Chapter 29 – Valeria
I’m brought back to the Petrov estate in Moscow.
My childhood home.
The gates open like they remember me—but the feeling is wrong. Anton has made it his own.
The estate still stands in its old bones—grand, imposing, built to command respect—but everything inside it has been subtly reshaped. Guards where they shouldn’t be. New security points layered over old ones. Familiar halls now carrying unfamiliar weight.
It doesn’t feel like home anymore.
It feels occupied.
Controlled.
I’m escorted inside without force, but there is no illusion of choice. Two armed men walk just behind me, not touching, not threatening—just present enough to remind me what this is.
A transfer of custody.
Still, the staff react differently.
I recognize some of them.
Some avoid my eyes completely, afraid to acknowledge me. Others pause for just a second too long, recognition flickering behind their expressions before they force it away.
And some—older ones—lower their heads slightly.
Careful respect.
Not loyalty to Anton.
Memory.
They remember who my father was. What this house once meant. What it used to stand for before blood changed everything.
That alone steadies something in my chest.
I’m guided through the corridors I once ran through as a child. The walls are the same, but they feel narrower now. Like the house itself has been constrained by what it’s become.
Every step forward reminds me of something I’ve lost—and something I haven’t given up yet.
My hand rests instinctively near my stomach as I walk. Aware of what I have to lose.
I’m not alone in this anymore.
And Anton knows it.
That’s why I’m here.
Not as a guest.
Not as family.
Not even as leverage in the way he thinks.
But as something he intends to break.
The thought sharpens as I’m led deeper into the estate. Toward the center. Toward the rooms that were never meant for visitors like me anymore.
I’m ushered into a sitting room and told to sit. The voice is polite. Carefully controlled. Almost respectful.
But I don’t mistake it for safety. Not for even a second.
There’s respect in the way they move around me, in the way they avoid unnecessary contact, in the way they speak like they remember who I once was.
What my father once was.
But respect doesn’t stop a bullet.
And I know it.
The moment Anton gives an order, none of this softness will matter.
I sit anyway.
The door closes behind the last of them.
Click.
And then I’m alone.
For the first time since I left the mansion, there is no noise. No gunfire in the distance. No movement nearby. Just silence so thick it presses against my ears.
My hands rest in my lap.
But my mind isn’t at rest.
It keeps going back to him.
Timofey.
The last time I saw him. The way he looked at me. The way he held me like he could physically stop the world from taking me if he just didn’t let go.
I don’t know where he is right now. I don’t know what he’s doing. I only know him.
I know what he becomes when I’m gone.
He won’t stop. Not for anything. Not for logic. Not for distance. Not for consequence.
He’ll tear the city apart looking for me. Piece by piece if he has to.
A faint breath leaves me.
Will he find me?
The answer comes immediately. Not as hope. Not as fear. As fact.
Yes.
He will.
The question is whether it will be soon enough.
My fingers curl slightly against the fabric of my dress. Just enough to ground myself. Just enough to keep the rising panic from taking hold.
I refuse to let it.
I’ve survived too much to break here. Not like this. Not sitting in a room waiting to be consumed by someone else’s plan.
Timofey.
My chest tightens, but not in fear. In something far more dangerous. Something certain.
I love him.
The thought doesn’t fade. Doesn’t weaken. Doesn’t shift under pressure. It stays exactly where it is. Rooted. Unmoving.
I love him.
My husband.
And somewhere out there, I know he’s coming.
It’s almost strange—how everything that broke my life eventually led me to him.
If I trace it back, line by line, decision by decision, there’s a cruel kind of clarity to it. Everything that was taken, everything that burned, everything that nearly destroyed me…it all pushed me here. To this point. To him.
And for all of it, that’s the one thing I wouldn’t undo. Not even if I could.
I let out a quiet breath, leaning back slightly in the chair, eyes unfocused for a moment as the memories settle in.
My father.
His certainty. The way he never doubted what the Rusnaks represented, even when I did. Even when I questioned it. Even when I resented it.
I didn’t understand it then. I thought I did, but I didn’t.
Now I do.
He was always right.
A faint, almost bitter smile touches my lips at the thought. Not because it’s funny—but because it’s true. Because he never needed to guess. He always knew. Always saw ten steps ahead while everyone else was still reacting.
Thank goodness I listened.
The words sit heavier now, layered with everything that came after. Everything that cost me. Everything that brought me here.
I once resented the Rusnaks. Their reach. Their influence. The way their name moved through rooms like gravity, like inevitability.
It felt suffocating then. Unfair. Too absolute.
Now I understand what absolute power really means.
It means survival when nothing else holds.
It means structure when everything collapses.
It means still standing when everyone else has fallen.
And despite everything—despite the war, the fear, Anton, the blood—it’s that same structure that has kept me alive.
That same power that means I’m still here. Still breathing. Still fighting.
And the reason I know I will continue to—no matter what comes next.
The door opens.
Anton walks in like he owns the air itself. Calm. Composed. Smiling. A thin folder in his hand, swinging slightly as he approaches.
“I told them to take care of you, little sister,” he says lightly. “I hope they did.”
My jaw tightens. I don’t answer him. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
He doesn’t seem bothered. Of course, he doesn’t. He takes his time crossing the room and sits directly opposite me, like this is a meeting. Like we’re equals. Like I’m not being held in the middle of a war I didn’t choose.
Then he slides the folder across the table.
My fingers hesitate for only a second before I open it.
And the world shifts.
Paperwork. Documents. Transfer of authority. Ownership. Control.
My breath catches. From recognition. These are the exact documents Sergei Volodin left me. The ones he died protecting.
A cold weight settles in my chest as I flip through them. Each page feels heavier than the last.
How did Anton get his hands on them?
My fingers still slightly on the edge of the paper.
How did he get these?
My eyes lift slowly from the folder to Anton.
The smile on his face doesn’t feel casual anymore.
It feels like victory he’s been waiting to collect.
He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the table like we’re negotiating terms in a boardroom instead of sitting in the middle of a stolen home.
“Sign it,” he says. “Transfer the Petrov empire to me…and maybe I’ll let you live.”
Maybe.
The word hangs there like it means anything.
I know better.
The moment my signature lands on that paper, I stop being valuable. I stop being useful. I stop being anything he needs to keep intact. He will kill me.
I don’t answer immediately. Because that isn’t what my mind is holding onto.
It’s not fear.
Not even anger.
It’s my father.
The way his name still carries weight in this city. The way people still lower their voices when they say it. The way his legacy is being turned into something traded across a table like currency. I won’t let his body be desecrated.
Something inside me hardens.
“I won’t sign,” I say.
Anton’s expression shifts instantly. The smile fades. Not fully, but enough to show what’s underneath it. Frustration. Irritation. Something darker pressing against the surface.
“Why?” he asks.
One word. Controlled. But sharp.
I meet his gaze without flinching.
“I’ll sign,” I say slowly, “after my father receives a proper funeral.”
The temperature of the conversation drops.
Anton’s jaw flexes once.
And for the first time since he walked in, he doesn’t answer immediately.
Silence stretches between us.
I hold my breath, watching him. Waiting. Not for mercy—but for calculation. Because Anton doesn’t react emotionally unless it benefits him. He thinks. Always thinks first.
His eyes flicker briefly toward the folder. Then back to me.
“Fine,” he says at last. “But the burial will be tonight. No time for a party.”
My jaw tightens.
“I don’t want a party,” I say flatly. “I want a funeral.”
Anton leans back slightly in his chair, like the distinction doesn’t matter to him at all. Like my words are just details he can edit later.
“It’s arranged,” he replies.
Something in his tone makes my stomach turn.
***
The funeral isn’t what I asked for.
It’s what he decides to allow.
The ceremony is cold. Staged in a way that turns my grief into exposure. Black cars line the entrance. Armed men stand at measured intervals. The air itself feels watched.
There are guests. No loyalists or close friends of my father. But the city’s criminal elite. People I recognize. People my father once dealt with. People who shouldn’t be here.
My chest tightens slowly as I understand it.
This isn’t mourning.
It’s a performance.
Anton has turned my father’s burial into a display. A reminder. A message broadcast in silence to everyone watching: Power has shifted, and he’s the one defining how legacy ends.
I didn’t want a party. I made that clear.
But Anton doesn’t care what I want.
He never has.
My fingers curl slightly at my side as I stand there among them, surrounded by black coats, lowered eyes, and forced respect that tastes nothing like honor.
He didn’t just take this moment from me.
He reshaped it.
I’ll make him pay for this. I promise.
The burial is over.
It happens too quickly. Too cleanly. Like something carefully edited to remove anything real from it. The earth is covered. The final words are spoken. The final respects performed under the watch of people who don’t deserve to be here.
I stand beside the coffin until the very end. Silent. Still. Dignified in a way that costs me everything inside.
I don’t cry. Not here. Not in front of them. Not in front of him.
When it’s done, there is no lingering. No space to breathe. No room for grief to settle properly. We’re moved back into cars, escorted, guided, controlled, even in departure.
Back to the estate.
Anton is already there when I arrive.
Of course he is.
He’s in one of the main rooms, as if he never left. As if the burial was just a short interruption in whatever he’s building. The same folder is in his hand again when I walk in.
The documents.
He places them on the table without ceremony.
“You were emotional earlier,” he says casually. “So I’ll give you time.”
I don’t respond.
My eyes stay on the folder. Then on him.
“You will regret this,” I say quietly. “If you think I’ll ever let this slide, then you’re a joke—and more stupid than I thought.”
Anton laughs. Short. Disgusted.
“No one cares about your speeches, little girl,” he snaps. “Sign the documents—or I’ll have your head blown off and do it myself.”
Something cold creeps into my chest. Survival instincts tightening like a wire pulled too hard.
My gaze shifts subtly around the room. The exits. The guards. The distance to the doors. I’m already mapping it without meaning to.
I need out.
Now.
Then—
Gunfire erupts outside.
Sharp. Immediate. Close enough that the windows don’t just shake—they explode inward in a violent spray of glass.
The room detonates into chaos.
Guards shout. Weapons rise. Chairs scrape back. Someone screams an order that gets lost in the noise.
Anton spins instantly, his composure breaking for the first time, eyes darting toward the source of the attack. “What the—”
More gunfire. Closer now. Coordinated. Controlled. Not random.
An assault.
A real one.
And in the middle of it all—I don’t move.
I stay seated. Still. Watching.
Because I already know.
My lips curve slightly before I can stop it.
Is it Timofey?
Is he really here?