Chapter 24
SEMYON
The grand hall of the Romanov estate gleams. Crystal chandeliers hang like constellations, and gold-trimmed mirrors illuminate everybody here. Some might think the gold-trimmed mirrors are just for show, but I know they give Mikhail Romanov and his brothers a better vantage point around the marble columns in this huge place. Mirrors are helpful—they give you a second set of eyes.
What people don't know about my glasses…
The air hums with murmured conversations, soft laughter, and the clink of champagne flutes. Since I've known the Romanovs, they’ve been famous for holding these galas. Here, people pretend that we're civilized for a little while.
I fucking hate them.
In a way, it’s reminiscent of grand dances they held in ages past, the kind where tension simmered beneath every polite bow and curtsy, where hidden motives and unspoken feelings played out across a crowded room.
Of course Rafail’s wife, Polina, loves it. This is her family home, after all. Though she grew up in New York, her roots are firmly planted in Moscow’s elite circles. My sisters adore it, too, a chance to get dressed up and mingle, to pretend for a little while there isn’t a constant shadow of danger that lurks and follows us. Everyone’s on their best behavior at a Romanov gala.
Not me though. There’s no need.
There are so many different people here, so many different families, and Anya looks a little out of place and confused. But tonight, she's the only one I'm focused on. She's wearing that champagne gown that hugs her figure and cascades in soft waves to the floor. But like a good girl, she's wearing her shawl.
I’ll take that off tonight.
The color sets off her auburn hair, swept up in a sophisticated updo, and her hazel eyes seem to shimmer under the lights. If there was ever a doubt in anyone’s mind that Anya has come into her own, they’ll be gone tonight. Anya has come into her own.
Heads turn as we ascend the staircase together, me at her side in a tailored black suit, my hand resting gently on the small of her back.
"Stunning," I murmur under my breath.
"It is beautiful," she says, looking around. "I feel like?—"
"Not the ball, sweetheart. "
I love the way her lips quirk, and her cheeks turn pink. She's so cute.
"You clean up pretty well yourself," she says with a wink. I give her a discreet little pinch to the ass. I'm the only one who knows she's wearing a vibrator—remote-controlled, the remote in my pocket. She said I’m kinky and wicked.
She has no fucking idea.
Tonight, I’m the one who has to stay sharp, to keep control. But Anya? She can lose herself entirely—and if I have anything to say about it, she’s going to end up screaming my name in our bed before the night’s over. I want her so fucking wound up, so desperate for me, that by the time I get her home, she’s begging, pleading for me to take her. To ruin her.
Every look, every touch will be a slow, deliberate tease until she can’t take another second without me inside her.
“Is Matvei here tonight?”
“Should be. Why?”
With a frown, she shakes her head. “I don’t… trust him.”
Good. She shouldn’t. But she’s safe with me.
As we enter the ballroom, a familiar figure approaches. Speak of the devil. He greets us with a courteous nod, his dark eyes darting around the room. But there’s an undercurrent of something else. Large events like this draw plenty of locals and their attention. If we’re going to get any word about Polina’s sister, it’ll be tonight.
Anya bristles beside me. I don’t blame her. We’re pretty sure he’s a psychopath .
"Good evening, Anya," Matvei says, his tone smooth, distant. "You look lovely."
"That's enough of that," I say, dragging her away from him. He chuckles, and she thanks him, but her smile is plain and guarded. She told me he unnerves her. She knows he's loyal to Rafail, and I’ve explained to her that his brother Gleb betrayed us. Matvei is polite on the surface, but there's a hard edge beneath his charm—a quiet ruthlessness she’s very aware of. Matvei will stop at nothing to show his loyalty.
Once inside, I’m ushered to a more private area where Rafail and Polina are already having drinks. Anya stiffens when she realizes this isn’t a huge crowd but a small, intimate gathering. Elegant food is being served on small silver trays, and drinks are being poured.
"Champagne, ma’am?" a waiter offers.
Her back is tight and rigid as I hit the lowest setting on the vibrator in my pocket. Her lips part, and her cheeks flush as she looks at me, a wicked glint in her gorgeous eyes.
"Two, please," she says, plucking two flutes of champagne off the tray and handing one to me.
"I told you I wasn’t drinking tonight," I remind her.
"I know," she says with a little grin. "You’re holding the second one for when I’m done with the first." She sips. I hit the higher button on the vibrator to punish her for her sass. She groans softly and hides it behind her flute of champagne.
I shut it off when the champagne is done.
“Semyon,” she pleads in my ear.
“Yeah, baby?”
She shakes her head as Polina approaches, elegant and graceful with her long blonde hair and silver gown.
We make easy chatter with Polina as she introduces us to a few more people her family knows. Anya nurses her second glass of champagne. I lean in and whisper in her ear.
“What would I feel if I put my hands between your legs right now?” I flick the button.
“Wet,” she gasps. “Hot. Need .” She’s lost the ability to speak beyond one syllable. I stifle a chuckle and embrace her.
"Baby," I murmur. "Put your head on my shoulder." She obeys without hesitation.
“Are you ready to come, Anya?”
“Mmmm.”
“Good girl. Let yourself go. Come, baby. No one’s here.” She maintains the control of a queen as I press the vibrator button again. She shudders, her release hitting in waves. I laugh softly, pulling her into my arms as if her trembling shoulders are from laughter and not a climax in the middle of the room.
I grin to myself. One point for me.
"Good girl," I whisper approvingly into her ear. "I'm so proud of you."
"Oh, really?" she teases, tossing her head back and taking another sip of champagne. I note she’s a little wobbly on her feet though .
“Really.”
I pluck the flute out of her hand and set it on a nearby table.
"Dance with me," I say gently but firmly.
"You dance?" she asks, blinking.
“I do tonight."
Quietly, she places her hand in mine. I lead her to the dance floor, where only one other couple is present. The music shifts to something slower, more intimate. I wrap my arm around her waist as I pull her close, my other hand clasping hers, steady and warm. I love the way it feels with her here against me.
"You’re full of surprises, sir," she murmurs, her voice soft.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a small box.
"You haven’t seen anything yet. This is for you."
She looks down at my palm. "But we’re already married, Mr. Kopolov. That can’t be a ring?”
"I know. Open it and see what it is."
She opens the box with a sly smile and looks curiously at the key inside.
"What's this?"
"The key to your new bakery."
" New bakery ?"
"I told you to trust me. Believe me, you’ll love it when it’s finished. We’ll keep all of your mother’s appliances, every beautiful thing she installed in there. The only new additions will be industrial locks on the doors, a much larger fridge, and a different freezer you’ll have access to. I intentionally kept the original one though.” I shrug. “It might come in handy."
We move through the crowd. Anya's posture is stiff, her fingers brushing the hem of her shawl like a shield. I’m getting better at reading her and knowing what she needs. I don’t blame her for being nervous in a crowded place, especially when she’s a fish out of water. She shouldn’t be nervous though. She’s with me.
“You’re frowning.” Her eyes meet mine, curious.
“I can tell you think you have something to fear here. But you don’t. Not with me.” I thread my fingers across the back of her neck and give her a gentle squeeze.
She wordlessly pulls closer to me, draws in a breath and nods, giving me the smallest of smiles. It’s all I need.
We need a breath of fresh air. I navigate toward the outdoor bar.
“I don’t really feel like I belong here,” she whispers in my ear.
“I can relate to that. I never feel like I belong anywhere.” I thought I was getting better at reading her, but I don’t fully understand the softness in her eyes when she looks at me and squeezes my hand.
I lean in closer. “I’m going to protect you, Anya. I always will. But you’re stronger than you think.” I tuck a finger under her chin and bring her gaze to mine. “Don’t forget who you are. If I had my way, they’d be bowing to you when you enter. ”
One day, they will. They fucking will.
“Kopolov.”
My focus sharpens when I see him—Oleg Makarov. Unpredictable. One of the Romanov family's lesser allies here in Moscow, but still dangerous. He exudes an air of authority, his gaze honing in on Anya.
"It's been a while, Semyon," he says smoothly before turning to Anya. "And who is this? Your lovely little wife?"
Asshole.
Anya bristles beside me, immediately on edge. Makarov is ruthless and unpredictable, and I don't trust him.
His eyes immediately narrow on her, and his voice lowers. I don't want her to touch him, but when he reaches for her hand, she sticks her hand out and shakes his—mercilessly.
"Yes. Anya Kopolov. His ‘little wife.'" She emphasizes the words, and I love that she does.
He narrows his eyes. “Well, aren’t you the brave one?”
"And you are?" she presses, unbothered. Pride surges in my chest.
His eyes flash with amusement—a man like Oleg enjoys pushing boundaries, especially with people like Anya, who aren’t seasoned for his world. He chuckles, leaning in too close for my liking. “Someone you don't want to fuck around with,” he finishes, baring his teeth.
“I don’t see what’s so brave about stating my own name,” she says with a cold smile. A part of me wants to cheer her on. Attagirl. Another part of me wants to shove her behind me to protect her.
“Careful, girl,” he mutters, “In our world, some people don’t appreciate a brazen woman.”
Alright, that’s enough of that. I put myself between the two of them. “I fucking do. That’s enough from you.”
The shift in the atmosphere is immediate. The polite mask drops from my face, replaced by something much darker. He freezes as if sensing the threat between us, but since he doesn’t seem to be getting the hint, something harsher might be in order. “You have something you want to say to my wife?" I whisper. "You know she and I pledged vows to each other. You also know what that means, don't you?"
I imagine how this will play out—the way I'll take him, my fist hitting his jaw. He'll fall back to the ground, his head cracking against the concrete. And no one will move. Not one single person will bat an eyelash because this is nothing out of the ordinary for my family—for this gathering.
But I don't. Not yet. I decide to behave myself. For Anya.
Until he decides he has something else to say to her.
"You're his first wife, aren't you? Enjoy that. Don't you know what this family does with their wives?" His voice taunts again, this time meeting my gaze. "I'm disappointed in you, Semyon. Would've thought you’d have taught your wife her place by now."
Anya's jaw drops.
I get in his face. "I don't think I'm the one who should be careful," I warn him. "Rumor has it you have some affiliations with the Irish. And they're on the move. Doesn't seem like it's in your best interest to fuck that up, does it?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, but his cold smile falters. His sharp incisors glint at me. “You moved in on the bakery without wasting any time. Seems like you like to take your wife there too, don't you?"
My fist connects with his jaw. It only whets my appetite. “You son of a bitch!" I snarl and shove him into a glass table that instantly shatters. Glass showers down, and Anya screams. No one even looks our way.
He chuckles, getting to his feet as he brushes his sleeve across his broken lip, smearing blood. "I knew it," he murmurs. "That was a test… and you failed."
I step after him, but a heavy hand falls on my shoulder.
"Don't." It's Matvei, his eyes boring into mine. "It's a distraction. You know what it is. Distracting you from what is the real question."
Makarov is gone.
Anya stares at me, her eyes wide.
"No one even looked over here," she says, shaking her head. “You punched him, broke the table and shattered glass, and no one even batted an eye.” She gives me a reproachful look. “Is this how you boys always handle things?”
Just when I seem to be making traction in understanding her, she throws me a curveball.
Matvei huffs out a laugh. “This is how we do things, Anya. Every guest here tonight is somehow affiliated with a family that doesn’t think twice about making a statement.” His eyes track the exits. “Stay close to Semyon.”
"Let's get some fresh air," I suggest, pushing away from Matvei to a paved area illuminated by moonlight. It seems to do the trick with my sisters.
Matvei walks away from us, but I don't miss the way his hand goes to his waistband—ready to draw a weapon.
“Can we go home now?” There it is again. Home.
“Soon.”
I can’t shake the feeling that something is about to happen, another puzzle piece falling into place.
I walk with Anya. The garden paths are dimly lit, shadows stretching across the stones. It's quiet here, the distant hum of the party fading into the background.
Something is off. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I inhale deeply as if the scent will give something away, but I can't catch it. Instead, I notice the way Anya's eyes flick to the shadows, the slight hitch in her breath.
Whipping around, I’m alert. Anger claws at my chest. First the bakery, now this. In my peripheral vision I note quick movement and a flash of metal. My instincts flare.
"Get down!" I snap, pulling her behind me as a figure emerges from the darkness. The first shot shatters the stillness of the night.
I shove her to the ground, shielding her with my own body as another shot rings out. Pain explodes across my shoulder, but I barely register it, adrenaline surging through my veins. I have to keep Anya safe .
Matvei’s huge, looming figure plows through the stillness. He pulls the trigger. Fire bursts from his weapon.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm hit," I say through gritted teeth. "Anya, are you all right?"
"I'm fine." Her voice is panicked. “What happened?”
I draw my weapon and shoot. Fire erupts from my gun and from Matvei’s. The attackers scatter, retreating into the night.
I could chase them, but that would leave Anya vulnerable.
"Get them. Get the fuck—get them!" I bark, my voice sharp with fury. I nod at Matvei, but he’s a mountain of a man, built for power, not speed. He chases after them, firing as he runs, but the bastards are already disappearing. Gunshots echo, but it’s too late.
This was no random attack. It was calculated. Designed to disorient us.
Anya gasps. "Oh my god, Semyon!"
I look down to see blood spilling onto my white shirt, onto the ground, onto my hands. Motherfucker.
Anya reaches for me, and my blood smears across her fingers, thick and sticky.
"I'm fine," I growl, scanning the darkness again for any sign of movement. But the garden is silent now, a predator retreating.
"Shit." I shake my head. "Matvei was right. What the fuck was that? "
Clicking heels signal the arrival of my sisters. Yana is first, her gaze sharp and lethal, already assessing the situation.
“Who was it? Where’s Matvei?”
“The south exit.” I’ve got the whole damn place memorized. It’s always my way. I know the south exit leads to the parking garage, shielded only with tall hedges and a wrought iron fence.
Yana doesn’t hesitate but kicks off her heels and springs, her figure disappearing into the night. Fucking wish she had been here instead of Matvei since she’s twice as fast.
"Are you okay, Anya?" Zoya asks, calm and unruffled as always. She checks on Anya with a quick glance. I love that my sister looked after my wife first, knowing she’s a more vulnerable target.
"I'm fine, but Semyon?—"
“He’s had worse," Zoya says after a quick assessment. But in the dark, I can’t tell if she’s only saying it to ease Anya’s fears. My vision swims.
Anya shakes her head. "He's bleeding."
Zoya remains composed. “We'll take care of him. The Romanovs will have medics.”
“I’m good,” I grind out through clenched teeth. I feel impotent, bested, and it fucking pisses me off. They could’ve hit Anya. Who the fuck was that? “Don’t worry about me.”
But I can’t ignore the way Anya looks at me, her eyes wide and glistening with fear. She’s trembling, and something tells me this is more than fear. Something deeper that reaches inside me, tightening like a fist around my chest.
My vision goes dark around the edges. Khristos. I’m losing blood.
“I’ll be back,” Zoya murmurs, retreating with her weapon drawn. “Anya, stay here with him.”
“Of course,” Anya says, shaking her head. “As if I’d go anywhere.” Her lips draw downward in a pout. I’d smile if it didn’t feel like my shoulder was going to implode.
“Who would just come here, shooting?” She shakes her head. She hovers, her hands near me as if she somehow wants to anchor me in place. “Oh, Semyon.” Our fingers lace together, sticky with blood.
“Someone with ties to the Irish.” The pieces are starting to fit together. I need meds so I can focus, so I can slide them all into place and call checkmate. “Matvei’s instincts were right. It was a fucking distraction. Rafail and Rodion aren’t here, so I can fucking guarantee they were at the far end of the estate before they pulled their moves.”
What I don’t tell her is they would likely know my instinct would be to protect Anya, and Matvei would be too slow for a chase. This was calculated.
Anya frowns. “They came close enough to shoot. I saw something on one of their wrists when he turned to go, something that reminded me of the video with Eli.”
Of course. The faction’s symbol. The Irish syndicate hasn’t been quiet about what they want. Tonight, they finally made a move.
“I can’t believe no one’s looking,” Anya whispers. “You’re bleeding out on their patio, Semyon. Shots rang out, and no one gives a damn. What the hell?” She shakes her head, her voice wobbly. “How is this normal?”
I don’t know what I can tell her to reassure her. I’m doing my best to stay conscious.
But the raw emotion in her gaze is something it takes me a moment to process. I've never seen it before. She's shaking, yes—but there's something more. Something deeper.
What does it mean? Maybe I have seen it before and never realized it.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The intensity of her stare makes my chest tighten. The world swims in front of me, and my face feels too hot, the skin too tight. Shit .
I give her a grim smile. "Violence isn’t enough. Life and death happen in the blink of an eye in our world, and the world just keeps spinning, Anya.”
Slowly, the weight of my words sinks in. But I can feel it—her fear isn’t just for herself anymore. It's for me.
Matvei returns, panting slightly but composed. He leans in. “Definitely the Irish,” he confirms, his gaze flicking to Anya. We listen as he gives us more details, but it’s only confirmation of what we already knew.
Zoya returns with Mikhail Romanov, the Romanov family pakhan, and someone I don’t know by his side, a young man with swarthy skin dressed all in white. His medic, I’d guess.
“Alright,” he says with a tight smile. “Let’s get you inside and patched up.”
"We're not safe," Anya says. “God, Semyon. ”
I reach for her hand and give it a gentle squeeze.
"We never were, Anya."
Yana returns to us, triumphant and fierce, dragging a bound hostage in her wake. Mikhail’s brows shoot up. Anya pales. The man stumbles, a smear of blood trickling from his temple. Yana has a hand fisted in the back of his shirt, the other clutching a gun pressed tightly against his ribs. She moves as always, with deadly grace.
“Got this bastard sneaking toward a getaway car. Couldn’t get the others, but we’ll get answers out of him.”
I step forward, ignoring the burning ache in my shoulder. Anya shifts nervously, but I wave her off. I’m in control now. “Who sent you?”
“You know who,” he says in a drawl, not bothering to hide his thick brogue.
“We’ve got all night,” Yana whispers, smirking.
His jaw is tight, his eyes narrowed as he spits on the ground. “You’ll get nothing out of me.”
I shake my head. This bastard’s responsible for a threat against my wife. My blood boils. “We’ll see about that.”