Chapter 17 Victoria
VICTORIA
I step out of the SUV in front of Maison Lyra, and Vitor's voice stops me before I can close the door.
"You need to hurry," he says, stress bleeding through his usually calm demeanor. "If Zakhar finds out you left the house, he's going to kill me. Actually kill me, not metaphorically."
"Thirty minutes," I promise. "In and out. He'll never know."
Hopefully. Zakhar knows everything. It's what makes him so effective and so terrifying.
I walk into Maison Lyra, the familiar scent of espresso and butter pastries hitting me like comfort and guilt mixed together. The lunch rush is starting, servers moving between tables with practiced efficiency, conversations rising and falling in waves.
Yesterday plays on repeat in my mind. The way Maksim held my hand in the SUV like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. The silent ride home where none of us spoke but we all felt the nearness of violence, the way death had brushed past us wearing Ramiz Krasniqi's poisonous smile.
When we got back to the house, Maksim's first words were about security. Upgraded protocols. No one leaves without explicit permission. Victoria especially stays inside until further notice.
I nodded. Agreed. Played the obedient wife.
Then waited until this morning when Zakhar was in meetings and Maksim was at the docks to convince Vitor that I needed one quick errand. Just one. Thirty minutes maximum.
I catch Jelena's eye from across the dining room. Make a subtle gesture toward the back. She nods once, sets down the wine bottle she was holding, and follows me into the office beneath the restaurant.
The space is quiet. Warm wood and soft lighting, the faint smell of citrus cleaner. The opposite of the chaos currently spinning through my head.
"What happened?" Jelena asks the moment the door closes. "You look like you haven't slept."
"I saw one of ours last night," I say without preamble. "At Ramiz Krasniqi's house. Young. Dark hair. I think her name is Aria."
Jelena's expression shifts. "Era. Her name is Era."
"You know she's there?" The question comes out sharp.
"I sent her there." Jelena crosses her arms, defensive already. "We need eyes inside the Krasniqi operation. Era volunteered."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"You sent her back?" My voice rises despite my efforts to control it. "Era was trafficked by an Albanian network. We pulled her out eight months ago. And you sent her back into their orbit?"
"Not the same network," Jelena corrects. "Different family. Different operation."
"It's all connected! You know this. These organizations talk to each other, trade information, share victims. What if someone recognizes her? What if they remember her face from before?"
"She's careful," Jelena says, but doubt creeps into her voice now.
"She's traumatized." I step closer, anger and fear making my hands shake. "She's one of ours. One of the women we saved. And you put her back in danger without consulting anyone. Without consulting Eryan Nis."
Jelena's expression hardens. "Maybe if you were more involved in the organization instead of playing house with the Severyns, you would have known about this situation."
The accusation lands like a slap.
"We need better intelligence," she continues, voice rising to match mine.
"After they lost that last cargo, the Albanians have been impossible to track.
Era volunteered to get close to the Krasniqi family.
To feed us information from the inside. I approved it because someone had to make decisions. Someone had to act."
Her eyes are blazing now, all the frustration she's been holding back pouring out in a rush.
"And speaking of the Krasniqi family, what were you doing at Ramiz's house last night? I thought the Severyn Bratva didn't have business with the Albanians."
The sarcasm in her voice cuts deep. Sharper than I expected. This isn't just anger about Era. This is about me. About choices I've made. About the life I'm living that pulls me away from the work we started together.
"They don't," I say, forcing my voice to stay level. "The Severyns don't have business with the Albanians. We were there because of my father's debts. Trying to smooth over a situation Arthur created before it escalates into war."
Jelena stares at me. Long enough that I have to resist the urge to look away, to break the connection first.
Finally, she exhales. Her shoulders drop slightly.
"I'll tell Era to leave," she says, quieter now. "We'll find another way to get the information we need."
Relief floods through me, sharp and immediate.
"Thank you."
"But Victoria." Her eyes find mine again, and there's worry beneath the anger now. "We need funds. Soon. The safe houses are expensive. The forged documents are expensive. Every woman we pull out costs money we're running through faster than we're generating it. We need a plan."
"I know." The words feel inadequate. "I'll figure it out. Give me a few days."
She nods, but skepticism lingers in her expression. Like she's not sure I can deliver anymore. Like she's not sure where my loyalties lie.
I leave before either of us can say the thing that will shatter what's left between us.
Vitor is waiting by the SUV, practically vibrating with anxiety. I slide into the back seat, and he pulls away from the curb with more speed than necessary.
The city passes beyond tinted windows. My reflection stares back at me, and I barely recognize the woman looking back. When did I become someone who lies to everyone? Who maintains multiple identities and hopes none of them fracture under the pressure?
Jelena's words echo in my head. Playing house with the Severyns.
Is that what I'm doing?
Maybe I could ask Maksim for an advancement on the payment we agreed to at the end of the marriage. Five million. More than enough to fund operations for years.
But the thought of asking him for money makes my stomach turn.
Because somewhere between the wedding and last night, between his kiss at the altar and his hand holding mine in the SUV, the money stopped mattering.
I don't want payment anymore.
The realization crashes over me like cold water.
I've developed feelings for Maksim. Real feelings. The kind that makes my chest ache when he looks at me. The kind that makes me replay conversations in my head, searching for subtext, hoping for meaning beyond the transactional.
And then there's Alexei. His kiss in the pilates studio ignited what Maksim sparked at the wedding. That wild, reckless energy that makes me want to laugh and surrender at the same time. The way he looks at me like I'm both the danger and the prize.
And Zakhar with his quiet intensity and the way he makes me feel protected even when he's suspicious. The way his rare smiles feel like gifts I don't deserve but desperately want.
I could tell them about Eryan Nis.
The thought forms and dies in the same breath.
There are too many lives at stake. Too many women depending on secrecy for survival. Too many moving pieces that could shatter if I misjudge their reaction.
I can't risk it. Can't risk them.
The SUV pulls up to the house, and my stomach drops.
Zakhar is standing in the entrance hall. Waiting.
His expression is neutral, but I know him well enough now to read the tension in his shoulders, the particular stillness that precedes violence.
Vitor parks, and I watch through the tinted window as Zakhar's gaze locks onto the vehicle. Onto us.
"Shit," Vitor breathes.
I open the door before he can try to protect me. Step out with my head high and my mask firmly in place.
Zakhar's eyes track the movement. Then shift to Vitor.
"I need to talk to you," Zakhar says, voice low and ominous. "Now."
It's a command, not a request. And the implication is clear. Vitor is about to pay for letting me leave.
I step forward before Vitor can respond.
"It was my fault," I say, voice carrying across the space between us. "I convinced him to take me. He tried to refuse, but I insisted. We were only gone an hour. We're back now. Safe and sound."
Zakhar goes still. Perfectly, dangerously still.
His gaze shifts from Vitor to me. Holds there with an intensity that makes breathing difficult.
"Fine," he says, each word deliberate. "I'll deal with you first. Then him."
He turns toward the interior of the warehouse. "Security room. Now."
It's not a request.
I follow him through the warehouse, past the living spaces and the gym and the kitchen. My heels click against concrete, too loud in the heavy silence.
The security room is on the ground floor, tucked away from the main living areas. Zakhar opens the door and gestures for me to enter first.
The space is small. Claustrophobic. One wall is lined with monitors showing feeds from cameras positioned throughout the property.
Computers sit on a desk, humming quietly.
The air conditioning can't quite keep up with the heat generated by all the electronics, and the room is warmer than comfortable.
The only light comes from the monitors. Blue-white glow painting everything in stark contrasts. Shadows and highlights. No middle ground.
Zakhar closes the door behind us.
The click of the latch sounds final.
My pulse accelerates. My palms are suddenly damp. The room feels like it's shrinking around us, the walls pressing in from all sides.
"Zakhar, I—"
"Do you have any idea what could have happened?" His voice is quiet. Controlled. Which makes it more terrifying than if he were shouting. "After last night? After walking out of an ambush by the skin of your teeth? You thought it was a good idea to leave this house?"
"I had to," I say, trying to sound calm. Reasonable. "There was an emergency I needed to handle. It was important."
"More important than your safety?"
"Yes."
He steps closer. I take an involuntary step back, and my shoulders hit the wall beside the monitors.
"You're infuriating," he says, voice dropping lower. "Stubborn. Reckless. Impossible."
Another step. He's close enough now that I can smell him—clean soap and masculine heat underneath. Close enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
"You drive me out of my mind," he continues. "I spend every moment wondering where you are, what you're doing, if you're safe. And then you pull a stunt like this. Disappear without telling anyone. Put yourself at risk because you can't follow one simple rule."
My lungs forget their rhythm. The air in the room feels too thin.
"I don't take orders well," I manage.
"I've noticed."
His hand rises. I think he's going to make his point with force.
Instead, his hand curves around my neck. The other slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head.
Then his mouth crashes into mine.
The kiss is angry. Hungry. Claiming. Nothing soft or tentative about it. Just raw need and barely controlled fury channeled into heat that makes my knees weak.
I should push him away. Should establish boundaries. Should remember all the reasons this is complicated and dangerous and wrong.
I don't even try.
My hands come up, fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. My mouth opens under his, and the sound that escapes my throat is pure surrender.
He makes a rough noise in response. His grip tightens in my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss. His other hand slides down my spine, pressing me against him until there's no space left between our bodies.
The room is too hot. The monitors cast flickering light across us, making everything feel unreal. Dreamlike. Like maybe this is happening to someone else and I'm just watching from a distance.
But the heat of his mouth is real. The strength of his hands is real. The way my body is responding, melting into him, meeting his aggression with my own, is devastatingly, terrifyingly real.
When he finally tears his lips from mine, we're both gasping. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his chest pressed against mine.
His hand is still on my throat. Not squeezing. Just resting there. Claiming me with warmth and pressure that makes my pulse race against his palm.
A claim.
A promise.