Amanda sees me first. Her eyes flick to mine, and then something crosses her face—it’s fast, unreadable, and gone before I can name it. It’s not hostility, not exactly. More like assessment, like she’s doing a quick calculation.
“Thea,” she says with a slight nod. Then she turns to Gabriel. “I’ll be in the study if you need me. I have to make some calls.”
With that, she disappears down the hall without waiting for a response. Her heels echo on the marble and fade around the corner.
I look at Gabriel.
“Hey,” I say, my tone careful.
“Hey.”
He’s looking at me in that pure Gabriel way—assessing, cataloguing, checking—a look that I love and hate at the same time.
It’s like he can see right through me. It used to unnerve me, but now it makes my chest ache with emotion.
He’s confirming I’m here, that I’m safe, that whatever’s out there hasn’t reached me yet.
Then I see his arms.
His sleeves are pushed up, abrasions along his left forearm. On his right hand, across the knuckles, are dark scrapes. And on his shirt…
“Oh my God, is that blood?”
“It’s nothing.”
I close the distance between us and take his hand into mine, turning it over. It’s dried blood alright—brownish red in color, cracking along the creases of his fingers. Some of it even flakes off at my touch.
“What the hell happened?”
“We should talk.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Not all of it is mine.”
My stomach sinks. I look into his eyes and see a kind of exhaustion that I’ve never seen before.
“Come with me,” I tell him.
I take his hand and lead him through the house to the master bathroom. He lets me, without saying a word. That alone tells me how bad it is, because Gabriel Moretti doesn’t get led anywhere by anyone.
I guide him to the bathtub, where he sits on the edge, then watches me without speaking as I run warm water over a cloth, wring it out, and kneel in front of him.
I take his right hand first, cleaning the blood from his knuckles and working gently over the abrasions.
The water turns a faint pink in the white basin of the tub.
“Max Fedorov is dead.”
I stop.
“We met today in Midtown for lunch.” His voice is flat and controlled.
“He is—was—Bratva old guard. He was your father’s closest ally, as well as his godfather.
He flew in from Moscow to verify your identity.
Once he was satisfied that you are indeed Teodora Fetisova, he planned to bring an entire network of Fetisov loyalists into the fight against Kolya. ”
I start cleaning again, gently, letting him talk. My stomach is in knots.
“We had a good meeting. He agreed to come here later tonight to reunite with you.” A pause. “He’s known you for many years. Said that when you were small, you’d sit on his lap and play with his tie.”
My throat tightens, but I stay silent.
“When we walked out of the restaurant, there was a drive-by. Two shooters. They aimed for Max first, then me. I returned fire, killing both of them.”
I lift the cloth to his forearm. The abrasions are shallow but angry—the exact sort of injury you’d expect from diving onto the pavement to avoid gunfire.
That’s his life, which is now my life. I clean the scrapes with careful strokes, feeling the tension in his muscles.
“Max died on the sidewalk,” he says quietly. “His last words were to you. He wanted me to tell you that your father was the best man he ever knew.”
I stop again. The cloth is still warm in my hands. Water drips into the tub. Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock chimes.
Max Fedorov. I don’t remember him, but I wish I did. How many other people are still living who remember me as a happy child? Who knew my mom and dad? Max crossed an ocean to find me, and now he’s gone.
I lean forward and press my forehead against Gabriel’s shoulder, letting out a long, slow breath.
His hand moves to my hair, his fingers threading through the strands before cupping the back of my head. We stay like that for a moment. Not speaking, not moving. Just being present.
“Kolya did this,” I state. It’s not a question.
“That’s right.”
“He knew about the meeting.”
“Someone had to have told him. I’m going to find out who.”
I lift my head and look at him. He’s tired. And not just from today either. He’s tired from all of it, exhausted from carrying this impossible, tangled up situation that neither of us asked for and neither of us can walk away from.
“Gabriel—”
“I love you.”
His voice is raw. There’s no preamble, no careful framing of what he said. Just three words, just the truth.
I stare at him.
“I have loved you longer than I should have. Before I had any right to. Before you even knew my name. But I tried to deny it, telling myself it was because I owed Lev my life and I was protecting his daughter, that it was only because of the obligation, the debt, that I felt love for you. But that is not true. I love you, truly love you.”
“Gabriel—”
“And I will kill anyone who threatens you, anyone who threatens our child. I will take apart every Bratva piece by piece if that’s what I have to do.
And I need you to understand what that means, because the man sitting in front of you isn’t a good man.
But he’s yours. Completely, irrevocably. And he will not stop.”
I set down the cloth. Then I take his face in both hands. His stubble is rough against my palms. His eyes are dark and searching, and for the first time since I’ve known him, unguarded.
He’s in my hands, literally and figuratively.
“I love you,” I say as I look into his eyes. “I love you, and it scares me. I don’t know what happens next, but I’m here. And I’m not running.”
Something seems to break behind his eyes. It’s not dramatic—that’s not his style. But there’s a fracture, like a wall that’s been holding back a flood finally develops the one crack that it can’t survive.
He stands and pulls me up into his arms. I go willingly and completely. And when he kisses me, it isn’t possessive, or urgent, or the hungry claiming of a man who takes what he wants.
It’s slow, it’s reverent, it’s devastating. It’s the kind of kiss that says everything without words.
He wraps his arms around me, holding me against his chest like I’m the most precious thing in the world. I can feel his heartbeat. It’s fast, faster than his calm composure would ever suggest.
“Say it again,” he speaks against my temple.
“I love you.”
His arms tighten around me.
“Again.”
“I love you, Gabriel.”
He exhales and presses his face into my neck.
We stay like that for several minutes.
Outside of this house, a war is building. But in here, for now, there’s only this.
I close my eyes and hold on.