Chapter Nineteen
Mila’s POV
I woke to muscles that ached in places I hadn’t known could ache, and a hollow feeling in my chest that had nothing to do with the physical.
The bed beside me was empty again. Cold again. I could hear shuffling sounds as I moved close to the window.
I pulled on clothes quickly—jeans, a sweater, and thick socks against the perpetual cold of the marble floors. The voices grew louder as I descended the stairs. Not quite shouting, but close—the kind of controlled intensity that meant something had happened. Something bad.
I found them in the foyer.
Viktor stood at the center of a cluster of guards, his usually calm expression tight with urgency. Dimitri was there too, barking into a phone in rapid Russian. And Alexei—
Alexei stood like the eye of a hurricane, perfectly still while chaos swirled around him. He was dressed in all black, his pale eyes cold and calculating as he gave orders with the quiet authority of someone who’d never had to raise his voice to be obeyed.
He looked like a god of war. Beautiful and terrible and absolutely merciless.
“—every entrance, every exit,” he was saying. “I want security footage from the last seventy-two hours reviewed. Someone slipped information out of this estate, and I want to know who and how.”
My stomach dropped.
“What happened?” I asked, my voice smaller than I’d intended.
Every head turned toward me. The guards’ expressions were carefully neutral, but I could feel their assessment. Viktor looked calm while Dimitri just looked grim.
Alexei’s gaze landed on me, his suspicion feeling like a physical thing. Sharp. Searching. Looking for something I desperately hoped he wouldn’t find.
“There’s been a breach,” he said quietly. “Someone fed information to the Italians. They have one of our supply routes mapped, locations of three safe houses—details they shouldn’t have access to.”
My first thought was of my father. Had he done this? Had his contact with me somehow exposed the estate’s security? Or worse—was he working with the Italians, using me as his way in?
The second was the man standing right in front of me. My husband.
“How?” The word came out as a whisper.
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.” He crossed toward me slowly, each step measured. When he was close enough to touch, he stopped. “Did you sleep well?”
The question was so normal, so domestic, that it felt obscene given the context. But I understood what he was really asking: Where were you? What do you know? Are you involved?
“Fine,” I managed. “I slept fine.”
His eyes narrowed slightly—he knew I was lying, could always tell—but he didn’t push. Not here. Not in front of the others.
“Go have breakfast,” he said softly. “This doesn’t concern you.”
It was a dismissal. A gentle one, maybe, but still a dismissal. And the subtext was clear: Stay out of this. Stay safe. Don’t make me doubt you.
Too late for that last one.
I nodded mutely and fled toward the kitchen, my heart hammering against my ribs. Behind me, the voices resumed.
I made it to the kitchen and collapsed into a chair, my hands shaking too badly to even attempt making coffee. The letter was still hidden upstairs, tucked behind cleaning supplies like a ticking bomb. My father’s words echoed in my skull.
Trust no one.
But I had to trust someone. Didn’t I?
The problem was, I didn’t know who that someone could be anymore.
**********
I was still sitting there, staring at nothing, when Anya found me an hour later.
“Hey, you.” She swept into the kitchen with her usual brightness, but it dimmed when she saw my face. “Mila? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” The lie tasted bitter. “Just tired.”
“Bullshit.” She poured two cups of coffee and sat across from me, her expression shifting from concerned friend to something more serious. “Viktor told me what happened. The breach. Everyone’s on edge.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“I didn’t say you did.” But her eyes were too knowing, too gentle. “Mila, are you… are you hiding anything?”
The question landed like a blow.
I looked at her—my best friend, maybe the only person left in the world who’d known me before all this.
Before Alexei, before the violence, before I’d learned to sleep with bruises on my throat and lies on my tongue.
She would understand, wouldn’t she? She would help me figure out what to do about my father, about the letters, about the impossible position I’d found myself in.
I opened my mouth to tell her everything.
Then I imagined Anya going to Viktor. Viktor asking Alexei if he knew about all of it. Alexei’s face when he realized I’d hidden information that could affect the safety of everyone in this house—and that it came from someone else and not me.
The consequences would be worse than silence. So much worse.
“No,” I whispered. “I’m not hiding anything.”
Anya studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she reached across and squeezed my hand. “If you were, you know you could tell me, right? I wouldn’t judge. I’d just… I’d want to help.”
Tears burned the back of my throat. “I know.”
“Alexei cares deeply about you.” She said it gently, like she was trying to convince me of something I should already believe. “Whatever’s happening, whatever you’re afraid of—he’d protect you. You know that, right?”
“Would he?” The question escaped before I could stop it. “Or would he just eliminate the threat?”
Understanding flickered across her face. “You’re afraid he’d choose the Bratva over you.”
“No, I know he’ll choose me,” I said, chuckling wryly.
“Exactly!”
That’s what makes it worse, dear friend.
**********
I spent the afternoon in the library before heading to our bedroom.
I sat by the window, tracing my fingers over my stomach absently, a nervous habit I’d developed in the last few weeks. The light outside faded from grey to black, winter darkness swallowing the city whole. I watched snow begin to fall in thick, silent flakes.
I heard him before I saw him—the quiet footsteps, the way the air seemed to shift when he entered a room. He didn’t say anything as he crossed to the window seat and sat beside me, close enough that I could feel his warmth but not quite touching.
We sat in silence for a long moment, watching snow fall.
“Did you find them?” I asked finally. “The person who leaked the information?”
“Not yet.” His voice was tired in a way I rarely heard. “But we will.”
“And then?”
“Then I’ll kill them.” Said so simply, like he was discussing the weather. “Slowly, if they’ve endangered anyone I care about.”
I should have been horrified. Should have recoiled from the casual violence in his words. Instead, I just felt impossibly sad.
“Does it ever bother you?” I whispered. “The killing?”
He was quiet for so long, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then: “No. Not the way you think it should.”
“Why not?”
“Because every person I’ve killed was trying to kill me first. Or kill someone I protect. Or take something that belongs to me.” He turned to look at me, his pale eyes reflecting the falling snow. “I don’t kill for pleasure, Mila. I kill to survive. To protect what’s mine.”
“Is that supposed to make it better?”
“It’s supposed to make it true.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle despite everything. “You want me to be someone I’m not. Someone softer, kinder. Someone who could let threats walk away because mercy is noble.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” His thumb brushed my cheekbone. “You look at me and see two men. The one who touches you like you’re precious. And the one who kills without flinching. You’re waiting to see which one wins.”
The accuracy of it stole my breath.
Because he was right. That was exactly what I saw when I looked at him—two versions of the same man, constantly at war.
The Alexei who held me while I cried, who whispered Russian endearments against my skin, who made me feel safe and cherished and utterly claimed.
And the Alexei who came home covered in blood, who gave execution orders over breakfast, who would destroy anything and anyone who threatened what was his.
When the truth about my father comes out, which part of him will win?