Chapter 11 – Valeria
The morning after the chaos surrounding the package, I try to pretend like life can still be normal.
It can’t.
But I try anyway.
The Rusnak estate is quieter than usual, though “quiet” here still means armed men at the gates, rotating patrols, and the kind of tension you can feel even when no one is speaking.
Security has doubled. Maybe tripled.
I notice everything.
I always do.
And still—
I refuse to stay locked inside my head all day.
Today, I’m going to stop moping. Stop waiting. Stop sitting around like I’m already dead and just haven’t been buried yet.
Ellie and some of the other wives are going shopping for a gala that’s being held here in the estate in three days. They invited me. Insisted, even.
I almost said yes.
Almost.
But then reality reminded me what I’m dealing with.
Anton doesn’t care about events. Or crowds. Or timing.
And neither does the danger following me.
So I stayed back. It’s safer and smarter.
The ladies understood, of course. If you live this life, some things don’t have to be overexplained. But I’m not worried about being underdressed for the event, because Matteo already let me know he’s got it under control.
When he texted me earlier, he said, “I’ve got it under control. You’ll be the best-dressed there. Trust me.”
I don’t doubt him.
A small breath leaves me before I can stop it.
Matteo is…a strange comfort.
Not because he tries to be. He doesn’t.
He just exists in this world like color exists in a place that forgot what brightness feels like.
I see him almost every day now.
He’s one of the only things that feels normal.
Yesterday, he brought in a nail technician without warning.
“It’s not part of my job description,” he said when I questioned him, already arranging polish like it was a military operation. “But it is necessary. Come on now. Don’t argue.”
I remember staring at him like he was insane.
He didn’t care.
Now my nails are a soft blush pink.
And I hate how much it helps.
How something so small can make me feel…slightly less like I’m drowning.
I sit by the window, staring out at the grounds.
Everything is still.
Too still.
And I wonder how long it will stay that way.
Because nothing about this life has ever stayed calm for long.
Especially not after a video like yesterday’s.
Anton’s face flashes through my mind again—calm, controlled, certain. Like the world around me is just waiting to be burned down.
My fingers curl slightly against my lap.
No.
I refuse to think like that today.
Today, I choose something else.
Even if it’s small.
Even if it doesn’t change anything.
I stand from the chair.
Timofey told me days ago that there’s a library on the first floor of the estate. I’ve avoided it since then.
Not because I don’t want to go.
But because the last time I was in a library, everything fell apart.
And I haven’t exactly been eager to repeat history.
But today…I’m going to go anyway.
I’m going to walk into that room.
And I’m going to prove to myself that fear doesn’t get to decide everything anymore.
I’m halfway to the door when there’s a knock.
I pause.
“Who is it?”
The door opens slightly before I even get an answer.
One of the guards steps in.
“Ma’am,” he says, “there’s a visitor requesting to see you.”
My brows draw together.
“Me?”
He nods once.
My chest tightens slightly on instinct.
“What’s their name?”
The pause he gives me is small—but noticeable.
“Sergei Volodin.”
Everything in me stills.
That name….
It doesn’t belong to danger.
It belongs to memory.
To my father.
To a world that feels like it existed a lifetime ago.
“Take me to him,” I say immediately.
No hesitation.
The guard turns, and I follow him without waiting for anything else.
The hallway feels longer than usual. My pulse louder.
Because Sergei Volodin wasn’t just another name in my father’s network.
He was one of the few people my father truly trusted.
Quiet. Precise. Always in the background—but never irrelevant.
A strategist. A fixer. A man who understood power without needing to announce it.
I remember him from childhood.
Always composed. Always watching. Always calculating more than he said.
When I reach the lower level, I see him immediately.
And something inside me loosens.
Relief—sharp and unexpected—floods through me.
Sergei looks older now.
Thinner hair. Heavier lines around his eyes. His posture carries exhaustion like it’s been accumulated over years of running instead of resting.
But his eyes—his eyes are the same.
Sharp. Alert. Measuring everything in seconds.
Like nothing escapes him.
Like he’s still surviving on instinct alone.
I step forward and take his hand.
“Welcome. It’s so good to see you.”
He nods once.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask quickly.
He shakes his head once.
“No.”
I gesture toward the seating area anyway. “Sit.”
Another shake.
“No.”
Of course not.
Sergei Volodin doesn’t sit unless he decides the world is safe enough for it.
A sound behind me pulls my attention.
I turn.
Timofey stands in the doorway.
Still. Silent.
A dark presence against the light of the hall.
Hands in his pockets. Expression unreadable.
Like a storm deciding whether to enter the room.
Sergei notices him immediately.
He gives a small nod.
Timofey doesn’t return it right away.
His gaze stays on me for a second longer than necessary.
Then it shifts to Sergei.
“Who are you?” he asks.
The room tightens instantly.
Sergei doesn’t flinch.
He straightens slightly instead, as if time itself hasn’t managed to bend him into fear.
“I am Sergei Volodin,” he says. “My loyalty was to Valeria’s father when he was alive—and it remains with his legacy even in death.”
Timofey hums low in his throat.
Not approval. Not dismissal. Just acknowledgment.
A calculation.
Sergei continues, voice steady but worn at the edges.
“Anton Petrov has been hunting anyone who remained loyal to him.”
My stomach tightens slightly at the name.
“He is not stopping,” Sergei adds. “Not after the takeover. Not after the killing. Not after the warnings.”
His eyes flick to me now.
“Several former advisors have already disappeared.”
Silence settles heavier.
I feel it in my chest more than in the room.
Sergei exhales once, slower now.
“I’ve only survived by moving constantly,” he continues. “Changing locations. Relying on old contacts who still respect the Petrov name.”
A faint bitterness touches his voice.
“Even that respect is fading.”
My fingers curl at my sides.
Because I understand what he’s saying without him having to say it fully.
The net is closing.
Not just on me.
On anyone connected to my father.
On anyone who could help me.
Sergei’s gaze steadies on me again.
“But I cannot stay hidden forever,” he says quietly.
A beat.
“That is why I came.”
The room goes still.
I feel Timofey shift slightly behind me. Not moving closer. Not retreating. Just…present.
Watching. Calculating.
Sergei’s voice lowers.
“I came to speak to Valeria Petrova.”
Not the wife.
Not the Rusnak.
Me.
My name lands heavier than it should.
Like it’s being pulled out of a past I’ve been trying not to look at too directly.
Sergei opens his leather briefcase.
He pulls out a thick stack of documents and places them carefully on the table between us.
Paper on wood.
Simple.
But somehow it feels like an explosion waiting to happen.
“These are the records,” he says. “Financial documents. Legal certifications. Ownership registries tied to the Petrov empire.”
I stare at them.
Not touching them yet.
Not breathing too deeply.
He continues, voice steady.
“These are the official proofs of your claim to your father’s assets,” he adds. “And his leadership structure. Fydor, your father, entrusted them to me.”
My throat tightens.
“This is why Anton has been hunting me mercilessly. If he gets his hands on these,” Sergei says, “he won’t just be able to hunt you.”
His eyes harden slightly.
“He’ll attempt to rewrite everything.”
The room feels colder.
Like the walls just shifted closer.
Sergei leans in just slightly, emphasis sharpening his words.
“These documents are what stop him from turning your father into a footnote.” He shakes his head. “And what stops him from claiming total legitimacy.”
I finally look down at the stack.
My father’s life.
Compressed into paper.
Legal language. Inked signatures. Proof of a world I was born into but never fully allowed to touch.
Sergei’s voice softens just a fraction—but not much.
“If you keep them safe,” he says, “then no matter what Anton does…you retain undeniable authority.”
His gaze locks onto mine.
“Not emotional authority, but legal, structural, absolute.”
My fingers curl slightly at my sides again.
Because I understand what he’s really saying now.
This isn’t just protection.
This is power.
Sergei straightens.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “you are the only one standing between Anton Petrov and total control.”
He closes the suitcase.
The click is final.
Like a door locking somewhere far away that I can’t open again.
I turn immediately to Timofey.
“I want you to find him a safe house,” I say. “Somewhere secure. Somewhere off-grid. Keep him safe until this settles.”
Sergei shakes his head before Timofey even responds.
“No.”
Sharp. Immediate.
He doesn’t even let the suggestion land.
“I cannot stay in one place long enough for protection to matter,” he says. “Anton’s men are already searching for me. And if I remain here, I will only put the Rusnak family at risk.”
Timofey doesn’t interrupt.
Doesn’t challenge.
Just watches.
Measuring every word like it’s a live wire.
I step forward slightly.
“That’s not your decision to make,” I say.
Sergei’s gaze softens—but only slightly.
“Actually,” he replies, “it is. It’s the only one I have left.”
The words hit harder than they should.
I open my mouth again, ready to argue—ready to insist there has to be another way—but he lifts a hand slightly.
Not harsh. Not dismissive.
Final.
“I have to leave, Valeria.”
My name.
Said like something personal.
“Please,” he adds.
And suddenly the fight drains out of me—not because I agree, but because I understand him.
He’s not running.
He’s surviving.
I step closer instead, voice softening.
“Then…at least be careful.”
Something shifts in his expression at that.
A faint crack in the discipline.
“I always am,” he says.
But it doesn’t sound like reassurance.
It sounds like habit.
I extend my hand.
He takes it.
Firm. Steady.
Loyal, even now.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
And I mean it.
Not just for the documents.
Not just for the warning.
For reminding me that my father’s world didn’t die completely with him.
Sergei nods once.
A small bow of respect more than goodbye.
“For your father,” he says. “And for you.”
Then he turns.
And for the first time since he arrived, the room feels emptier even though nothing has physically changed.
Just before he reaches the door, it flies open.
Matteo walks in, as if the concept of tension simply doesn’t apply to him.
And for a split second—just one—I almost laugh.
Because, of course, this is how the universe chooses to interrupt something like this.
Normal chaos.
His chaos.
He’s wearing black straight jeans and a bright yellow crop top that should not work on anyone else but somehow does on him. His navel piercing catches the chandelier light when he moves. His lipstick is a soft, glossy pink, perfectly matched to his nails.
He’s holding several sketches pressed neatly in his hands, his usual dramatic excitement already in motion.
“Val,” he says, breathless, walking in like he owns the air itself, “I was hoping we could go over these sketches before I make a decision—”
Then he stops.
Mid-sentence.
His eyes flick across the room.
Sergei.
The documents on the table.
Timofey.
The weight in the air.
And whatever brightness was on his face shifts instantly into something more careful. More observant.
“…right,” he finishes more slowly.
Silence settles again.
Matteo lowers the sketches slightly, tilting his head.
“What did I walk into?” he asks lightly. “I’m going to go.”
He already starts backing toward the door like self-preservation has officially kicked in.
I let out a small chuckle, the sound lighter than anything I’ve made in days.
“Matteo, wait—don’t run off,” I say, shaking my head. “Just…go wait in my room instead.”
That seems to satisfy him immediately.
He pauses, brightens just a fraction, then nods.
“Okay,” he says simply.
And then he’s gone.
The tension doesn’t fully return after him—it just…reshapes itself.
Different now.
Less fragile. More contained.
I turn back to Sergei.
“I’ll walk you outside,” I say.
Sergei gives a small nod.
Before I can move, Timofey speaks.
“I’ll come with you.”
It’s not a question.
Not an offer either.
Just a statement of presence.
I glance at him briefly, then don’t argue.
“Fine,” I say.
Sergei watches the exchange but says nothing.
He simply adjusts his posture and heads for the door. Even though I don’t mention it, I’m grateful that Timofey is with me.