Chapter 27 – Valeria
The room feels too still.
Too quiet compared to what I know is happening outside.
Gunfire cracks in the distance—sharp, relentless, echoing across the estate walls. Sometimes close enough to make the glass tremble faintly. Sometimes far enough that it feels like a memory instead of something real.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my fingers wrapped tightly around the grip of the pistol.
Steady.
Controlled.
But not calm.
My heart hasn’t settled since he walked out that door.
Have they captured Anton already?
Are they winning?
Is Timofey…?
I shut the thought down before it can finish.
No.
He promised.
My grip tightens slightly.
I hate this.
Not the fear. Not the danger. I understand those. I’ve lived with them long enough to know how to carry them without breaking.
It’s the stillness I can’t stand.
The waiting.
The not knowing.
Out there, everything is happening. Decisions. Movement. Blood. Victory or loss being carved out in real time.
And I’m here.
Still.
Waiting.
A slow breath leaves me as I force myself to sit back, to ground my thoughts before they spiral.
He was right.
This isn’t just about me anymore.
My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach, resting there for a moment longer than necessary.
There’s more at stake now. More to lose.
That changes things.
It has to.
So I stay.
Even when every instinct in me screams to move. To fight. To go out there and stand beside him instead of sitting in this silence, listening to the war from a distance.
I’m hoping and praying to any god who will hear me that Timofey comes knocking soon. I’m almost past my breaking point.
Suddenly, glass shatters.
This doesn’t come from a distance. It’s too close. It’s here. I whip my head toward the sound just as the window explodes inward, shards scattering across the floor in a violent spray. The curtains whip wildly in the sudden rush of air.
A figure climbs through.
Masked. Armed. Fast.
My body reacts before my mind fully catches up. I’m already on my feet, already raising the gun, finger tightening on the trigger—
“Don’t,” he says.
The voice hits first.
Then the mask comes off.
Everything inside me goes cold.
Anton.
My cousin’s face comes into full view, that same familiar smirk curling at the edge of his mouth like nothing has changed. Like we’re not standing in the middle of a war he started. Like he didn’t just break into my room. Like he didn’t threaten me and my child!
A chill runs down my spine, but my hand doesn’t shake.
If anything, my grip on the gun tightens.
I aim directly at him.
“Take one more step,” I say, my voice low, steady, “and I will shoot you.”
He doesn’t look impressed.
He looks…pleased.
Anton laughs softly, like this is all entertainment to him.
“I know you will,” he says, amused. “I know because you’re one daring bitch.”
A smirk pulls at my lips despite everything. “You’ve pissed off this daring bitch, Anton,” I reply coldly. “And she’s thirsty for your blood.”
He rolls his eyes, completely unfazed. “You might have to wait a bit,” he says lazily. “Because I don’t plan to die today.”
“Too bad.”
I pull the trigger.
The shot cracks through the room—sharp, deafening in the enclosed space.
But he moves.
Fast.
The bullet misses him by a fraction, embedding into the wall behind him.
I don’t hesitate. I re-aim instantly, tracking him as he shifts position, my finger tightening again.
My heart is pounding now—but not from fear. From focus. From something colder.
“You die now, Anton.”
He nods slowly, like he’s considering the idea. Like this is a negotiation, not a standoff.
“If you want to kill me,” he says calmly, “fine. But here’s some news for you.”
Something in his tone shifts, and I feel it before he even finishes.
“I kept him,” Anton continues. “Your father.”
My grip tightens instinctively. “What?”
His smile widens, just slightly. Enough to make my stomach turn.
“I never gave him a proper burial,” he says. “I had him taken. Hidden.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
For a second, the room tilts.
“If you kill me now,” he adds, voice almost conversational, “no one will ever find him. Worse—” He tilts his head. “I’ve already made arrangements.”
My pulse spikes.
“If I don’t check in,” he finishes, “his body gets desecrated…and displayed across Moscow.”
My blood freezes over. Cruel doesn’t even begin to cover it.
It’s monstrous.
And the worst part—
I believe him.
Anton doesn’t bluff with things like this. Not when he can make them real. Not when it serves him this perfectly.
My finger tightens on the trigger—then stops.
Just barely.
Everything inside me recoils. Rage. Grief. Disgust. All crashing together so violently that it almost blinds me.
My father.
The man who built everything. Who ruled with strength, with presence, with fear and respect intertwined—reduced to…that?
No.
I can’t let that happen.
Not to him.
Not in a city that once bowed to his name.
My arm remains raised, but it’s no longer as steady as it was a second ago.
And Anton sees it.
“Lower your gun,” he says softly. “Moya sestryonka.”
The endearment lands wrong now. Twisted. Poisoned.
I don’t lower it completely. Just…a fraction. Enough to buy time. Enough to think.
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice still controlled, even as everything inside me starts racing.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Come with me,” Anton says. “And sign everything over. The entire Petrov empire.”
My stomach tightens.
Of course.
This was always the endgame. Not just killing me. Not just revenge. Control. Total, unquestioned control.
My mind moves quickly—too quickly. Searching. Calculating. Looking for a way out of this that doesn’t end in disaster.
If I shoot him, my father’s body is lost. Destroyed. Desecrated.
If I stall too long, he gets impatient. Someone dies. Maybe me. Maybe Timofey. Maybe both.
“The more you delay, the more people lose their lives. Hopefully, your husband is among them.”
My gaze flicks, just briefly, toward the window. Toward the distant sound of gunfire still raging outside.
Timofey. His men.
He wasn’t lying.
They’re not just here. They’re positioned. Controlling movement beyond the estate walls. This isn’t just an infiltration. It’s layered. Prepared.
If I push this, more people will die.
More than already have.
I hate him.
God, I hate him.
But I won’t let him destroy what’s left of my father.
I won’t let him turn his body into a spectacle.
My fingers loosen slowly around the gun. Every movement feels like it costs something.
Piece by piece.
Control. Pride. Power.
Until finally—
I lower it.
The silence that follows feels heavier than the gunfire outside.
“I’ll go with you,” I say. The words taste like ash. “But this ends with me.”
“No.” Anton shakes his head. “Not just you. It ends with you and your child.”
Something inside me snaps—quietly, invisibly—but I don’t let it reach my face.
I don’t give him that.
“Drop the gun,” he says.
I hold his gaze for one second longer. Then two.
Then I let it fall.
The weapon hits the floor with a dull, final sound.
He won’t kill me. Not yet.
He needs me.
That’s the only reason I’m still breathing.
Anton steps forward and grabs my wrist, binding it quickly, efficiently—like he’s done this a hundred times before. My pulse spikes, every instinct screaming at me to fight, to resist, to tear free—
But I don’t.
I force it down.
I let him.
Because this isn’t where I win.
Before I can brace myself, he hoists me up, throwing me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. The movement knocks the breath out of me for a second, disorienting, humiliating—
But I stay still.
Still.
Still.
He moves toward the window, stepping over shattered glass like it’s nothing. The night air rushes in, cold against my skin. Smoke still lingers outside, mixing with the distant sound of gunfire that hasn’t stopped.
The rope hangs where he came from.
Of course it does.
This was planned. Every second of it.
My chest tightens.
This night, it feels too familiar.
Too much like the night my father died.
The same helpless pull. The same sense of being taken while everything burns around me.
I close my eyes as Anton begins his descent, the shift of his weight and the tension of the rope making every second feel dangerously unsteady.
For a brief, reckless moment, I think about letting go. Letting myself fall. Ending it before he can take anything else from me. Before he can touch what’s mine.
But the thought passes as quickly as it comes.
No.
That’s not how this ends.
I force my breathing to steady despite the position, despite the drop beneath me, despite the war still raging above.
Going with him isn’t defeat. It’s a move.
A dangerous one. But not the last.
I will find my way back.
I have to.
For my father.
For my child.
For…my husband.
My fingers curl slightly against Anton’s back, not in surrender, but in quiet resolve.
My father taught me how to survive.
How to endure.
How to fight when it matters most.
And over these past weeks, Timofey has shown me what it means to keep fighting…even when everything is slipping through your fingers.
This isn’t the end.
Not for me.
The moment we hit the ground, the impact jolts through my body.
For a split second, I see it—
The estate.
Or what’s left of it.
Smoke rising in thick columns. Parts of the courtyard scorched. Bodies scattered in places I recognize too well. The aftermath of a battle still unfolding.
My home.
But I barely have time to take it in.
A rough movement—
Then darkness.
A bag is yanked over my head, cutting off everything instantly. Sight. Direction. Control.
My breath catches, but I force it steady.
Hands grab me again. Harder this time. Dragging.
My feet stumble against the ground as they pull me forward. Gravel. Then something smoother. Then a sharp turn. Another.
I don’t fight it.
I count instead.
Steps.
Pauses.
Voices.
One voice to my left. Another ahead. Accents. Movement patterns. Anything I can hold onto. Anything I can use later.
A door opens.
I’m shoved inside.
The air changes—enclosed now. Tighter. The faint scent of leather and metal.
A vehicle.
The door slams.
The engine starts.
We’re moving.
I stay still.
Completely still.
My hands rest in my lap, fingers curled just enough to keep feeling in them. My breathing slows deliberately—controlled, measured.
Panic is useless.
Fear is a weapon—just not one I can let turn on me.
I listen instead.
Voices. Low. Careless. They think I’m contained now. That I’m already broken into compliance.
Good.
Let them think that.
I sit there in the darkness, the fabric of the bag brushing lightly against my lips with every breath, and I hold onto one thing.
I will overcome this.
I am capable.