Chapter 3 – Valeria
Timofey Volkov’s house is far larger than I expected.
The property sprawls across acres of land outside the city, tucked behind tall iron fencing topped with coils of razor wire.
Armed guards patrol silently at the gates, their eyes flicking toward us the moment the car slows.
I feel their weight on me—not threatening, but sharp, assessing. This is no ordinary home.
The building itself looks more like a fortress than a residence. Reinforced glass, sleek black stone, cameras tracking every angle. The architecture is minimal, cold, intimidating. Each line screams efficiency, control, and the kind of precision I know I can respect—and fear.
I glance at Timofey as we pull up to the entrance. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t glance at me either, his posture rigid, deliberate. The kind of control that comes from knowing power, knowing danger, and trusting no one.
This is exactly the kind of environment I’ve survived in before, but even I have to admit—he’s built a place that could withstand a siege.
Though I don’t trust that anymore. I thought the same about my family home in Moscow until it was attacked.
The moment we step out of the car, the cold air hits me like a slap. Winter bites through my thin coat, and I shiver, though I don’t let it show. The coat is flimsy and cheap. It’s funny how I went from a closet full of clothes…to this.
Timofey doesn’t acknowledge the shiver. He walks ahead, hands in his pockets, moving like he owns the world.
I follow silently, my mind replaying the last few days like a broken film reel.
After I emerged from the tunnel, I made my way to the Morozova house to see Sofia—my best friend, the only person I could trust without thinking twice.
It was a long walk, over an hour, every step aching through the frozen streets.
I knew I couldn’t stay with her. Anton and the others could be trailing me, shadows waiting for a mistake.
That night, Sofia became my lifeline. She equipped me with everything I needed to leave—a new phone, cash, and a one-way ticket to New York. She drove me to the airport, and we sobbed like we’d never see each other again. She made me promise to call when I could.
I haven’t.
Since landing, I’ve spent my days tracking the Rusnaks, staying in the shadows, piecing together a plan, doing my best to survive.
And now, here I am, in the middle of what is supposed to be my refuge, and I’m met with suspicion.
Suspicion from people my father vouched for.
Didn’t Papa say we could trust the Rusnaks?
Why shouldn’t they extend the same courtesy to me?
I’m exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally. I haven’t even mourned Papa properly, and my head throbs from the lack of sleep and the weight of everything. I just need a place to lay my head, somewhere I won’t have to hide in dingy motels, running from shadows that could be real—or imagined.
Timofey doesn’t slow his pace, doesn’t speak. I glance at him once, trying to gauge him, trying to figure out if he’s going to be another obstacle or the unexpected shield I desperately need.
Either way, I don’t have a choice. I have to survive.
And right now, survival means following him.
We enter through the main doors, and I notice the security measures even inside: keypads, retinal scanners, silent alarms. The foyer is sleek, modern, devoid of warmth. Everything has a purpose. Nothing is decorative.
A line of staff waits, bowing politely.
“This is Valeria,” he says, voice even, almost dismissive, like introducing a guest is barely worth the effort. “She’s a guest and will be staying here for some time.”
The staff straightens instantly, a subtle but noticeable shift in posture.
“Good evening, Miss Valeria,” one of the maids says, voice soft but precise.
“Welcome,” another adds, hands folded neatly in front of them.
I nod stiffly, offering a polite acknowledgment, but my eyes flicker to Timofey.
He doesn’t watch me. Doesn’t even glance at the staff.
His gaze is fixed forward, casual, almost bored.
And yet, every head in the room moves in tune with his presence.
It’s obvious they understand the rules: authority is not questioned here, and he is authority.
He walks toward the staircase, and I follow slowly, keeping my distance, noting everything—the cameras, the silent observers, the controlled energy that hums in this place. Up two flights, and he stops in front of a door.
He stares at me, pointed, unyielding. I nod, push the door open, and step inside.
The room is spacious, perfectly curated, comfortable—too comfortable for what I feel inside. A large bed dominates the space, positioned by the window overlooking the guarded grounds. Normally, I might have admired the luxury, but tonight it feels meaningless.
Alone, the weight of everything I’ve suppressed presses down. Silence fills the room, unbearable in its stillness. For twenty-four hours, I’ve been on instinct—running, planning, surviving. No room for fear, for mourning, for memory.
Now there’s nothing left to distract me.
Papa’s face comes unbidden, etched into my mind: the blood on his shirt, the intensity in his voice, the iron will that forced me to run even as bullets tore through the halls. The realization that I will never see him again splits me open, leaving a raw, aching emptiness.
I collapse beside the bed, knees bent, arms braced on the floor. My tears come unrestrained, long overdue, bitter and hot. Every sob shakes me, tears soaking my cheeks, my hair, the floor.
For the first time since fleeing Russia, I allow myself to grieve. To remember. To feel everything I’ve held at bay for survival.
I cry until exhaustion steals my strength, until the raw edges of despair dull enough that I can breathe. Head pressed to the floor, I listen to the silence, knowing tomorrow I will have to rise again.
Because no matter how broken, no matter how hollow, I still have to survive. It’s what my father would want.
I’m still crying when the door suddenly swings open.
Timofey steps inside without knocking.
I scramble to my feet instantly, wiping my face, drawing a shaky breath as if I could somehow erase what he’s already seen. Shame burns through me. I don’t cry in front of people. I don’t fall apart where anyone can see.
But it’s too late.
I blink past the tears and look at him properly for the first time.
He’s tall. Very tall. It’s the first thing that hit me when he walked into Mike’s office earlier. Broad shoulders, a powerful build that fills the doorway like he was made to block exits. His dark hair is slightly unkempt, like he doesn’t care enough to tame it, and his gray eyes….
Cold.
Sharp.
Focused entirely on me like I’m something he’s trying to understand, and not quite succeeding.
I want to snap at him. Scream, even. Demand to know why he thinks he can just walk into my space like this. But the fight isn’t there tonight. I’m too drained. Too exposed.
“You didn’t knock,” I say instead, my voice hoarse, quieter than I would like.
He nods once. There’s something in his expression—something that almost looks like acknowledgment…maybe even apology.
But he doesn’t say it.
He doesn’t say anything at all.
He just stands there, giving me space. Waiting. Letting me pull myself back together without pressure, without interruption.
It’s…unexpected.
I straighten slowly, wiping the last of the tears from my cheeks, forcing my breathing to steady. I lift my chin, rebuilding the composure that slipped through my fingers minutes ago.
“Cry some more,” he says finally, voice rough, low.
I stiffen instantly, bristling at what sounds like mockery. My eyes snap to his, ready to bite back, and then I see it.
There’s no cruelty there. No amusement. No judgment.
Just blunt honesty.
The kind that doesn’t dress itself up to be palatable.
Something in my chest shifts.
I’ve never needed validation from anyone. Never looked for it. But tonight…his words land differently. Like permission. Like understanding spoken in a language I didn’t expect him to know.
He looks away first, as if the moment doesn’t matter.
“I came to go over security protocols,” he says, tone back to business, controlled. “We’ll do that tomorrow.”
I nod faintly, my voice still unreliable. “Fine.”
A brief pause stretches between us.
Then—
“Goodnight.”
He turns and walks out, closing the door behind him with quiet finality.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the space he left behind, my chest still tight but…lighter, somehow.
And for the first time since I stepped into this house, I don’t feel completely alone.
But I don’t cry again.
I move instead.
The bathroom is pristine, just like everything else in this house—clean lines, marble surfaces, soft lighting that feels almost too gentle for a place like this.
I turn on the shower and step under the water without testing the temperature.
The heat hits my skin, and I suck in a breath as it seeps into my bones, washing away the cold that has clung to me since I left Moscow.
For a few minutes, I just stand there. Letting the water run over me. Letting it carry away the grime, the sweat, the fear.
Not the grief. That stays.
There’s a robe waiting when I step out, thick and soft. I wrap it around myself, tying the sash tightly, as if I need the pressure to hold me together. I don’t want to put my old clothes back on. They feel like another life. One I can’t return to.
A knock sounds just as I step back into the room.
I pause, then walk to the door and open it.
Two members of staff stand there. One holds neatly folded clothes. The other carries a tray with a steaming cup of tea, the faint scent of herbs curling into the air between us.
“The boss sent us,” one says quietly.
For a second, I just look at them. Something about that—about him thinking ahead, sending this without being asked—catches me off guard.
“Thank you,” I say, stepping aside.
They move efficiently, placing the clothes on the bed and the tray on the bedside table. No wasted motion. No unnecessary words. When they’re done, they nod and leave just as quietly as they came.
I close the door and turn back to the room.
The clothes are simple—sweatpants and a shirt—but the fabric is soft, expensive. I run my fingers over it for a moment before pulling them on. The warmth settles over my skin, and I let out a quiet breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
It feels…safe.
I climb onto the bed, pulling the covers around me, the unfamiliar comfort almost overwhelming after days of tension and cold motel rooms. I reach for the tea, taking a careful sip. It’s warm, soothing, grounding.
My eyes close slowly.
For the first time in days, my body begins to unclench. The tension eases, bit by bit, like I’m finally allowed to rest.
There are still tears at the back of my eyes, still grief sitting heavy in my chest—but they don’t fall. Not tonight.
I inhale deeply, steadying myself.
I’ll be okay.
I’ll be fine.
And I will avenge my father.