Chapter 41 Victoria
VICTORIA
I stand in my bathroom, hair dripping water down my spine, each drop a cold trail against skin I've scrubbed raw. The towel wrapped around me feels too rough, terry cloth abrading my shoulders. The silence after tonight's chaos presses against my eardrums.
Hours ago, a gun was against my head.
Now I'm here. Clean. Alive. Trying to remember to breathe when your body still thinks it's dying.
The shower didn't help. I stayed under the spray until the water ran cold, scrubbing at skin that felt contaminated by Ramiz's hands, his breath, the wrongness of his touch.
Pink-tinged water spiraled down the drain with his blood.
I used the expensive soap, vanilla and sandalwood, my signature scent.
But underneath it I still smell fear. Sweat and terror and something metallic that won't wash away.
The water couldn't wash away the flashbacks.
Jelena dropping to the floor dead. Vitor's eyes, open and empty. Ramiz's breath hot against my ear. The gunshot that ended it, still echoing in my skull.
I pull on clothes with unsteady fingers. Oversized t-shirt, soft and worn. Baggy sweatpants hanging loose on my hips, drawstring pulled tight. Nothing elegant. Nothing requiring the careful construction of image. Just fabric against skin, comfort I don't quite feel but need anyway.
I towel my hair until it stops dripping, leaving it damp and tangled around my shoulders.
Like the first time I met them.
The thought surfaces unbidden. That day in my father’s office, me in a bikini playing confident socialite. Hair wet. Smile bright and fake.
I was performing then.
I'm not performing now.
I walk downstairs barefoot, each step deliberate.
My body moves differently than it did this morning.
Heavier, more cautious, like I'm relearning the mechanics of balance.
Trauma does that. Shifts how you inhabit yourself.
Changes the relationship between intention and action, between what you mean to do and what your nervous system will allow.
The living room is lit softly, lamps casting warm light across leather and dark wood. The fireplace hums, radiating heat that feels almost suffocating.
All three of them are here.
Maksim stands near the window, hands in his pockets, jacket abandoned somewhere. His posture is too straight. Contained.
Zakhar leans against the mantle, arms crossed. Carved from stone. But his eyes track me the moment I enter, scanning for injury with precision.
Alexei sits on the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles are white.
None of them speak.
They're waiting for me to set the tone. To tell them what I need. Whether to come closer or stay back.
The realization is both touching and exhausting. I've spent my life being underestimated, being dismissed, being treated as decorative and delicate.
These men see me as the axis their world spins on.
The responsibility of that is overwhelming.
On the coffee table, cheese and charcuterie boards sit untouched. Crackers arranged in neat patterns. Grapes glistening. Cured meats fanned like playing cards.
Alexei made this.
While I was upstairs scrubbing terror from my skin, he was in the kitchen slicing cheese and arranging fruit we don't want to eat.
The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh.
I inhale slowly, gathering myself.
Then I sit in one of the leather chairs. It squeaks softly under my weight.
"I need to know the truth."
My voice comes out hollow. Scraped. Hours of screaming and crying have left my throat raw.
Alexei moves immediately, rising from the couch like I've shocked him.
I raise one hand.
He freezes mid-step. The hurt on his face is visible, visceral.
But if he touches me right now, I'll shatter completely.
"About the Valkov Bratva," I continue. "About the Severyns. All of it. No more half-truths. No more protection. I need to know."
The room goes still.
Then Maksim moves, crossing to sit on the couch. Zakhar and Alexei follow. The three of them arrange themselves facing me. United front. Brothers.
Maksim meets my gaze steadily.
"What do you want to know?"
Everything.
"Start with the tattoo," I say. My voice wavers despite my effort at control. "The Valkov symbol."
I can't help the tremor that runs through me. That tattoo is branded into my nightmares.
Maksim's hand moves to his chest, pressing over his shirt where the scar tissue lies. Where he burned away the symbol he once wore. The gesture is automatic, touching a wound that never healed.
"You know my family was murdered," he says quietly. Every word measured, controlled, but underneath I hear old grief. Old rage. The kind that doesn't fade, just settles deeper into bone. "What I didn't tell you is who ordered it. Ivan Valkov. Head of the Valkov Bratva."
The name lands heavy between us.
"I swore I would destroy him." Maksim's jaw works. "I was fifteen, kneeling in my parents blood, and I swore on their bodies that Ivan Valkov would die by my hand."
He pauses. The grief in his voice isn't healed. Just buried under years of discipline.
"It took years to build myself into something capable of killing him.
Training. Planning. Becoming the weapon their deaths demanded.
" He looks at his brothers. "Zakhar and Alexei joined me when we met in Moscow.
Three orphans who decided revenge was worth any price.
We infiltrated the Valkov Bratva as soldiers when I was twenty-five. "
"Four years." Zakhar's voice is flat. "We spent four years proving ourselves to a man who deserved nothing but a bullet."
"We got that tattoo," Alexei says, touching his chest where new ink covers the old mark. "All of us. To prove we belonged. To get close enough."
Maksim's expression doesn't shift but I see the shame beneath it. The cost of what he became.
"Four years later, when we finally had his trust, we moved. Killed Ivan Valkov. Dismantled everything he built."
My lungs stop working.
"You're sure?" The words come out strangled. "You're certain he's dead?"
Zakhar's gaze sharpens. "I made certain of it." His voice is granite and regret. "I only wish we'd done it sooner. Before he touched you."
A tear slides down my cheek. I wipe it away, surprised by its presence. Surprised I can still cry after tonight.
Relief.
That's what breaks through the numbness. Pure, overwhelming relief.
The man who violated me, who stole something I can never get back is dead.
But underneath the relief, something sharper churns. Anger. Bitter and hot. Because I never got to face him. Never got to make him answer for what he did. Never got to watch him realize that the girl he destroyed grew into someone brave.
The men sitting across from me killed my monster before they knew I needed them to.
They avenged me before they knew I needed avenging.
The complexity of gratitude and grief and rage and loss all tangled together, threatens to split me open.
"As soon as we took control," Zakhar continues, "we changed everything. Ended the flesh trafficking. The drugs. The guns."
Maksim touches his chest again.
"I burned the tattoo off myself. Zakhar and Alexei had theirs covered with new ink. We tried to erase what we'd been."
"All the soldiers wore it on their chests," Alexei adds. "Ivan wore his on his hand. The hand that orchestrated everything."
"I didn't tell you sooner," Maksim says, looking directly at me, "because I didn't want to trigger you.
Didn't want to bring that symbol back into your life.
" He pauses. "And because recently, we found someone stealing from us who had that same tattoo.
Too young to have been one of Ivan's original men. We still don't understand it."
I close my eyes briefly.
"I might have an answer for that."
Three pairs of eyes lock on me.
"Ramiz told me," I say slowly, forcing the words out past the tightness in my throat. "Before you arrived. He was ranting, bragging. Said he hired someone to steal from you. To cause chaos."
I force myself to continue.
"He said he also recruited Vitor."
"I never expected that from Vitor." Zakhar's voice goes cold.
"People have their reasons," I say quietly. "Reasons we don't always understand. Like Jelena."
Her name cracks something in my chest.
"She betrayed me too." My voice breaks. "I trusted her."
Alexei shifts, drawing my attention. His skin is paler than it should be. Slight tremor in his hands. Jaw tight with tension.
I know these signs.
"You need to eat."
"I'm fine." His tone is dismissive.
"You're not." I gesture to the untouched food. "Your blood sugar is dropping. We should all eat. Then rest."
"I don't need food." Alexei stands abruptly, the movement too fast, barely controlled. "I need to know if you're staying."
The question detonates in the quiet room.
"Alexei," Zakhar starts.
"No." Alexei's voice splinters. "I need to know. Are you staying? Because I love you. I love you so much I can't—I can't fucking breathe when I think about losing you. I can't—"
His voice breaks completely.
The confession is raw. Desperate. Everything Alexei usually hides beneath humor and violence, laid bare and bleeding.
His entire body trembles now. Not just from low blood sugar. From fear.
From the very real possibility that tonight broke something we can't fix.
I look at him. At all of them.
These men who came for me. Who saved me. Who love me with a ferocity that should terrify me but doesn't.
Who I love.
It's been building for months, brick by brick, touch by touch, argument by argument.
But tonight stripped away every last defense.
Tonight showed me what matters.
"Yes," I say. My voice steadies. "I'm staying."
Alexei's knees buckle. He sinks back onto the couch, head dropping into his hands.
"I love you," I continue, looking at each of them in turn. Meeting their eyes. Maksim's controlled intensity. Zakhar's steady certainty. Alexei's wild, desperate hope. "All of you."
Maksim moves first, crossing to kneel in front of my chair. His hands frame my face, palms warm against my jaw. Gentle despite their capability for violence.
"We love you," he says. "Always. Completely."
Zakhar joins him, hand settling behind my neck. Solid. Grounding. His thumb brushes once against my collarbone.
Alexei stumbles forward, dropping to his knees beside Maksim. His forehead presses against my knee, his breath warm through the thin fabric of my sweatpants.
"You're staying," he whispers. Like he still can't believe it.
"I'm staying," I confirm.
Maksim's thumb brushes my cheekbone. Zakhar's fingers tighten on my shoulder. Alexei's hand finds mine, threading our fingers together.
We stay like that, the four of us tangled together while the fire hums.
I memorize this.
Tomorrow, we'll deal with the aftermath.
Tomorrow, we'll figure out what comes next.
The four of us.
Together.
Exactly how it is meant to be.