Chapter Twenty-Four
Juliet
Vitaly drives the first few miles in silence, knuckles white on the wheel.
His jaw’s clenched.
I watch his profile.
The beautiful slope of his nose.
The bruise darkening across his cheekbone where she fucking hit him.
He hasn’t blinked in blocks.
“What you did for me,” he starts, voice rough.
My body tightens at the tone.
Go on, baby.
Let it out.
Spit blood if you have to.
“I would.” He swallows, stretches his neck like it aches. “I would do the same. You. Noah. All of you.”
I slide my hand onto his thigh, grounding him. “I know.”
He exhales, finally.
Shoulders drop a fraction.
“I was a coward,” he says. “Thought if I crossed her, you’d get hurt. That she’d find a way to make you pay.”
Oh.
Oh, my sweet man.
“No one touches you like that,” I say. “Never again.”
I squeeze his leg hard.
“It shouldn’t have been you,” he says, eyes still on the road.
“Why?” I tilt toward him, eyebrow raised. “Because I’m supposed to be delicate?”
His lips twitch.
“I’m not,” I say. “I only played soft long enough to catch your sweet eyes. You and Noah? You’re the delicate ones. I get to protect that. Me. Callum. Reid. Orion.”
He glances over. “And Elliot?”
“In his own way. Less bat.”
He huffs a laugh. “I froze. I let her hit me. I let her.”
“You didn’t let her do shit,” I snap. “You gave me the opening.”
“If she’d gotten to you first…” he shakes his head. “I’d never forgive myself. Never.”
He stops at a red light.
I reach over, grab his face, force him to look at me for one second before I have to give his attention back to the road.
“Listen to me, Vitaly. Look at me.”
His eyes snap to mine. Wet. Terrified.
“I’m not breakable,” I say. “I don’t need you to be brave. I need you to be mine. And you are. You’ve always been.”
“But she could have…”
“She didn’t,” I cut him off, thumb stroking his jaw, careful of the bruise. “Because love wins. And now she’s never going to touch anyone I love again.”
He takes a shaky breath.
“It’s over now, my love.”
Silence again.
But it’s different now.
Not heavy.
Just full.
The city passes by.
We turn the corner, and the bakery comes into view.
Warm lights spilling through the window like the ending of a good story.
Noah’s behind the counter.
Elliot’s at the table with his notebook.
I turn to Vitaly.
“You’re mine,” I say.
His eyes flick toward me.
No hesitation.
“Da, kroshka,” he says, voice sure.
We barely make it through the door before Noah locks eyes on Vitaly’s face.
He rounds the counter so fast he nearly knocks the pastry case off-balance, grabbing Vitaly, fingers hovering over the damage like he can will it to heal.
“Who?” he asks, voice sharp.
“It’s handled,” I say.
Elliot strides over, eyes scanning me. They land on the blood spatter on my shirt.
“Baby doll,” he says carefully, “what did you do?”
“She touched him.”
He doesn’t ask who.
He doesn’t have to.
Elliot’s eyes narrow.
Not angry.
Thinking.
He pulls me aside, away from Noah’s fussing and Vitaly’s wincing.
“Network?” he asks quietly.
“Callum’s handling it. Reid’s burning records.”
“Vitaly’s clean?”
“Vitaly’s clean.”
Elliot exhales, hands loosening on me. “And the body?”
“Three. Callum’s got Orion and Reid. They know what to do.”
He nods once.
“You should’ve called us,” he says, but it’s not anger anymore. It’s the concern underneath.
“I know,” I say. “I didn’t want to risk any of you.”
He cups my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones. “You don’t get to make that choice alone anymore.”
“I didn’t make it alone,” I say softly. “I made it for us.”
He kisses between my eyebrows. Accepts it.
Noah’s got a warm cloth pressed to Vitaly’s face, hands delicate. “Oksana?”
“Same as Tammy. Better bat,” I say, wiping my hands on my skirt. “I got a poultry blessing.”
They don’t ask.
I fill them in anyway.
“Only you would bring a pink bat to a…” Elliot says.
“I don’t like guns,” I say. “They’re loud. And messy. And they don’t come in bubblegum.”
He clicks his tongue and picks at the bloodstain on my shirt. His eyes have that ready to scold me squint.
“They do come in bubblegum,” Vitaly says.
Elliot cuts a glance and smiles. “Let’s not arm her.”
“She’s got a temper with no safety.” Noah coaxes Vitaly down onto a stool.
Fuckers.
Rude.
But fair.
Noah’s fingers are so gentle on Vitaly’s face. Careful. Like he’s handling something precious.
“Does it hurt?” he asks softly.
“Only when I remember she had her hands on me,” Vitaly says. Then he looks at me. “Before Juliet.”
Noah glances over, sees the blood on my shirt, sees the satisfaction in my eyes, and something shifts in his expression.
Understanding. Pride.
“She’s okay?” Vitaly asks Noah. Not me.
Like he needs confirmation from someone who knows me as well as he does.
“She’s perfect,” Noah says. “She’s always perfect when she’s protecting someone.”
Vitaly reaches out, catches my hand.
“Are you?” he asks me directly.
His turn to check on me. His turn to be the protector, even if it’s just asking.
I squeeze his hand. “I’m thriving, baby.”
And I am.
The adrenaline’s fading into satisfaction. My skin feels electric.
He sees it.
Reads it.
Accepts it.
“Okay,” he says. Like that was the most important thing he needed to know.
“So what now?” Noah asks.
I beam.
Big. Bright.
Dangerous.
“Now? We move Vitaly in. Bring Reid home. And run the best fucking bakery this town’s ever seen. Mrs. Patel expects excellence.”
Vitaly gives the softest groan-laugh. “I’d rather not disappoint Mrs. Patel.”
We all laugh.
While Elliot starts pulling out mixing bowls and Vitaly washes flour off his hands, Noah pulls me into the back pantry for thirty seconds.
He presses me against the shelves, hands on my waist.
“You’re not hurt?” he asks. Not because he doesn’t trust my word. But because he needs to see. “Show me.”
I lift my shirt slightly.
No wounds.
“Not a scratch,” I say. “She was sloppy. I was better.”
He nods, kisses my forehead, then my mouth.
“I love you,” he says. Simple.
“I love you too. All of you.”
He smiles. “Come on. We’ve got bread to make and a family dinner to plan.”
And just like that, it’s done.
The choice.
The alignment.
The silent agreement that we’re all-in now.
Vitaly’s in.
Reid’s next.
No more testing.
We wash hands. Tie aprons. Pull out bowls.
The four of us move through the kitchen like it’s choreography from another life.
Me kneading.
Noah measuring.
Elliot scoring loaves.
Vitaly stirring something experimental and complicated with those baker forearms.
Like Orion, Callum, and Reid aren’t off disposing of three bodies.
This is normal.
This is home.
Vitaly watches Elliot’s hands as he folds the dough. Precise. Powerful. Elegant.
“Your technique’s impressive,” he says.
Elliot doesn’t even glance up. “It’s in the wrist.”
I hum. “Elliot’s good with his hands. Especially when they’re on my ass.”
Noah snorts.
“Accurate,” Elliot says.
Vitaly’s ears go pink.
He dusts flour from his hands and leans against the counter, watching us work with an expression of belonging.
“We should take a couple loaves of black bread,” Noah says, checking the oven timer. “And stop by the deli. Bring a spread.”
“They’ll be famished,” Elliot agrees. “Disposal is exhausting.”
Vitaly sets down his spoon.
Looks at each of us, like he’s measuring whether he’s earned the right to ask.
“Let’s bump Reid’s dinner to tonight. We have meat and cheese. We have bread. We have time before they’re back,” he says.
The kitchen goes still.
Because what he’s suggesting?
What he’s understood, is that after violence, after blood, after proving we’ll kill for each other, we come home and we live.
We celebrate.
We fuck.
And he wants to be part of that.
Immediately.
Without hesitation.
Noah claps once, delighted.
I drop the mixing bowl.
Flour explodes.
Because did my sweet little baker just suggest we end the day with meat, cheese, and a full-team fuck?
Yes.
Yes, he did.
Group sex as a post-murder reward?
And that’s why he’s mine.
“I’ll text and ask if they have meat and cheese preferences,” Elliot says, wiping flour from his cuffs.
“Do not give Callum that kind of open line,” I warn. “He’ll ask for flaming hot pickled sausage and spiced nacho sauce from the gas station.”
“I’ll give him three emoji options,” Elliot says. “He can pick like a civilized menace.”
I watch them move through the kitchen.
Elliot commanding.
Noah creating.
Vitaly participating like he’s been here all along.
This is mine.
A family that kills together.
Fucks together.
And makes bread because who the fuck wants to disappoint Mrs. Patel?
Vitaly catches my eye across the kitchen and smiles.
Not the gentle baker smile.
The smile of a man who just proved he understands exactly what we are.
And deep down?
He’s one of us.