25. Zoya
ZOYA
T he feeling of warmth against my back and the steady rhythm of breathing that isn't my own wakes me.
For a moment, I don't remember where I am or how I got here.
Then I feel the weight of Maksim's arm draped around my waist, his chest pressed against my spine, and everything comes rushing back.
The argument in the hallway, the desperate way we tore at each other's clothes, the way his voice cracked when he told me I was in his blood.
The morning light reaches through the heavy curtains, illuminating the room in a soft golden light.
I'm in his bed, not the guest room where I've been sleeping for days.
The sheets smell like him, a pleasant scent I don't mind at all.
His bedroom is larger than mine, with tall windows that overlook the gardens and furniture that looks expensive but lived-in.
Maksim stirs behind me, and I feel his lips brush against my shoulder. The gesture is so gentle, so different from the man who came home covered in blood last night, that it makes my chest tight.
"Morning," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
I turn in his arms to face him, studying the angular planes of his face in the morning light.
His dark hair is mussed, falling across his forehead, and his hazel eyes are softer than I've ever seen them.
There's a cut on his lip I didn't notice in my fury last night, and the knuckles of his right hand are bandaged.
"You're hurt," I say, reaching out to touch the cut.
He catches my hand and presses it flat against his chest. "I'm fine."
"You're always fine," I tell him. "Even when you're not."
"I'm sorry," he says, and the words surprise me. "I'm sorry you didn't feel safe enough to tell me about the baby."
The pregnancy... I should have realized that nothing stays secret in this house, that someone would have seen the pregnancy test or noticed the changes in my behavior.
I didn't expect the doctor to be the one who tattled on me, and seeing how angry he was, how impossible it was for him to hide his pain, it rattled me.
"I'm sorry I didn't trust you," I say quietly.
His thumb strokes along my jaw, and I lean into the touch. "I'm not proud of the way this started," he says. "The marriage, the mission, the lies. But I'm not lying when I say I want you now. Not the mission, not the leverage. You."
His honesty is startling, and I feel something shift in my chest. "What about Damir?"
The softness in his eyes hardens slightly. "What about him?"
"Is it true what they're saying? That he planted the drugs?"
"Yes."
The single word carves a hole in my heart I know will never be filled again, matching the ones where Mamochka and Batya once dwelt.
I've been holding on to the hope that maybe it was all a misunderstanding, that maybe Damir was innocent in all of this.
But the certainty in Maksim's voice leaves no room for doubt.
"He was a hitman for the Karpin crew," Maksim continues. "He's been working for them for years, feeding them information about Bratva operations. The soldier who died wasn't an accident. It was a targeted hit."
I sit up, pulling the sheet around myself. "How do you know?"
"Because he murdered my cousin," Maksim says quietly. "Made it look like an overdose, but we found the connection."
The world tilts around me. Alexei Petrov—I remember the name from the funeral announcements, the black armbands that the men wore for weeks afterward. A young man, barely twenty-five, killed in what everyone believed was a random overdose. But it wasn't random. It was Damir.
"I need proof," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Maksim studies my face carefully. "Are you sure you want to see who your brother really is?"
I nod slowly, even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to stop, to go back to not knowing, to pretend that the man who raised me isn't a killer. "Yes."
He leans over and kisses me, soft and lingering. "Don't go anywhere," he says against my lips. "I'll be back in thirty minutes."
I watch him get dressed, pulling on dark jeans and a black T-shirt that emphasizes the lean lines of his body. He buckles his shoulder holster over the shirt, and the sight of the gun reminds me of the world we live in, the violence that surrounds us even in quiet moments like this.
"Maksim," I call as he reaches the door.
He turns back to me, eyebrows raised.
"Be careful," I say.
Something in his expression softens. "Always am."
After he leaves, I lie in his bed and stare at the ceiling. I press my hand to my still-flat stomach and try to imagine what it will be like to bring a child into this world of secrets and violence. A world where my brother can be guilty of the worst imaginable crimes but I don't even know it.
I know what I saw in the desk drawer at Maksim's penthouse apartment. I know he's coming back with definitive proof that Damir is a murderer, and yet I can sleep in Maksim's bed, fuck him like it doesn't matter… Christ, I'm having his baby and he's no better than Damir.
But Maksim has never lied about who he is, and Damir has never once been honest with me.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, retrieved by the maid and placed there, and I reach for it without thinking. Damir's name appears on the screen, and my heart lurches.
"Hello?"
"Zoya." His voice is ragged, desperate in a way I've never heard before. "Thank God. I've been trying to reach you for hours."
"Damir, I can't?—"
"I know about the pregnancy," he says, cutting me off.
My blood turns to ice. "How do you know?"
"I have sources. The same sources that tell me you're in more danger than you realize." He pauses, and I can hear him breathing heavily. "Zoya, if that baby is all that's left of our family, then you can't tie it to the Vetrov name. You can't let them claim it."
My throat tightens. "What are you talking about?"
"Meet me," he says urgently. "Please. There are things I need to tell you, things you need to know before it's too late."
"I can't leave the estate. There are guards?—"
"The old church on Nevsky Prospect. The one where Mamochka used to take us when we were children. Do you remember?"
I do remember. The small Orthodox church with the blue domes, where our mother would light candles and whisper prayers in a language I didn't understand. We haven't been there in years, but I can still picture every detail of the interior.
"Damir—"
"One hour," he says. "Please, Zoya. You were never supposed to be involved in this. You were supposed to be safe."
The pain in his voice is unmistakable, and despite everything I've learned about him, despite the drugs and the murders and the lies, he's still my brother. The man who held me when I cried, who taught me to count money with steady hands, who promised to protect me from the world.
"How can I know whether this is another trap?" I ask.
"It's not a trap," he says quietly. "It's a goodbye."
The words send a chill down my spine. "What do you mean?"
"Just come. Please. One hour."
The line goes dead, and I stare at the phone in my hand. The desperation in Damir's voice won't let me ignore it. Whatever he's done, whatever he's become, he's still my brother. And if he's planning to say goodbye, then maybe I need to hear what he has to say.
I stare at the screen for several long seconds, heart pounding in my ears.
The call log is still open, Damir’s name lit in white against the dark background.
My thumb hovers over it as my mind races through every possible outcome.
I press Delete , watching the screen shift as the log disappears.
Damir's name vanishes from the list, erasing the only proof the call ever happened.
I set the phone face-down on the nightstand and pull the sheet higher over my chest. My stomach turns, not from the pregnancy but from the decision I just made.
I don’t know what Damir wants. I don’t know if I believe him.
But I can’t ignore the sound of his voice or the memory of who he used to be.
When the door opens behind me, I turn slowly, every muscle tight with unease though I manage to keep my expression still.
Maksim steps into the room and shuts the door behind himself.
His holster is clipped across his chest, his gun resting over his ribs.
He looks at me once, then down at the folder in his hand.
Without a word, he crosses the room and holds it out.
I reach for it slowly, the smooth texture of the manila cover cold against my palm. Whatever is inside will change things. I already know that, but I have to know. I can't just take his word for it, and I can't just believe Damir, either.
He watches me for a moment longer, then turns and walks toward the armoire in the corner of the room. He shrugs off the holster, methodical in the way he unbuckles the straps and sets the weapon aside.
I rest the file on my lap, my fingers curled around the edge as if holding it tightly enough will keep the truth inside from spilling out. My gaze lingers on the closed cover, every breath shallow and measured, bracing for what I already know I cannot unsee.