Chapter Seventeen
Mila’s POV
The sound of helicopters woke me before dawn.
I lay there in the grey light, listening to the rhythmic thump-thump-thump cutting through the sky and trying to remember what silence felt like.
The bed beside me was already cold, Alexei’s warmth long gone.
I pressed my palm against the sheet where he’d slept—a foolish gesture, like I could hold onto something that might not be mine.
Downstairs, the house had transformed into something alive and dangerous.
I pulled on one of Alexei’s shirts, which fell to mid-thigh, breathed in his cologne, and padded barefoot down the hallway.
The marble was cold against my feet. Voices rose and fell like a violent tide: Dimitri’s bark, sharp and commanding; Roman’s lower rumble, arguing about timing, about risk.
Guards moved past doorways like shadows, their presence felt more than seen.
My world used to be soft edges and psychology lectures. It used to revolve around quiet cafés where the most dangerous thing was a poorly written thesis. Now it was strategy sessions I wasn’t invited to, blood on expensive suits, and invisible wars fought in boardrooms and back alleys.
I’d crossed some threshold I couldn’t uncross.
The kitchen was empty when I reached it, blessedly quiet. I made coffee with shaking hands, watching the dark liquid pour into bone china cups. The normalcy of the act—measuring grounds, waiting for the machine to hiss and steam—felt absurd. Like playing house while the world burned outside.
“There you are.”
I turned to find Anya in the doorway, her smile bright but worried around the edges. She wore a soft pink sweater and jeans, her blonde hair pulled into a messy bun.
“Hey,” I managed, forcing my lips into something approximating a smile. “Coffee?”
“God, yes.” She crossed to me, pulling me into a hug that smelled like vanilla perfume and safety. “You look exhausted.”
“I woke up early.”
That was the understatement of the century.
I handed her a cup, and we settled at the breakfast bar, perched on stools like we used to in my tiny apartment, when my biggest concerns were exams and whether I could afford pizza.
“So,” Anya said, her eyes too knowing. “How are you? And don’t say fine.”
I let out a shaky laugh, it was almost hysterical. “What else is there to say?”
“The truth?” She reached across and squeezed my hand. “Mila, you can talk to me. I know this is… a lot.”
A lot. Such an inadequate phrase for the complete dismantling of everything I thought I knew. I stared into my coffee, watching the surface ripple with my unsteady breathing.
“Can we just… not?” I whispered. “Just for a few minutes, can we pretend?”
Her expression softened. “Of course. Okay. Um… wedding colors. I’m thinking blush and gold, but Vissarion wants navy. Can you believe it? Navy! Like we’re planning a nautical disaster instead of a wedding.”
And just like that, we slipped into the old rhythms. Anya chattered about centerpieces and whether certain decorations were too pretentious, and I made appropriately horrified faces at her future mother-in-law’s suggestion of an ice sculpture.
We laughed about nothing and everything, and for those precious moments, the walls weren’t closing in.
But then she sighed, shaking her head. “Sorry. I just… Mila, I worry about you. I know my brother isn’t evil at heart, especially to those he cares about, but… I also know he’s not the easiest person to deal with or even understand.”
“I’ve noticed,” I remarked in a light tone.
“He cares about you. The attraction part was clear pretty early, but I told you, you matter to him. A lot,” she uttered. “He’s obsessed with protecting you.”
My smile faltered.
Because she was right. I knew she was right.
I’d seen that look in Alexei’s eyes when he pulled me close. It wasn’t just desire or protectiveness. It was something darker, more consuming. Like he wanted to crawl inside my skin and make a home there, burn away everything that wasn’t his.
And the terrifying part? Sometimes I wanted to let him.
“He won’t let anything happen to me,” I said finally.
“Of course,” Anya’s voice was soft. “He’d rather burn a whole city than let you be in danger.”
We talked for another hour, strolling around the back of the house until Anya had to meet some lady in town about a fitting.
I was turning back toward the house when I saw him.
A delivery boy, no older than sixteen, was approaching. Thin, nervous, with dark hair falling into his eyes.
My feet carried me forward before I could think.
“Please, ma’am. I was told to give this directly to Mila Petrov. No one else.”
Everything in me went cold.
“I’ll take it.” I held out my hand.
The boy practically threw the envelope at me, his fingers shaking, before disappearing into the city like smoke. I stood there, snow beginning to fall, and stared at my name written in achingly familiar handwriting.
I couldn’t open it there. I couldn’t let the guards see or risk the cameras. So I walked back inside on numb legs, the envelope burning against my palm like a brand.
I opened it once I was in the hallway.
The letter was short. Brutal in its simplicity.
They’re coming. You’re not safe. Trust no one. I’ll find you.
My father’s handwriting. My father’s words.
I read it three times, each word carving itself into my brain, before the shaking started. I pressed my back against the wall and slid down until I was sitting on cold marble, the letter clutched in both hands.
They’re coming.
Who? The people who’d forced us to run? The Italians circling Alexei’s empire?
Did it matter?
Trust no one.
But I had to trust someone. I was drowning in a world I didn’t understand, surrounded by violence and secrets. Alexei was the only solid thing I had left—the only person who could keep me alive.
Except he was also the man who would hunt my father down with the precision of a wolf tracking wounded prey. He would kill him without hesitation, without mercy, if he knew.
I’ll find you.
A promise or a threat? Both, maybe.
I didn’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for my legs to go numb, for the snow outside to thicken against the windows. Eventually, I went into our bedroom and into the bathroom, folding the letter and hiding it under the sink.
Then I stood, washed my face, and tried to remember how to breathe.
**********
Alexei came home after dark.
I heard the commotion first—car doors slamming, low voices, the particular quality of silence that meant something had gone wrong. Or right, depending on the perspective. I was in the library, pretending to read, when he appeared in the doorway.
Blood spattered his white shirt. Not his—I’d learned to tell the difference. Other people’s blood, dark and drying at the collar and cuffs of his shirt. His knuckles were raw, split open in places. But his eyes when they found me were calm, almost gentle.
“Mila.”
Just my name. Like a prayer or an apology.
I set down my book carefully, my pulse thrumming. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Should I ask?”
“No.”
The silence between us was heavy, tactile, charged with everything we weren’t saying. I should have been horrified. Should have recoiled from the evidence of violence painted across him like war paint. Instead, I stood and crossed to him, my bare feet silent on the Persian rug.
He watched me come, utterly still, like he was afraid I might disappear.
“You should shower,” I whispered.
“I should.”
He reached out and pulled me into his arms. His hand cupped the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. “Are you all right?”
The question nearly broke me.
Because no, I wasn’t all right. I was terrified, confused, and hiding letters from my supposedly dead father. I was falling for a man who killed people before dinner and made love to me like he was trying to crawl inside my soul.
But in his arms, I didn’t feel like prey. I felt untouchable.
“Yes,” I lied.
He pulled back just enough to study my face, those pale eyes seeing too much. Then he kissed me—slow and deep and possessive, tasting like whiskey and danger. When he finally released me, we were both breathing hard.
“Shower with me,” he said.
**********
The bathroom was all marble and steam, large enough to house a small family. Alexei stripped off his ruined shirt and pants, revealing the lean muscle and scars beneath. I’d traced those scars with my fingers and tongue, learning the geography of violence written on his skin.
Now I watched him step under the spray, watched the blood and dirt swirl down the drain, and felt something twist in my chest.
He was beautiful. Terrible. Mine.
I undressed slowly, aware of his eyes on me through the steam. When I joined him under the water, he pulled me flush against him with a sound that was almost a growl.
“I thought about you all day,” he murmured against my temple, his hands roaming my wet skin. “Every meeting, every decision. You were there.”
“Alexei—”
“I can’t concentrate when you’re not near me.” His voice dropped to Russian, words I was beginning to understand through context and repetition. “Moya krasivaya zhena, eto svodit menya s uma.” My beautiful wife, it’s driving me insane
He kissed down my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point, and I gasped. Water cascaded over us both as his hands gripped my hips, lifting me easily. I wrapped my legs around his waist on instinct, feeling him hard and ready against me.
“I need you,” he breathed. “Tell me you need me too.”
I should have said no. But his fingers were between my legs now, skilled and relentless, and I was already trembling.
“Yes,” I gasped. “God, yes.”
He carried me out of the shower, both of us dripping wet, and laid me on the bed with surprising gentleness. The sheets would be ruined, but neither of us cared. He knelt between my thighs, water droplets sliding down his chest, and looked at me like I was something precious.
“So beautiful,” he murmured. “And all mine.”
Then his mouth was on me, and my brain went off.
He took his time, ruthlessly thorough, using his tongue and fingers until I was writhing beneath him, begging. When I finally shattered, he kissed his way up my body, leaving marks I’d find tomorrow—possessive little bruises that said ‘mine.’
“Please,” I whispered, pulling at his shoulders. “Alexei, please.”
He settled between my legs, the blunt head of him pressing against my entrance. Our eyes met and held. Then he pushed inside in one slow, devastating thrust that made us both groan.
This was different from before. Slower, but somehow more intense. He set a rhythm that was almost torturous—deep, controlled, each stroke deliberate. His hand slid up to wrap gently around my throat, not squeezing, just holding, a reminder of his power and his restraint.
“Look at me,” he commanded when my eyes started to drift closed. “Posmotri na menya.” Watch me.
I looked, and I saw everything in those pale eyes—desire and darkness and something that looked dangerously like love.
He shifted the angle slightly, hitting something inside me that made me cry out. His thumb found my clit, circling with perfect pressure as he drove into me harder and faster, the control fraying.
“Come for me,” he growled. “I want to feel you.”
“Alexei,” I moaned as I came apart, my nails raking down his back. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and spilling into me with a string of Russian curses.
We collapsed together, hearts pounding, skin slick with water and sweat. He rolled us to the side but stayed inside me, unwilling to break the connection. His hand splayed across my stomach, possessive even in the aftermath.
“I’ll never let you go,” he whispered against my hair.
“I know,” I whispered back.
And I did know.
That was the problem.
**********
Later, when his breathing had evened into sleep, I slipped carefully from his arms. He stirred but didn’t wake, one hand reaching for me, even in unconsciousness. I pulled on his shirt again and padded to the bathroom.
I pulled out the letter and stared at my father’s handwriting until the words blurred.
Trust no one.
But I trusted Alexei. I trusted him to keep me alive, to protect me with that terrifying single-minded focus. I trusted him with my body, maybe even with my heart.
I just didn’t trust him with this. If I told him, he would hunt my father down. He would kill him with the same cold efficiency he’d killed whoever had bled on his shirt tonight. And I couldn’t have that on my conscience.
So I kept the secret.
I hid the letter back in its place and returned to bed, curling into Alexei’s warmth. His arm came around me automatically, pulling me close. His lips brushed my shoulder, murmuring something in Russian I couldn’t quite catch.
Outside, snow fell silently. Somewhere in the city, my father was hiding. Somewhere, enemies were circling. Somewhere, a storm was building that would destroy everything.
But for now, in the dark, in Alexei’s arms, I could pretend we were safe. I could pretend this secret wouldn’t burn everything to ash.