25. Vera
VERA
Roman hasn’t said a word since we left Kuro-Tetsu.
He sits beside me in the back seat, staring through the window, his expression carved from stone. His hand is no longer wrapped around mine; both are clenched into fists against his thighs, the knuckles pale beneath the passing streetlights.
I want to say something. Anything. But after what happened in that restaurant, every possible sentence feels inadequate.
By the time we pull into the penthouse garage, the tension inside the car has become almost unbearable.
“Roman,” I say.
He doesn’t respond.
I reach for his hand, but he pulls away before I can touch him. The rejection stings, but I understand it. He’s not pushing me away. He’s just trying to hold himself together.
He gets out without a word, and I follow.
We ride the elevator in silence. When we reach the penthouse, Roman goes straight to the bar and pours himself a glass of vodka. He downs it in one swallow, then pours another.
I stand in the living room, watching him. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to make this better.
“I’m calling Lev,” he says finally. “We need more security.”
I nod, though he’s not looking at me. He pulls out his phone and dials, his voice low and clipped as he gives Lev instructions. I catch fragments of the conversation—double the detail, sweep the perimeter, no one gets close—and then he’s hanging up.
“It’s taken care of,” he says. “Lev’s handling it.”
“Okay.”
He turns to face me, and I can see the exhaustion in his eyes. “You should rest. Tonight was a lot.”
“I don’t want to rest.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “I don’t want to think about tonight, or Konstantin, or any of it.”
Roman studies me for a long moment. Then he sets down his glass and crosses the room until he’s standing in front of me. His hand comes up to touch my chin, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
“Then we won’t,” he says. “We can relax for just one night.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe that we can pretend, even for a few hours, that our lives aren’t spiraling out of control.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He nods and steps back. “I’ll have Oksana make tea. Go change into something comfortable.”
I retreat to the bedroom without another word. The closet is full of clothes Oksana has procured for me, but none of them feel right. I end up in a pair of soft pants and one of Roman’s shirts, the fabric loose around my shoulders.
When I return to the living room, Roman has changed too. He’s traded his suit for jeans and a black t-shirt, and he looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him in days.
Oksana has laid out a spread on the coffee table—tea and sweet treats, as well as non-alcoholic wine. Roman hands me a glass and takes one for himself.
“No alcohol,” he says, settling onto the couch beside me. “But it tastes almost the same.”
I nod, though the gesture makes my chest tight. It’s such a small thing, but it reminds me that everything has changed.
We eat in silence for a while. The food is simple but good, and I find myself relaxing despite the circumstances. Roman’s presence is steadying.
“Can I ask you something?” I say eventually.
He looks up from his plate. “Of course.”
“When did you know?” I pick at a piece of bread, not meeting his eyes. “About the baby, I mean. When did you figure it out?”
Roman is quiet for a moment. “A few days ago. You were showing signs, though I didn’t know for sure until the doctor confirmed it.”
“What signs?”
“The nausea. The fatigue.” He shrugs. “You stopped drinking coffee; that was the giveaway.”
I look at him, surprised. “You noticed all of that?”
“I notice everything about you.”
The words hang in the air between us. I don’t know what to say to them, so I say nothing.
Roman pushes his plate aside and turns to face me fully. His expression is serious, but there’s something softer there, too. Something I haven’t seen before.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “About the baby.”
“And?”
He takes a breath. “I don’t want you thinking this changes why I’m here. I didn’t marry you because I had to, and I’m not staying because I feel obligated.”
I blink at him. “Then why are you staying?”
“Because I want to.” His hand finds mine, his fingers intertwining with my own. “When I picture my future, you’re in it. Both of you.”
My throat tightens. “I wish it was that easy.”
“It can be.” He squeezes my hand. “You belong with me, and so does this baby. I’ll protect both of you with everything I have, even if it means killing everyone in my path.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him that nothing is simple, that Konstantin and Anton won’t just let us walk away. The words die on my lips when I see the look in his eyes.
He means it. Every word.
“I was scared,” I admit quietly. “When I found out I was pregnant, I was terrified. I thought you’d see it as a complication, or a burden.”
Roman’s expression shifts. “A burden?”
“I didn’t tell you right away,” I say, the words tumbling out. “I took a test, and I hid it from you. I was going to wait and figure out what to say, but then everything happened so fast...”
“Vera.” His voice is gentle but firm. “Look at me.”
I raise my eyes to his.
“I’m not angry,” he says. “I need you to understand something.” He leans closer, his forehead almost touching mine. “This child is not a burden. It’s a gift. Something I never thought I’d have.”
“You wanted children?”
“I never thought about it,” he admits. “Not until you. Now I want it so badly it fucking terrifies me.”
My eyes sting with tears. “You’re going to be a good father, Roman.”
He kisses my forehead. “We’re going to be okay,” he says. “I promise.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe that we can build a life together, that our child will grow up safe and loved. But the fear still lingers, a shadow at the edge of my thoughts.
“What if Konstantin tries to take the baby?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. “What if he tries to claim it for the family, or use it as leverage?”
Roman’s expression hardens. “He won’t.”
“But if he?—”
“He won’t.” His voice is steel. “I’ll kill him before I let him touch either of you.”
I lean into him, resting my head against his chest. His arm wraps around me, pulling me closer.
“We should get some sleep,” he says after a while.
I nod, but I don’t move. I’m not ready to let go of this moment yet.
Roman must sense it, because he doesn’t push. He just holds me, his hand tracing lazy patterns on my back.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. I let him guide me to the bedroom, let him pull back the covers and tuck me in. He slides in beside me, his body warm and solid against my back.
“Sleep,” he murmurs against my hair. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
I close my eyes and let the darkness take me.
I’m drifting in that space between sleep and waking when I hear a soft buzz. It’s followed by the glow of a phone screen.
Roman shifts beside me, his body tensing instantly. I can feel the change in him, the way he goes from relaxed to alert in the space of a heartbeat.
“What is it?” I mumble, still half-asleep.
“Nothing.” His voice is tight. “Go back to sleep.”
He’s already moving, sliding out of bed and reaching for something in the nightstand drawer. I hear the familiar weight of a gun being lifted, the click of a magazine being checked.
That wakes me up completely.
“Roman.” I push myself up on my elbows, my heart starting to pound. “What’s going on?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s reading something on his phone, his face illuminated by the screen. Whatever he sees there makes his expression go cold.
“Roman, you’re scaring me.”
He looks up, and I can see the fear in his eyes. Real fear, the kind I’ve never seen from him before.
“Get up,” he says. “Now.”
I’m out of bed before I can think, my feet hitting the cold floor. “What’s happening?”
“Lev sent a warning.” Roman moves to the closet, pulling on clothes with quick, efficient movements. “They’re coming.”
“Who’s coming?”
Before he can answer, the alarm system blares to life. The sound is a deafening, high-pitched wail that cuts through the silence of the penthouse.
Roman moves with lethal speed. One second he’s by the closet, the next he’s in front of me, his hand wrapped around my arm.
“Come with me,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument.
He drags me toward the hallway, his gun in his other hand. I stumble after him, my brain struggling to process what’s happening.
“Roman, slow down!”
“There’s no time.”
He stops at a section of wall that looks like every other section, then presses his palm against a panel I didn’t even know existed. A hidden door slides open, revealing a small room beyond.
“Panic room,” he says, pushing me inside. “Stay here. Don’t open this door for anyone but me.”
“Roman, I’m not leaving you.”
“No, don’t argue now.” His hands frame my face, his eyes boring into mine. “You’re staying safe.”
“I can’t just hide in here while you... do whatever it is you’re going to do.”
“You can.” His voice is fierce. “You will, because if something happens to you, if something happens to the baby, I will never forgive myself.”
I want to argue, want to tell him that I won’t be left behind, but I can see the determination in his eyes.
“Fine,” I whisper. “Go. But you damn well better come back.”
He kisses me, hard and fast. Then he’s gone, the door sliding shut behind him.
I’m alone in the darkness.
The panic room is small, barely bigger than a closet. There’s a monitor on the wall that shows feeds from security cameras throughout the penthouse, and I can see Roman moving through the kitchen with his gun raised.
I hear the sound of the front door being forced, followed by the crash of glass and the staccato burst of gunfire.
I press my hand to my mouth, stifling a scream.
The monitor shows men in dark clothing pouring into the penthouse. They’re armed, moving with the kind of precision that speaks to training. Roman takes cover behind the kitchen island, firing back with controlled bursts.
One of the men goes down. Then another. Roman is outnumbered, but he’s fighting like a man possessed.
I hear shouting, though I can’t make out the words. The gunfire is louder now, echoing off the walls of the penthouse. I can smell smoke through the panic room doors, or maybe that’s just my imagination.
On the monitor, I see Roman take a hit. He staggers, his shoulder jerking back, but he doesn’t go down. He keeps firing, his face a mask of concentration.
Then something slams against the panic room door.
I jump back, my heart in my throat. The door is reinforced steel, designed to withstand exactly this kind of attack, but the impact still makes me flinch.
A body hits the door again. Then the speaker to my left crackles.
“Vera.” It’s Roman, his tone strained but alive. “Stay put. No matter what you hear, you stay in there. Do you understand me?”
“Roman, what’s going on?”
“Promise me.”
I close my eyes, tears streaming down my face. “I promise.”
“Good.” I can hear him moving away, his footsteps heavy on the floor.
I press my hand to my stomach, to the life growing there, and pray.
Outside the door, the gunfire continues.