Chapter 32 #2
I scream as the woman who came to see me crumples to the floor. Another scream tears through the bar, and then there’s no more waiting. Just bullets, one after the other. Matvei empties the entire cartridge into Cillian, a single-minded execution.
I hit the floor, crawling toward the fallen woman, trying to lift her, when someone slams into me. My vision skews, colors warping, noise fading. My head… Did I get hit?
Matvei keeps firing. His body is trembling with fury, and his mouth is twisted with something feral. An avenging angel in black emptying hell into Cillian’s chest until the man’s eyes go vacant, bleeding out onto the floor.
Then Vadka is beside me, gasping, his hands trembling as he lifts the woman’s limp body into his arms. And then he breaks. Sobs rip out of him, uncontrollable. Seeing a big, scary, grown man on his knees weeping like a child breaks my heart.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
The bartender kneels beside them, hands shaking, whispering prayers or curses or both. Tears stream down her cheeks.
But me? I’m stuck. Frozen.
What just happened?
“Come with me,” Matvei says, pulling me to my feet, his voice a low growl. “You’re safe now. Come with me. I’m not ever letting you go.”
I don’t even know the woman. But she’s dead. She’s gone. Just like Cillian. The bartender lets out a keening wail, voice rising over the carnage. I’m crying freely now, barely aware of what he’s saying.
Matvei pulls me through the back door fast.
“My brothers will handle it,” he says, quieter now. Controlled. “We’re going home.”
My voice trembles. “His phone… he had an app. It would’ve triggered a bomb.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “You got the phone. You did good. You did so good.”
No. I didn’t.
“Because of me, people are dead. Maybe more than I know.”
“It wasn’t because of you,” he whispers into my ear, arms wrapped around me like steel. “This is war, baby.”
Hours later, we’re all back at the estate. The air is heavy, the grief thick, and we’ve gathered.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Matvei meets my gaze.
“You have nothing to apologize for. Name one thing you could’ve done differently?” His jaw clenches. “If anything, I’m the one who opened fire.”
Rafail stands, eyes burning. “The one to blame is dead,” he snaps. “Cillian O’Rourke broke the alliance. He was the one who pulled the trigger.”
Her. The woman. Vadka’s wife.
The bartender’s sister.
Vadka isn’t here.
Silence swallows us. Zoya sniffles softly, wiping at her eyes.
“You want someone to blame?” Yana speaks up, voice razor-sharp. No tears, just fire. “Blame his parents. They started this.”
She turns to me. “I combed through that drive you gave us, Anissa. I know everything now.”
Matvei shakes his head, but Rafail cuts him off with a raised hand.
“I swear to god, if you apologize, I’ll deck you myself,” he growls. “Your parents are the assholes. Not you. Was it your fault they put your brother up to this? No. We know the truth now.”
Matvei sinks onto the couch, his head in his hands.
I slide beside him and rest my head on his shoulder. “Rafail is right. It wasn’t you,” I say softly. “It was your parents. It’s time that you let all that go now.”
For a long moment, he says nothing. His breath shudders out of him like he’s exhaling years of guilt. And maybe he is.
“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m done carrying that shit. They don’t get to own me anymore.”
He tightens his grip around my shoulder.
It feels right. I need this. I need him.
Semyon sits across the room, nursing a drink. His white shirt’s unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“I went through the thumb drive,” he says, voice calm but weighted. “Thank you, Anissa, for having the presence of mind to grab it. It has everything—the Irish’s plans, every plot. There never was an alliance.”
Yana places a steady hand on his shoulder.
Rafail steps forward, his voice like thunder.
“I want to be clear. No one in this house is to carry guilt.” He jabs a finger toward me. “Anissa, you did what you had to do. He would've pulled that trigger. My men confirmed it—there were bombs, and they were wired to his phone. He was not bluffing.”
Why me? Why start a war over me?
Matvei speaks quietly, bitterly. “Turns out it wasn’t just Cillian. My parents were working with him. They’ve been playing us. Playing me.”
My stomach sinks. I still feel responsible.
Rafail clears his throat. “The Irish will retaliate,” he says. “Tonight, we killed one of their own. The Undertaker is going to come for us.”
His words land like stones.
“I’m not sure we can stop a war.”
Zoya pales. “A war?” she whispers.
Rafail nods, grim.
“This is how it works. We killed one of theirs. Doesn’t matter the reason. To them, there is no good reason.”
“And they killed one of us,” she says, her voice shaking. “Mariah…”
She breaks into a fresh sob. I wrap my arms around her. I'm crying, too, and I didn’t even know her. But I saw Vadka kneeling on the floor, holding her shattered body. I heard the sound that left his throat. That kind of grief doesn't need translation. My heart broke right along with his.
“What can stop absolute bloodshed?” Zoya asks. Her eyes are shining, furious and lost.
Rafail shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll call McCarthy myself. They’ll know he’s gone within the hour.”
A throat clears in the corner of the room.
Every head turns toward the shadowed edge of the space where an old hand rests on the cane’s handle, gnarled and steady.
“I have a few things to say,” Grandfather rasps. His voice is frayed with age, but it carries. “Just a few things.”
Rafail stiffens, arms crossed over his chest. Zoya lifts her chin, staring her grandfather down. Matvei’s arm wraps around my shoulders.
“Tonight,” Grandfather says softly, “we grieve the loss of one of our own. I did not know Mariah, but as the wife of one of my boys, I grieve her with the rest of you.”
He pauses and lets the silence settle before continuing.
“And yes, Cillian taking Anissa was an act of war. No one can deny that. The alliance is broken. Or maybe it was never formed to begin with.”
He glances at us, eyes sharper than they should be for a man his age. “But there’s something you young ones don’t understand yet.”
He smiles, not unkindly, and taps his temple. “In the old days, before technology did all our thinking for us, we studied the old ways.”
He looks to Rafail. “You’d be wise to get on the phone with The Undertaker. Immediately. Calm the storm before it hits. And you’d be wise to recall the ancient rule carved into the McCarthy family tree.”
“What rule?” Rafail asks, his voice hoarse.
Grandfather looks at him like he’s already disappointed. “Your family took one of theirs. They killed an innocent. With no provocation. Under Irish law, that triggers a six-month moratorium on open war.”
He looks at me next, eyes impossibly clear. “If The Undertaker is the man I think he is, he’s his father’s son. That boy would slit his own wrist before defying Irish law.”
Then his eyes flick back to Matvei. “You have six months, son. You know exactly what to do.”
And to Rafail: “You do too.”
Matvei nods. A six-month truce.
Grandfather looks to Zoya. Something passes between them, silent but heavy. Something I don’t understand yet.
Then Matvei turns to me and takes my hands in his.
“In front of my family,” he says, voice low but certain. “In front of all of us—while we’re grieving, while we’re broken—I want to take the first step in something right. You promised me, Anissa, that we’d break the chain. Start fresh.”
He swallows. “So I’m asking now. Will you marry me? Help me rebuild my family?”
Truth. Alliance. Hope.
“Atta boy,” Grandfather whispers, pumping his fist.
I nod, whispering, I won’t give this a second thought. I know my answer. “Of course I will.”
Matvei lifts my hand to his lips, his gaze locked on mine, and brushes his lips over my knuckles. Possession disguised as chivalry, and I fucking adore it.
“Oh my god.” Yana chokes up, dabbing at her eyes. “You two are killing me.”
Matvei pulls me to him and kisses my forehead so fiercely that I feel it in my chest. My eyes flutter closed, and tears fall.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so damn much.”
Six months.
Maybe Rafail can buy us six months of peace. But what happens after that?
Matvei catches my hand and laces his fingers through mine. His mouth finds my ear.
“A ring’s not enough for you, is it, my little witch?” he murmurs.
“No?” I tease. “What do you have in mind? You can’t cage me for life.”
“But I can,” he growls softly. “And I will. Any other motherfucker touches you, I’ll skin them alive.”
“And if I run?”
Sometimes I like to say shit just to hear him growl.