31. Vera
VERA
The ledger sits open on the desk between us. I can’t stop staring at it. Dmitri treated women and children like cargo, moved through ports and across borders like nothing more than inventory. Worse, Anton was part of it all from the beginning.
Roman hasn’t moved since he read that final entry.
He stands frozen, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
His eyes are fixed on the page, but I don’t think he’s seeing it anymore.
He’s somewhere else, Siberia, maybe, reliving everything his brother did to put him there.
“Roman.” I reach out and touch his arm. He flinches like I’ve burned him. “Talk to me.”
“He planned it.” His voice is flat, empty. “He not only framed me; he wanted me dead.”
“You’re here now. You survived.”
“I survived because I got lucky.” He pulls away from my touch and begins to pace the office, his movements sharp and agitated. “Those assholes. Dmitri had been planning this for months!”
I watch him, my heart aching. The rage I expect is there, simmering beneath the surface, but there’s something else too. Something that looks a lot like grief.
“They can’t hurt you anymore,” I say. “Dmitri is dead, and Anton?—”
“Anton is still out there.” Roman stops pacing and turns to face me. His eyes are dark, fathomless. “He knows what’s in this ledger. He knows it can destroy him. Do you think he’s just going to let us walk out of here with it?”
The implication hits me like cold water. “You think he’ll come for it?”
“I don’t think. I know he will.” Roman moves to the window and peers out through the gap in the curtains. “He’s been watching us. Even if he didn’t know the ledger is here, he’ll be watching us like a hawk.”
He turns back to face me, and I see the calculation happening behind his eyes. He’s already thinking three steps ahead, planning for the confrontation that’s coming.
“We need to move,” he says. “Now, before he realizes what we’ve found.”
I nod and move to help him gather the ledger and the other documents scattered across the desk. My hands are shaking slightly as I stack the pages, but I force myself to focus. This isn’t the time to fall apart.
Roman pulls out his phone and dials. “Lev. We have the ledger and everything else. Dmitri’s apartment was a dead end, but there was a safe here at the mansion.
Yes, I have it all.” He pauses, listening.
“How long? Shit. No, we’re leaving now. Have the car brought around to the service entrance.
Lev? Tell the team to be ready for trouble. ”
He hangs up and pockets the phone, then reaches for the ledger and tucks it under his arm.
“Stay close to me,” he says. “No matter what happens, you stay close.”
“I will.”
We move toward the door but before we can reach it, the sound of shattering glass echoes from somewhere below. Then another crash, followed by shouting.
Roman’s hand finds mine, his grip iron-tight. “They’re here.”
My heart lodges in my throat. “The back stairs?”
He nods sharply, pulling me toward a narrow hallway. It used to be servants’ stairs, back in the 1800s. The door at the end is hidden behind a tapestry, and Roman pushes through it without hesitation.
The staircase beyond is dark and steep, the walls close enough that I can brush them with my fingertips on either side. Roman moves fast, his footsteps sure even in the darkness. I stumble after him, my free hand trailing along the wall for balance.
“Where does this lead?” I whisper.
“Service entrance. Lev or Artyom should have a car waiting.”
The sounds of fighting grow louder as we descend. I can hear gunshots now, mixed with the crash of breaking furniture and the thud of bodies hitting walls.
Roman’s grip on my hand tightens, but he doesn’t slow down.
We emerge into a narrow corridor that smells of old stone and oil. Roman pushes through another door, and suddenly we’re in the mansion’s service wing, surrounded by laundry rooms and the industrial kitchen where Oksana used to prepare our meals.
The back door is ahead, a heavy steel number with a small window set into it. Through the glass, I can see the glow of headlights.
“There,” Roman says.
Before we can reach it, a figure steps out from behind a supply shelf.
Anton.
He looks different than he did at the council meeting. His suit is rumpled, his hair disheveled, and there’s a wildness in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. He’s not playing the polished underboss anymore. He’s a man with nothing left to lose.
“Going somewhere?” he asks.
Roman pushes me behind him, his body a shield between me and Anton. “Get out of the way, Anton.”
“I don’t think so.” Anton’s gaze flicks to the ledger under Roman’s arm. “I see you found what I’ve been looking for. Dmitri always was sentimental, keeping everything in one place.”
“You knew about the safe.”
“I knew there was a safe. I didn’t know where.” Anton’s smile is thin, bitter. “Imagine my surprise when I realized you’d figure it out. You always were the smart one, Roman. Too smart for your own good.”
Roman’s hand moves toward his waistband, where I know he’s carrying a gun. “This doesn’t have to end in blood.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Anton takes a step forward, and I can see the gun in his hand now, held low at his side. “All you have to do is hand over the ledger and walk away. You can keep the girl. I don’t care about her anymore.”
“You don’t get to decide what happens to her.” Roman’s voice is cold. “You don’t get to decide anything ever again.”
Anton laughs. “You really think you’ve won, don’t you? One council vote and you think everything changes. Nothing changes, Roman. The family will always need men like me. Men who do the dirty work, who get their hands bloody so the Volkonskys can keep theirs clean.”
“The family doesn’t need men who traffic in human lives.”
“The family doesn’t need anything.” Anton’s lip curls. “The family takes. That’s what it’s always done. That’s what it will always do. You can pretend you’re different, but you’re not. You’re just like the rest of us.”
Roman moves so fast I barely see it. One second he’s standing in front of me, the next he’s lunging toward Anton, the ledger forgotten on the floor beside us.
The two men collide with a sickening crunch. Anton gets off a shot, but it goes wide, shattering a window somewhere behind us. Roman tackles him to the ground, and they roll across the dirty floor.
I grab the ledger and press myself against the wall, my heart pounding. I want to help, but I don’t know how. I’ve never been in a fight in my life. I’d only be in the way.
Roman gets the upper hand, pinning Anton to the ground with a knee on his chest. His fist connects with Anton’s face once, twice, three times. Blood sprays across the floor.
“It’s over,” Roman snarls. “You’re done.”
Anton laughs again, blood bubbling between his lips. “You think this changes anything? Kill me, and ten more will take my place. The family will always need?—”
Roman’s fist connects with his jaw, and Anton’s head snaps to the side. He goes limp.
Roman stands, breathing hard. His knuckles are bloody, his shirt torn. There’s a cut above his eyebrow that’s dripping blood down his cheek.
“Is he...” I can’t finish the question.
“He’s alive.” Roman reaches down and retrieves Anton’s gun. “Not for long.”
The back door bangs open, and Lev rushes in with two of his men close behind. They take in the scene at a glance: Anton unconscious on the floor and Roman, bloody but standing.
“We need to go,” Lev says. “More of his men are coming.”
Roman nods and reaches for my hand. “Let’s move.”
We step over Anton’s body and push through the door into the night air. The car is waiting, engine running, and Artyom holds the back door open for us.
“Get in,” Roman says, his hand on the small of my back.
I’m halfway to the car when a sound behind us makes me freeze. It’s a groan, low and guttural, followed by the scrape of boots on concrete.
Anton.
He’s pushed himself up onto one elbow. His hand slips beneath his jacket and comes back with another gun, the barrel already swinging toward us.
“Going somewhere?” he rasps.
Roman moves faster than I can process, shoving me toward the car while turning to face Anton. “Get in the car, Vera. Now.”
I don’t want to leave him, but I’m not stupid. I scramble toward the open door, my eyes locked on the scene unfolding behind me.
Anton pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly but managing to stay upright. His eyes are wild, because he knows this is his last chance.
“You think you’ve won?” he snarls. “You think this is over?”
Roman doesn’t answer. He’s already moving, his body coiled like a spring.
The first shot goes wide, pinging off the car door just inches from where I’m standing. I cry out, stumbling back against the vehicle.
“Stay down,” Roman orders, his voice sharp.
Except Anton isn’t done. He fires again, this time aiming for Roman. The bullet slams into Roman’s side just below his ribs, tearing through his shirt and drawing a sharp hiss of pain from between his teeth.
Roman draws the gun and pulls the trigger. Instead of a gunshot, a dry click cuts through the air. My stomach drops. The gun is empty.
Roman doesn’t flinch. He keeps moving, closing the distance between them with terrifying speed. He’s like a predator, all lethal grace and focused intent, while Anton is clumsy and wild.
The next shot goes wide again, shattering a window somewhere in the mansion behind us. Then Anton’s gun clicks, empty.
He stares at it for a moment, disbelief warring with fury on his face. Then he throws it aside and lunges for Roman, his hands reaching for his throat.
Roman sidesteps easily, letting Anton’s momentum carry him past. Then he’s behind him, his arm wrapping around Anton’s neck in a chokehold that looks effortless.
Anton struggles, clawing at Roman’s arm, but it’s no use. Roman’s grip is like iron, his face cold and impassive as he cuts off Anton’s air.
“You should have stayed down,” Roman says, his voice low and deadly. “You should have accepted defeat.”
Anton’s face is turning purple, his eyes bulging as he fights for breath. His struggles become weaker, his movements more frantic.
I want to look away, but I can’t. I’m frozen in place, my hand pressed to my mouth as I watch the life drain out of him.
Finally, his body goes limp. Roman holds him for a moment longer, then drops him to the ground like trash.
He stands over Anton’s body for a long moment, his chest heaving. Blood is splattered across his face. Then he turns to me, and his eyes soften slightly when they meet mine.
“It’s over,” he says. “Get in the car.”
He reaches for my hand, but before our fingers can touch, he hisses in pain. The stain across his shirt has spread, far darker and wider than it was a minute ago.
I stare at it, my mind refusing to process how much of it there is.
Roman stumbles, his hand going to his side. His face is pale, his breathing ragged.
“Roman?”