Chapter 30
LILA
My heart's too loud. It's in my ears, in my throat. I can hear it, feel it vibrating through my ribs like it wants to escape on its own.
The yacht hums beneath me, engines low and steady. But we're not still anymore. We're moving. The deck shifts—slow, certain. Water pulling away from the hull.
We're leaving.
Leaving Chicago. Leaving the docks. Leaving any chance Ivan had of finding me before we hit international waters.
Before I become unfindable.
My future stretches ahead—Moscow, some pervert's private collection, years of things I can't let myself imagine fully, or I'll break down completely.
And Ivan. Ivan will never know what happened. He’ll search for a while, maybe. Then eventually give up. Move on. Marry whoever the families want him to marry. Forget I existed.
The suite around me doesn't match what I am.
I'm a problem being shipped away.
But this room is luxurious. Leather couches. Mahogany furniture with intricate carvings. Soft lighting that makes everything look warm and rich. Bottles of champagne chilling in silver buckets like this is a celebration.
Why?
Why this suite?
After I torched his bunker. After I sprayed perfume in his face like a weapon. After every ounce of chaos I've caused him—why reward me with luxury?
Unless it's not a reward.
Unless he's planning to be here.
Unless this suite isn't only for me.
My pulse stutters as the door handle turns.
The sound feels louder than it should. Metal scraping metal.
And then he's there.
Dmitri.
He breezes in like he owns the air I'm breathing, and every cell in me screams to run. To hide. To disappear into the walls before he can decide what I'm worth today.
The red suit doesn't look ridiculous anymore. It doesn't look like a fashion disaster or poor taste. Now it looks intentional. Devilish.
"Finally," he says. "Setting sail. Off into the unknown, as the poets might say."
He moves fully into the room. The door closes behind him. The lock clicks.
"Though I suppose for you it's not so unknown." He's looking at me. "More like inevitable. Fate already decided. Just going through the motions at this point."
He takes a few more steps.
"We'll be in open waters soon, printsessa. Nothing but nice blue Lake Michigan water between us and our destination. No Coast Guard jurisdiction out here. No police. No laws that matter." He pauses. "No Ivan to save you."
I try to keep my voice from shaking. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking on my merchandise," he replies casually. "Quality control, as they say. As you know, Dmitri Volkov has a reputation to maintain in these circles. Can't sell subpar goods. Would damage my brand considerably."
He's moving again, circling me slowly.
"A client agreed to purchase you—fascinating man, really. Met him years ago in Moscow. Huge deviant. Very specific tastes. Particular about what he buys and how he wants it prepared."
The word "prepared" makes my stomach turn.
"You know—" Dmitri's voice takes on that quality, the insufferable monologue tone. "—Ivan's grandfather, Stanislav Petrov. Old school Bratva. One grumpy, ruthless son of a bitch from what I hear. Died before I was born, but the stories live on."
He completes his circle and stands in front of me now.
"Stanislav wronged my client's grandfather decades ago. Some business dispute. Territory disagreement. Money owed or stolen. The usual generational Bratva drama. But my client's family?" He smiles. "They hold grudges. Pass them down like heirlooms. Father to son. Grandfather to grandson."
I'm trying to follow. Trying to understand why this matters. Why he's telling me all this.
"My client wants revenge for something that happened before either of you was born.
And who better to take fifty-year-old family grudges out on than Stanislav Petrov's great-granddaughter-in-law?
" He laughs at his own joke. "Well, would-be great-granddaughter-in-law. But you never got that far, did you?"
My teeth clench. The thought of being bought for revenge. Being used to settle scores between dead men who probably don't even remember what they were fighting about.
But I'm not as scared as I should be.
Some stupid, naive part of me still believes Ivan might come. Still holds onto hope even though hope makes no logical sense right now.
Why do I still believe? What's wrong with me?
Dmitri's phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and checks it. His smile widens.
"Oh, look at that. Perfect timing." He shows me the screen. It’s some navigation app with coordinates. "Officially in open waters now. No turning back. Literally and figuratively."
He pockets the phone, reaches out, and touches my hair.
My whole body recoils from his touch.
"Tell me, printsessa." he whispers. "How does that feel? Knowing you're outside Ivan's reach? Outside anyone's reach? Just you and me and open water for hours."
"You can't do anything to me." The words sound hollow even to my own ears.
"Can't I?"
He moves away toward the champagne chilling in its silver bucket. He pops it open with ease and pours a glass slowly.
"You know, the meeting that day." He's not looking at me, focusing instead on the champagne like it's the most important thing in the world. "The beating. The humiliation in front of my men. Being choked by your boyfriend."
He touches his neck. The bruises are spectacular in the low light. Purple and black and angry.
"Being disrespected in the worst possible way. Unable to fight back. Unable to defend myself. Just... helpless."
He takes a drink and savors it for a moment.
"I told you it made me see clearly. Made me realize I'd been too soft with you.
" Another drink. "But it made me see a truth, too. One I’ve always known but never admitted.
My whole life, I've been nothing but a pet to the Petrovs.
My father called it duty. Called it honor.
Called it tradition and legacy and all these pretty words for servitude. "
Another drink. He's working himself up. I can hear it in his voice.
"But Ivan—in his rage, in his honesty—he named it correctly.
A roach. A parasite. Living off the Petrov name while they take all the glory.
" He finally looks at me again. "You must not understand that kind of humiliation.
Can't possibly understand what it's like to realize your entire existence is built on being second-best. On being an afterthought. "
"Is that what this is about?" I ask, my voice steadier now. "You're jealous of Ivan?"
He laughs.
"Well." He sets down the champagne glass. "You're in a bit of a predicament right now. About to be sold and shipped off. About to disappear forever into someone's private collection. So I suppose I can be honest with you. What does it matter at this point?"
He takes a step closer.
"Yes. I'm jealous. Petrovs getting all the glory. All the respect. All the power. While Volkovs clean up their messes and take their scraps." He lets out a humorless laugh. "They run the main operations—the ports, the politics, the real money. The legacy everyone remembers."
His voice hardens with every word, the polish cracking into bare emotion.
"And I sit here selling whores to perverts and cheap drugs to junkies. The dirty work nobody wants to acknowledge. Always second-best. Always taking what's left over from their table. Never invited to sit at the table myself."
He's pacing now, unable to stand still.
"And then Ivan thinks he can throw it all away to fuck some American bitch and destroy everything. Everything my family built. Not his family—mine. The Volkovs made the Petrovs what they are. We provided the muscle. The connections. The dirty work that kept their hands clean."
I feel a twist in my chest. I’m not sure what it is: disgust, sympathy, horror. This dangerous man reduced to jealousy and resentment. This killer, who's about to sell me, feeling sorry for himself. It’s almost—
"I've been wondering." His voice pulls me back. He's stopped pacing and is looking at me with an expression I can't read. "What it would feel like to take what I was never meant to have.”
Oh no.
"To touch what a Volkov was never supposed to touch." He takes a step closer. "A treasure. A prize. A forbidden pleasure for a roach like me."
Another step.
"A loss he’ll never forget."
The realization hits.
Oh God. No.
I stand up quickly. Too quickly. The room tilts. Or maybe that's the yacht moving.
Either way, I back away and circle around him. My eyes scan for anything. A weapon. An escape.
The lamp on the side table. Crystal. Heavy. That's something.
"You said you don't touch merchandise." My voice comes out higher than I intend. "You said it's bad for business."
"I say what's convenient in the moment." He's following me now, matching my movements. "But seeing us here. Your fate already decided. No Ivan coming to stop us. No rescue happening." His smile is cold. "It gives me a desire I haven't felt in years. Decades, maybe."
We're circling each other now. Predator and prey. But I'm moving toward the lamp. Slowly. Carefully.
"Plus—" His tone shifts, becoming almost conversational. "—I heard our mutual pervert friend in Moscow likes his women tested beforehand. Weird fetish if you ask me, but who am I to judge a paying customer?"
My hand finds the lamp. Cold crystal meets my palm.
"Rape me, and Ivan will skin you alive."
Dmitri stops moving and looks around the room. He makes a whole performance of it. Checking corners. Looking behind furniture. Even checking under the couch.
"Really?" He straightens up. "I don't see any Ivans here. Do you? Because I'm looking and looking ,but I just can't seem to find one."
Then he moves.
Fast.
I throw the lamp. It's heavy and should hit him. Should slow him down.
He dodges. The crystal explodes against the wall behind him. A thousand expensive pieces scatter across the carpet.
I reach for something else. Anything else. The champagne bottle. A chair. Anything heavy enough to matter.
But he's already here.