Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chace
Bleeders – Black Veil Brides
Istand at the barrier in a poorly tailored suit, because if I have to wear one, I prefer a Milano—classic, well-tailored.
This, though, is a monstrosity. Machine washable, not dry-clean only.
Can you believe it? It makes a certain sense when you consider it’s worn by someone acting in a security capacity of some sort.
It’s going to get filthy and throwing it in a wash when you get home is practical enough.
The material is a synthetic blend, so movement is fine, but the way it sits on my shoulders is distracting in a way I don’t appreciate.
I have a role to play here, so I remain constantly aware of everything around me. Shoulders relaxed, posture easy, a slight looseness in the stance like I’ve been on my feet for hours already. A faint frown held just enough to look natural.
Just another face in the faceless masses.
Appear at ease while everything inside me is sharpened to a lethal point, my gaze fixed on the stage as Trey is brought forward like a lamb to the slaughter.
Logan told me Trey’s earpiece stopped working.
Not unexpected. Trey can be quite hard on electronics.
He may have switched it off without thinking, or more likely lost it entirely.
It doesn’t matter. I accounted for some of the chaos that tends to orbit him.
All he had to do was make his way toward the stage without drawing too much attention.
Listen to them.
The crowd is in a state of rapture, voices rising and collapsing in waves of blind fervor. Fools. So many of them entirely convinced of their own righteousness. Their eyes are wide, feverish, consumed by it.
In the middle of it all, Trey walks onto the stage more cleanly than I would have expected.
What was his name supposed to be again? Theodore.
Given purpose, Trey is more than formidable.
He doesn’t falter.
He doesn’t know how to.
Most men would feel it, the weight of this many eyes, the hunger in them, the danger—but Trey just steps into it like he owns it, like this is just another stage and not a goddamn execution waiting to happen.
My breath catches, a dark grin pulls at my lips.
Pride.
Because if this goes wrong…there is no clean ending.
There is no recovery.
There will be only death.
I will shoot every motherfucker here if they stand between me and my brother again.
How that bloodhound found Logan with Lola…I regret not getting there first. But his showing was admirable.
My gaze locks on the moment Gideon steps toward him, black robes sweeping, arms open like a prophet welcoming his faithful, and I watch closely—too closely—for any flicker, any tell, any break in the illusion.
Gideon has, of course, seen straight through the disguise. Tipping him off that Trey would sneak in and cause a disruption was calculated, but it allowed me to predict exactly where Trey would be after reviewing the layout and confirming the details with his father.
Of course, Trey isn’t walking into the lion’s den. Not really.
Gideon just needs to believe he is.
A slow breath fills my lungs.
Good.
Then it’s time I play my part.
I turn before the crowd can shift again, before attention can snag on me, slipping sideways along the barrier with the same effortless confidence as the men stationed there, my suit doing half the work for me, my face doing the rest.
Ah, anonymity, what a wonderful tool you are.
I wear it well.
No one stops me as I move past the line, ducking under the barrier with a murmur of acknowledgment, a tilt of my head that says I’m expected, that I’m known, that I am not to be questioned.
Just like that, the noise dies.
It cuts off so abruptly it almost rings.
Out there, they’re screaming for salvation.
Back here…it’s quiet as the grave. No call of rapture being present...at least not at the moment.
The corridor stretches ahead of me, dimly lit.
Too easy.
You’re slipping, Galina. Too far removed from power—you’ve declawed yourself. It seems most of their security is out front, managing the crowd, controlling the narrative, protecting the image.
Which makes my hands a lot less dirty.
My steps don’t slow, but my awareness sharpens, each door I pass getting a glance, a pause, a calculation, my hand hovering just close enough to my jacket to reach the weapon beneath it without looking like I’m about to draw.
One room.
Empty.
Second.
Nothing.
Third.
Clear.
Good. All as reported. Unless, of course, Jonathon has decided to set an ambush for me at the destination he so kindly provided. A peaceful calm begins to settle.
If this place is still standing…
Niko was never here.
Because men like my uncle don’t get taken.
They don’t get cornered.
They don’t get caught.
Which means that smug bastard is probably waiting for me.
I do hope he has a tumbler of whiskey ready—with just a splash of water.
Entire families long dead have tried to bring Niko down, to drag him to his knees, to prove something to the world by ending him, and every single one of them learned the same lesson.
You don’t hunt a predator.
You can only hope to avoid him.
My father taught me how to build power.
How to take it.
How to hold it.
But Niko…
Niko taught me what matters when everything else is stripped away.
Loyalty.
Blood.
Fear.
There is a code, unwritten and passed down verbally. Everyone has a line they will not cross—usually rooted in self-preservation. Ours is simpler: do what is necessary for the good of tomorrow.
In this case, I suspect my uncle has deliberately stepped back to observe my resolve. I do hope it wasn’t his suggestion to leave backstage so lightly staffed, because that would feel a little like cheating.
Here we are. The floor manager’s room.
My hand closes around the handle.
I push it open.
There he is.
Niko stands in the center of the room, one hand buried in Galina’s hair, holding her on her knees in front of him, her spine forced straight, her chin tilted just enough that the gun pressed to her temple is unmistakable.
“I expected you sooner, Valentino,” he says, voice calm, edged with amusement, like we’re discussing dinner plans, and he doesn’t have a matriarch on her knees, “You’re losing your touch.”
A breath of laughter leaves me as I step inside, closing the door behind me with a quiet click.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Galina turns her head just enough to look at me, dirt smeared across her face, eyes still sharp, still calculating despite the position she’s in. I can almost admire it.
Almost.
“You wanted a conversation with my nephew,” Niko murmurs, pulling the slide of his gun back with a smooth, deliberate motion, chambering a round with a sound that cuts clean through the silence. “Speak.”
I move closer, unhurried, until I’m standing over her.
“What is this?” I ask lightly, tilting my head. “You drag my people into your mess and now you want to talk?”
Her lips curve, faint and unrepentant.
“It is how the game is played.”
Of course she believes that.
They always do.
Old blood.
Old rules.
Old ways of thinking that mistake brutality for strategy.
“I showed you my strength.”
A quiet laugh leaves me, my head tipping back just slightly before I look down at her again, something colder settling into place behind my eyes.
“You came at me through my friends,” I say, voice softening in a way that makes it more dangerous. “Through my family. And you think that earns you a seat at my table?”
Niko huffs a quiet sound that might be amusement.
“That’s the problem with your generation,” I continue, crouching just enough to bring myself closer to her level, though I still look down at her. “You don’t see the board. You’re so focused on the move in front of you that you miss the war happening around it.”
Her gaze hardens.
“What would you know about war?” she spits. “You are a child.”
A smile pulls at my mouth. “A child you want something from, hm?”
“Align with my family. Marry my granddaughter. Unite our families. That is what I want. What we can both benefit from.” “I’m already promised,” I tell her, almost casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t change everything. “Signed in blood. This month.”
That gets her attention.
“I don’t have time for alliances built on desperation and nostalgia,” I add, straightening again. “And I certainly don’t have time for women who overreach their hand. I am promised to the last female of the Russian throne.”
“Who?” she snaps, something cracking through her composure. “There is no royalty left.”
“And you said I didn’t understand the game,” I murmur.
Niko moves then, his foot slamming into her back hard enough to send her forward, her hands hitting the floor as she catches herself, his voice cutting through the room with sharp authority.
“You will not disrespect me,” she says coldly. “Tell me.”
“The last female of the Romanov bloodline.” I say.
Silence follows.
Niko smiles.
I don’t.
Because I already know what that means.
For me.
For what comes next.
For the price that’s already been paid.
Galina moves.
Her hand slipping toward her boot.
Her weight shifting.
Her intent clear.
We’re already ahead of her.
My gun is in my hand before she clears the leather, safety off, finger steady on the trigger, Niko mirroring me without even needing to look.
“I am a Draganov,” she snarls, dragging the weapon free. “We fight. We bleed—”
We fire.
Together.
Two shots.
Her body drops before the echo has time to settle.
“And you die,” I finish quietly.
There’s no pause.
No moment of reflection. Even at this distance with subsonic rounds, the report of gunfire will likely have this place more active.
I step over her body, reaching for the door. The room already filling with the scent of cordite and copper.
The corridor greets me the same way I left it—empty.
But that changes.
Footsteps approach fast.
I turn just as Sam comes into view, and for half a second, just a fraction, I think he’s carrying Seraphina.
Everything in me freezes.
Then I see her.
Smaller.
Younger.
Ophelia.
She buries her face into Sam, fingers fisting his shirt, her entire body curled inward like she’s trying to disappear, and Sam… Sam looks like he’s holding himself together by a thread.
“Logan and the mother?”
“We need to call an ambulance,” he says, voice rough, unsteady.
“Sam, answer me.”
“It’s fucked, we need EMT’s now.”
“No.”
The word is immediate, firm. His head snaps up, something like disbelief flashing across his face, but I don’t give it room to grow.
“South Gate. If she needs medical attention, take the rear exit—alarms are already silenced,” I tell him. “My team’s waiting. They’ll handle her. Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, man, but we can’t just—”
“We can,” I cut in, my tone lowering—a quiet reminder of exactly who he’s speaking to. “And we will.” The words land flatter than I intend, edged with something heavier beneath. “Bringing in authorities will only muddy the water…and I won’t have this spiral beyond our control.”
He looks down at the girl, then back at me, something unspoken passing between us.
Trust.
He nods.
Tightens his hold on her.
Then he moves.
I watch him go for a second longer than I should, my gaze drifting past him, back down the corridor he came from, wondering what he left behind.
Then I turn away. My earpiece goes off. Logan is already on his way out, Jonathon redirected him with a few other team members… it seems the mother didn’t make it.
“It seems we have lost the mother. It was self-inflicted. Shame too much to bear.” Igor speaks into my earpiece. I weigh his words for a moment. Trying to find understanding when it was too open for speculation.
It is why setting goals and achieving each is important, it fuels you, gives you purpose. Like why I am here.
Why I made the choices I made.
Why I signed the contract, binding blood to blood in a way that can’t be undone.
Not because I had to.
Because I chose to.
For Trey.
For Seraphina.
For their child.
For the men who stand behind me without question.
Power always has a price.
This one just happens to be mine.
And when the time comes…
I’ll pay it in full.