Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Vittoria
The car slows as we turn onto a long gravel driveway lined with bare oak trees. Through the tinted windows, I watch a sprawling estate emerge from the darkness.
Yuri parks near the front entrance where two black SUVs already sit. Behind us, Elio's headlights cut through the night.
Dmitri hasn't spoken since the call. His hand still grips mine, but his eyes stare straight ahead, seeing nothing.
"Dmitri." I squeeze his fingers. "I should go. This is your family. Your father."
He turns to me, and the rawness in his eyes steals my breath. "Stay."
One word.
I can't leave him. Not like this. Not when he's looking at me like this.
"Okay." I bring his hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to his scarred knuckles. "I'll stay."
He nods once, then releases my hand and opens the car door.
I follow him out, my heels crunching on gravel as I turn to find Elio already stepping from the SUV behind us.
I hold up my hand, catching his eye. A small shake of my head.
Wait here.
Elio's jaw tightens, but he nods. He doesn't like leaving me alone in Bratva territory, but he trusts my judgment. Or at least he trusts that I know what I'm doing.
I'm not sure I do.
Dmitri waits for me at the bottom of stone steps leading to massive wooden doors.
The door swings open before we reach it, and a woman stands in the golden light of the foyer. Tall, with Dmitri's sharp cheekbones and dark hair pulled back in a messy braid. Tears streak her face, and her eyes are red-rimmed, swollen.
"Dmitri." Her voice cracks. "You need to get in there. He's not—" A sob breaks through. "He's not gone yet, but the doctor said tonight. Tonight is the last night."
For a heartbeat, he stands frozen. Then he moves, brushing past his sister and disappearing into the house, his footsteps echoing on hardwood floors before fading down a hallway.
I remain on the threshold, suddenly aware of how out of place I am. This is grief. Private, family grief. I shouldn't be here, shouldn't be witnessing this moment that belongs to them alone.
The woman wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand and looks at me.
"You're Vittoria." Not a question.
"Yes."
She extends her hand. "I'm Karolina. Dmitri's sister."
I take it. Her grip is firm despite the trembling in her fingers. "I'm sorry. About your father."
Karolina's laugh is wet, broken. "He's a bastard. Was a bastard. But he's still our father." She steps back, pulling the door wider. "Come. Sit with us in the living room. The others are there."
I hesitate. "I don't want to intrude—"
"You're not." Karolina's red-rimmed eyes meet mine with an intensity that reminds me sharply of her brother. "Dmitri brought you here. That means something."
I step inside.
Karolina closes the door behind me, shutting out the cold. "This way."
I follow her through the house, past paintings, past doorways that reveal glimpses of libraries and sitting rooms.
The living room opens before us, and I stop.
Two people sit on a cream-colored sofa near a crackling fireplace. A young woman with honey-blonde hair tucked behind her ears, her face pale and drawn. Beside her, a man with broad shoulders and the same sharp jaw as Dmitri, though his hair is lighter, almost brown.
They both look up as we enter.
"This is Vittoria," Karolina says.
The young woman rises first, smoothing her hands down her thighs. She can't be older than twenty, maybe twenty-one. Her eyes are puffy, her nose red from crying.
"Natalia." She offers her hand, and I take it. Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly. "I'm the youngest."
The man stands next, towering over his sister. He moves with the same controlled grace as Dmitri, the same awareness of his own body in space. A soldier's posture.
"Vladimir." His handshake is brief, firm. "Thank you for coming."
I nod, unsure what to say. Thank you for having me feels wrong. I'm sorry feels inadequate.
Six children. I remember reading that in the files Pietro showed me weeks ago. Six Baganov siblings. Dmitri is the eldest, the heir. Then there's Aleksander, who I haven't met. Karolina. Vladimir. Natalia. And another brother whose name I can't recall.
"Please." Karolina gestures toward an armchair near the fire. "Sit. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?"
"No." I lower myself into the chair. I'm still not wearing underwear. Dmitri has them in his pocket.
I press my knees together. "I'm fine. Thank you."
Karolina settles onto the sofa beside Natalia, pulling her younger sister close. Vladimir remains standing, his back to the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest.
Silence falls.
I don't know what to say. What could I say?
Natalia sniffles, wiping her nose with a crumpled tissue. Karolina strokes her hair absently, staring at nothing.
Vladimir shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His jaw works, muscles tensing and releasing.
I study my hands in my lap. Less than an hour ago, I was tied to a chair in an empty theater while Dmitri knelt between my thighs. Now I'm here, in this room heavy with grief and anticipation.
Death doesn't wait for convenient moments.
My father taught me that. One morning he was drinking espresso at the breakfast table, complaining about a shipment delay. By noon, he was gone. No warning. No goodbye.
The memory rises unbidden, and I push it down. This isn't about me. This isn't my grief.
But I understand it. The way time stretches and compresses, minutes feeling like hours, hours like seconds.
Natalia's quiet crying fills the silence. Karolina murmurs something in her ear, too soft for me to catch.
Vladimir's gaze lands on me, assessing. I meet his eyes without flinching.
"Excuse me." I pull my phone from my purse. "I need to make a call."
Karolina nods, her attention still on Natalia. Vladimir watches me stand but says nothing.
I move to the far corner of the room, near a window overlooking the dark grounds.
The glass reflects my face back at me—pale, makeup slightly smudged, hair still perfect from Amanda's earlier styling.
I look like a woman who was on a date, not someone standing in a house where death waits down the hall.
I tap Pietro's contact.
He answers on the first ring.
"Where the hell are you?" His voice is sharp, clipped. The Don voice.
"I'm at Dmitri's family house. The Baganov estate."
"I know." A pause weighted with anger. "Elio already informed me. What I want to know is why you're inside that house without your security detail."
I close my eyes. "It was unexpected. His father—"
"Cazzo." The curse comes out rough, tired. "You should have called me immediately."
"I know. I'm sorry. Everything happened fast."
"Everything always happens fast with you lately." But the edge in his voice has softened. Just slightly. "Dante is on his way. He'll wait outside with Elio until you're ready to leave."
I roll my eyes, grateful he can't see me. Dante. Of course. Because one bodyguard sitting in the cold isn't enough. I need two.
But this isn't the moment to argue.
"Fine."
"Vittoria." Pietro's tone shifts again, something almost gentle beneath the authority. "Be careful. The Baganovs are allies now, but grief makes people unpredictable."
"I know."
"Call me when you're leaving."
"I will."
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone for a moment, at the dark screen reflecting my face. Then I slip it back into my purse and return to the armchair by the fire. I sigh and they must heard me.
Karolina glances up as I sit. "Everything alright?"
"Yes. Just letting my family know where I am."
She nods, understanding flickering in her red-rimmed eyes. "Of course. Your brothers must be protective."
"That's one word for it."
A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "Dmitri is the same. With all of us." Her gaze drifts toward the doorway where her brother disappeared. "Especially now."
Natalia shifts against her sister's shoulder, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks. "I don't want him to go," she whispers. "I know he was terrible sometimes, but he's still—"
"Shh." Karolina presses a kiss to her hair. "I know. I know."
Vladimir hasn't moved from his position by the fireplace. His arms remain crossed, his jaw tight. But I catch the way his throat works, the slight tremor in his hands that he hides by gripping his own biceps.
The fire crackles and pops.
I settle deeper into the chair, pulling my coat tighter around my shoulders. The warmth from the flames doesn't quite reach me.
We wait.
Dmitri
The door stands open. I pause at the threshold.
Aleksander stands near the window, his back to me. His shoulders are rigid, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He doesn't turn when I enter.
Oleg sits in a chair against the wall, elbows on his knees, head bowed.
Dr. Petrov hovers near the bed, checking monitors, adjusting tubes. Nurse Katya stands beside him, her face professionally blank.
And in the center of it all, swallowed by white sheets and medical equipment, lies my father.
He looks small. That's the first thing I notice. My father has never looked small. He filled every room he entered, commanded every space he occupied. Even after the cancer diagnosis, even as the disease ate away at him from the inside, he maintained that presence.
Not anymore.
His skin has taken on a grayish pallor, stretched too tight over bones that seem to protrude more than they did this morning. His breathing comes in shallow rattles, each inhale a battle, each exhale a surrender.
But his eyes.
His eyes find mine the moment I step into the room.
Pale blue, almost colorless. The same eyes I see in the mirror every morning. The same eyes that watched me kill my first man at sixteen, that assessed my every decision, that never quite showed the pride I craved.
Those eyes lock onto me now with an intensity that steals my breath.
I cross the room.
Aleksander finally turns, his face haggard. He nods once, then looks away. Oleg doesn't move, doesn't lift his head.
I pull a chair to the bedside and sit.