Chapter Twenty-Six - Dimitri
I’m in my study, pretending to work on contracts that don’t need my attention.
Really, I’m watching the monitoring feed Felix set up—tracking the burner phone Marco Santini slipped into Janice’s purse weeks ago.
The phone I’ve been using to test her, push her, see if proximity and understanding would be enough to override the offer of freedom.
The screen lights up with her response.
I’m done. I won’t be helping you. Don’t contact me again.
Short. Final. No explanations or justifications. Just a clean refusal.
I read it three times, something dangerous blooming in my chest. Not relief, though there’s that. Not triumph, though I feel that too. Something deeper. More permanent.
Certainty.
She chose me. Without knowing the manufactured contact was mine. Without knowing every message, every push toward betrayal was carefully crafted to test whether weeks of proximity would override the temptation of freedom.
She had the window, the opportunity, everything lined up perfectly—and she walked away from it.
I forward the message to Felix.
She refused. Test concluded.
His response is immediate.
You’re sure this proves anything? She could be playing the long game.
She’s not. I know her.
Knowing someone and trusting them are different things.
Not anymore. Not with her.
I shut down the monitoring feed and delete the tracking software. The burner phone will stop receiving messages now, turned off remotely without Santini or Janice ever knowing I read their correspondence. She’s loyal to me, and that’s all I need to know.
She passed.
The knowledge settles in my bones with a certainty I’ve never felt before. Not with allies, not with family, not with anyone who’s sworn loyalty then proven it negotiable when circumstances shifted.
Janice is different. Has always been different.
She admitted the contact to me days ago—confessed everything in my study with fear and honesty that cut deeper than any lie.
She didn’t know I already knew. Didn’t know I’d orchestrated the entire thing.
She just trusted me enough to be vulnerable, to confess her temptation and her ultimate refusal.
Now I have confirmation. The final message, sent when she thought no one was watching, proving her confession was genuine.
She chose me over freedom. Over revenge, over every logical reason to walk away.
I hear movement in the hallway—her footsteps, distinctive and familiar. She appears in the doorway wearing one of my shirts, hair loose around her shoulders, Misha cradled in her arms.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
“Misha was restless. I think she missed you.” Janice crosses to the couch, settling with the kitten in her lap. “I couldn’t stop thinking about tomorrow. About you being gone for hours.”
“Worried?”
“Always.” She strokes Misha’s back absently. “I know you can handle yourself. Doesn’t mean I like it when you walk into rooms full of people who want you dead.”
The casual concern in her voice does something to me. She’s not performing. This is genuine fear for my safety, the kind that only comes from caring too much.
“The Volkovs want alliance more than blood,” I say. “This whole thing is negotiation, not war.”
“This time.” Her eyes find mine. “What about next time, or the time after that?”
“Then I’ll handle it. The way I always do.” I stand, crossing to sit beside her. “You’re worrying about things that haven’t happened yet.”
“That’s what people who care do. We worry.” She shifts Misha carefully. “I spent so long trying not to care about you. It was easier when I could hate you. Now—”
“Now?”
“Now I wake up and my first thought is whether you’re safe.
Whether someone’s planning something I can’t protect you from.
Whether loving you means watching you die eventually because that’s how this world works.
” Her voice stays steady, but I hear the fear underneath.
“I’m not built for this kind of fear, Dimitri. ”
I pull her closer, Misha protesting the movement before settling between us. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“I don’t feel strong. I feel terrified and in love and completely out of my depth.”
“Welcome to my world.” I press a kiss to her temple. “I’ve felt that way since the moment you walked back into my life.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then: “Do you ever regret forcing this marriage instead of just letting me go?”
“Every day.”
Her head snaps up, hurt flashing across her face.
“I regret that I had to force it,” I clarify. “I regret that circumstances made this necessary instead of chosen. I regret that you’ll always wonder if what we have is real or just survival instinct dressed up as love.” I tilt her face up. “I don’t regret having you. Never that.”
“Even knowing I tried to destroy you once? Knowing I considered doing it again?”
“You didn’t do it. That’s what matters.” I stroke her cheek with my thumb. “You had every reason, every justification, every opportunity—and you chose me anyway. That’s not weakness, Janice. That’s strength I didn’t know you had.”
“Or stupidity.”
“Maybe both.”
She laughs, the sound soft and genuine. Misha makes an annoyed sound at being jostled, then settles back to sleep.
“She’s spoiled,” Janice observes.
“Completely. Your fault.”
“You’re the one who feeds her from the table.”
“She looks at me with those eyes. What am I supposed to do?”
“Have self-control?” She’s smiling now, tension easing from her shoulders. “You’re a ruthless underboss who commands respect through fear. A kitten shouldn’t be able to manipulate you.”
“She’s not just any kitten. She’s ours.” The possessive comes naturally. “Besides, you’re one to talk. I’ve seen you sneak her treats when you think I’m not looking.”
“She deserves treats. She’s been through trauma.”
“So have you. Should I start sneaking you treats?”
Her smile turns wicked. “Depends on the treat.”
Heat flares low in my gut. “Careful. Keep looking at me like that and Misha is getting relocated to the guest room.”
“She’ll be offended.”
“She’ll survive.”
Janice laughs again, and the sound fills something in my chest that’s been empty for longer than I care to admit. This—casual affection, playful banter, the comfortable domesticity of arguing about a spoiled kitten—this is what I didn’t know I wanted until I had it.
The next few days pass in careful normalcy.
Janice moves through the penthouse with renewed confidence, the weight of deception lifted now that everything is out in the open.
She still argues with me, still pushes back on restrictions, still asserts independence in ways that earn respect from my men.
There’s a difference now. An ease that wasn’t there before. She’s not performing or pretending or holding parts of herself back.
She’s present. Completely.
I catch myself watching her more than I should—the way she handles Misha with gentle confidence, the way she reviews contracts I leave out without being asked, the way she navigates conversations with Felix and Oleg like she’s always belonged in those rooms.
She’s not playing at being a Bratva wife anymore. She is one.
Three days after her final refusal message, I’m working in my study when Janice bursts through the door, Misha limp in her arms.
“Something’s wrong.” Her voice is tight with controlled panic. “She won’t eat, won’t drink, she’s burning up, and she keeps crying.”
I’m on my feet immediately, crossing to them. Misha looks terrible—lethargic, ears back, none of her usual fight.
“Call the vet. Tell them we’re coming now.”
Janice is already dialing, fingers shaking. I take Misha carefully while she speaks, feeling the heat radiating from the small body. Too hot. Dangerously hot.
“He said to bring her immediately,” Janice says, voice breaking. “Dimitri.”
“Get your coat. We’re leaving now.”
The drive to the vet clinic should take ten minutes. I make it in six, ignoring traffic laws and other drivers’ protests. Janice is silent in the passenger seat, one hand resting on the blanket covering Misha, her breathing too quick.
“She’ll be fine,” I say, not sure if I believe it.
“You don’t know that.”
“She’s survived worse. She’s a fighter.”
“She’s also tiny and sick and—” Janice’s voice breaks. “If something happens to her…”
“Nothing is going to happen to her.” I pull into the clinic parking lot with more force than necessary. “Come on.”
The vet examines Misha immediately while Janice and I hover. She’s vibrating with anxiety, hands clenched together to stop them shaking. I stand behind her, one hand on her lower back, feeling the tension radiating through her body.
“Mild infection,” the vet announces after several tense minutes. “Probably from the original injury site. The fever is her body fighting it off. We’ll give her antibiotics, keep her for observation a few hours, but she should be fine.”
The relief that crashes through Janice is physical. Her knees actually buckle, and I catch her automatically, pulling her against me.
“She’s okay?” Her voice is small, disbelieving.
“She’s okay. Cats are resilient. She just needs medication and rest.”
Janice nods, blinking rapidly. Then she turns and hugs me, really hugs me, arms wrapping tight around my waist, face buried in my chest. The embrace is desperate, grateful, completely unguarded.
For a moment, I just stand there, surprised by the spontaneous affection. Then my arms close around her, holding her while she processes fear and relief in equal measure.
I feel her tears soak through my shirt. Feel her shake against me. Feel the absolute trust in the way she lets herself fall apart, knowing I’ll hold her together.
This. This is what I’ve been working toward without knowing how to name it.
She realizes what she’s doing after a moment and steps back quickly, wiping at her eyes. “Sorry. I was so scared.”
“Don’t.” I cup her face, making her look at me. “Don’t apologize for that. You hugged me.” I stroke her cheek with my thumb. “You were scared and relieved and you turned to me without thinking about whether you should. Do you understand what that means?”
Her eyes search mine, uncertain. “What?”
“It means you trust me. Instinctively. Without calculation or performance.” The words come out rougher than I intend. “You reached for me because I was there and you needed comfort and your body knew I’d provide it. That’s—” I stop, throat tight.
“What?”
“Everything.” The admission costs me, but it’s true. “That’s everything I’ve been trying to build toward. You, turning to me without thinking. Trusting me with your fear and your relief and everything in between.”
She stares at me, understanding dawning. “I do trust you. Even when I shouldn’t, even when you give me reasons not to—I trust you anyway.”
The vet clears his throat diplomatically. “I’ll get Misha settled. You can pick her up in a few hours.”
We leave instructions and return to the car. Janice is quiet during the drive, processing. I let the silence sit, watching her from the corner of my eye.
“Thank you,” she says finally. “For driving like a maniac, and for caring about a kitten that wouldn’t have survived without you.”
“She’s ours. Of course I care.”
“Not just the kitten.” She turns to look at me fully. “Thank you for wanting me to trust you enough to hug you without thinking.” Her brows furrow. “For loving me, even though I’m sure I make it difficult.”
“Loving you is easy.” I reach across, finding her hand. “That’s why it works.”