Chapter 40
Roman
Consciousness returns like a slow tide over broken glass. I don’t move. I catalogue the damage—stiff back, sore jaw, the dull ache in my head—and file it away. It’s manageable. It’s nothing.
Zoya is a warm weight against my flank. Her breathing is even, a soft rhythm that steadies my pulse. I shift a fraction, testing my range of motion, and she murmurs something unintelligible, burrowing closer into the sheets.
She looks fragile, but I know better. I saw her behind the wheel of that van. I saw the wild look in her eyes when she told me she wouldn’t let me die. She is a dangerous thing now, forged in the fire of her father’s fake funeral and the savage gift he left behind.
I climb out of bed and pull on a pair of joggers and a tee, heading downstairs, which is a bustle of the usual noise and the smell of coffee.
The chef is busy in the kitchen when I enter and grab a mug of strong, black coffee.
My younger brother Damien sits at the island with a cheerful grin I want to punch off his face.
Laszlo is nursing a mug with a hand that looks like a bruised plum.
He lifts it in a mock salute as I join them on a barstool.
“You look like shit,” Las offers.
“You look worse,” I reply. I hold a hand up to Damien before he can speak. “I don’t want to hear a word about it from you.”
“What did I do?” he asks, taking a slow sip from his mug.
“You were born under a golden moon,” I grouse, more pissed off than usual because of the thumping in my head. “Where is Katya? I need painkillers before my head kills me.”
Laszlo shrugs, wincing as the movement pulls at his injuries. “Haven’t seen her. Probably sharpening knives in the cellar or burying some bodies under the rose bushes.”
“Or maybe she finally got sick of your face,” Damien chimes in, dodging the crust of toast Laszlo flicks at him.
“I need pills, not comedy,” I growl.
“She’s gone,” a voice says from the doorway.
Zoya steps into the room. She is dressed in a sports bra and yoga pants, her hair tied up in a messy bun.
“Gone where?”
“To handle business. She left last night.”
My jaw tightens until my teeth ache. Katya is my fail-safe, the one person I trust to put a bullet in anyone who gets past me. “And you let her?”
Zoya moves to the high cabinet, which the chef takes a second out of his perfectly timed schedule to point at. She stands on tiptoes to reach a box of paracetamol, but Damien is there, reaching up with ease and pops two out. She smiles at him.
“Damien Voronov,” he says with that charming smile.
“Zoya Antonova. You are Roman’s brother?”
He nods and sits his arse back down, knowing I’m about to go feral and beat him to a pulp.
Zoya looks back at me and rests her hands on the marble counter. “I encouraged her. She needs to do this.”
I swallow the pills dry, staring at her. She conspired with my housekeeper while I was unconscious. That streak of independence is going to be the death of me, or someone else. “Fair enough. She was yours to instruct. Will she be back?”
“She says she will be. But I don’t know when.” Her eyes avert to Laszlo. “You are also a Voronov. I can see it in the eyes.”
“Cousin to these two duraki,” he says.
“Get out of my kitchen,” the chef growls, and we all pick up our mugs and move out, bumping into Andrei as we move to the dining room.
“Everything secure?” I ask.
“Perimeter tight,” Andrei answers. “Gate cameras flagged two passes overnight—a fox and a delivery van.”
“Good.”
“Pakhan incoming,” a guard says, moving into view.
“Set another place,” I say as I sit at the head of the table.
Baron arrives moments later like weather. The house shifts a degree colder when he steps through the arch, coat still wet from the mist, eyes taking in faces, bruises, scorched edges. He nods at Andrei, glares knowingly at Laszlo’s ribs and Damien’s insolent ease, then fixes on me.
“Breakfast,” he says. Not a question.
“Coffee,” I answer, and a footman ghosts it in. He doesn’t drink. He sits. We do the same.
He studies Zoya a beat too long for courtesy. “You lived.”
“I did,” she says, voice even. “So did the men I needed.”
He approves without smiling. He turns back to me. “You were hit.”
“On the switch,” I confirm. “Three. Mercenaries. Not house faces.”
“Dead?”
“Two. One crawled away with a broken knee and regret.”
“Mercenary won’t be back.”
“Figured it was Nik’s contingency.”
Baron just nods and sits back as breakfast is placed in front of him. He waits for the staff to leave before he speaks again.
“The shipment is coming in later. So far, so good.”
“No hiccups on the docks?”
“None that we can see. You will meet with the dealer at five.”
I nod and glance at Zoya. Her eyes dart from Baron to me. Her face is granite, but I know why. She has absolutely no idea what she is supposed to do with her own family and their deals.
“I will take you to the townhouse after breakfast,” I say to her. “You will call your men to debrief you.”
A flash of relief passes over her face before it’s gone. “Thank you. I’ll get ready.”
She disappears, and I watch her go.
Baron slices his bacon like a surgeon with a scalpel. The silence stretches until he is sure she is out of earshot.
“She has spine,” he says, not looking up. “But spine snaps if the weight is too heavy.”
“She drove a van into a mercenary. I think the weight is fine.”
Baron ignores the statement. His gaze locks on mine. “Alexey is a survivor. He follows power. Make sure she wields it, Roman. If they think you are the hand inside the glove, they will resent her and target you.”
“She will.”
“You go alone later, understood. This is Voronov business, not Antonov.”
“You don’t need to explain it to me, Pakhan. I am aware that we are two different families with two different objectives.”
“Does she?”
“I think she has enough on her plate worrying about her family than adding to it worrying about ours.”
“Think isn’t a reassurance. Know it, Roman. There are some things you cannot share. Same goes for her.”
“I know.”
He stands, satisfied or at least finished with the lecture.
He leaves without a backward glance, taking the temperature of the room with him.
I down the rest of the coffee, grimacing as the heat hits my empty stomach, and push away from the table.
My ribs protest the movement, a sharp reminder of the giant and the van. I ignore it. Pain is just noise.
Upstairs, Zoya stands before the mirror. She has swapped the yoga gear for a tailored navy dress that screams business rather than funeral. It fits her perfectly. She is fixing a diamond stud in her ear, her fingers steady, though her eyes in the reflection betray the storm inside.
She meets my gaze. “Do I look like I know what I’m doing?”
“You look like you own the building you’re standing in.” I step close, careful not to touch her, not to wrinkle the image she’s constructed. “Remember, you don’t ask him for updates. You demand them. You don’t ask for permission to sit at your father’s desk. You take the chair.”
She exhales, a sharp hiss of air. “Right. Take the chair.”
“Give me ten minutes, and we will leave.” I hesitate.
She chews her lip. “What?”
“This goes against every fibre of my being, but I will have to leave you there.”
“I know. If you are standing by my side, everyone will wonder if this is a merger. It’s okay. I can do this. Alexey respected my father. He vowed to me yesterday. I trust him.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” she replies. “If I can’t handle this alone, then I have no business leading these men.”
She’s right, but I will still worry.
I turn from her and get dressed, knowing I’ve got my own business to attend to. Legal and illegal. It won’t keep my mind off her, though.
Ten minutes later, we are driving through traffic to Kensington in her white Range Rover Evoque.
The townhouse looms, and I kill the engine but don’t unlock the doors immediately. My knuckles show white on the wheel. Leaving her here, unprotected by my direct line of sight, feels like carving out a piece of my own lung.
“Roman,” she says, voice soft but steady. “Unlock the door.”
I turn to her. She sits straight, the diamond studs catching the sunlight, her face composed into a mask of authority. She is ready, even if I am not.
“These men respect strength. Give them an order, don’t ask for a favour.”
She turns to me, her eyes dark and unreadable. “I know. Go. Be a lawyer. Be a Voronov. I have this.”
I exhale a breath that burns my throat. “Don’t let them see you bleed.”
“I only bleed for you,” she murmurs.
I hit the unlock button and hand her the new key for the front door. She takes it with a wry smile. I get out of the car and move around to help her out. Then I hand her the keys.
“Thanks,” she says quietly. “I’ll see you back at home later.”
“I’m leaving someone stationed outside. If you need help, scream.”
“I will,” she says, but I’m not sure if she means it. She rises on her tiptoes to kiss me, and I step back, letting her go.
Yuri is waiting for me, and I slide into the backseat, watching as she enters the house and closes the front door. I check to make sure the guards are in place, then I cut the string.
“Drive,” I say to Yuri. “Before I change my mind.”