Chapter 29
VIKTOR
The barrel is centered on Mikhail’s chest, but I can see the indecision in Anya’s stance from here. Her grip is steady, but I see the tension in her fingers and the stiffness in her wrist. She is forcing control into her body with sheer will. She’s terrified.
Mikhail’s smile falters for only a moment before he recovers.
For the first time, he looks genuinely amused, like he doesn’t think she’s really going to do it.
The guards flanking him react more definitively, shifting their weapons toward Anya arm instead of toward me.
They are planning to disarm her before she can pull the trigger.
Mikhail keeps his voice calm, because he still thinks he controls her.
“You don’t want to do this,” he tells her. “You shoot me, you’ll be dead in seconds.”
Anya’s jaw tightens. Her finger settles on the trigger and then hesitates.
I don’t think her hesitation is fear. I’ve seen her fight off three grown men in an alleyway.
I’ve stood shoulder to shoulder with her in a shootout.
If anything, her hesitation is because she doesn’t want to be like us.
She doesn’t want to be an executioner, even if her target is her worst nightmare.
I close the last distance in three long strides. Sergei drops the nearest guard the second the man raises his weapon toward me, and the body falls into the floral arch hard enough to drag fabric down with it. The wedding décor starts collapsing around us, and the symbolism is almost too perfect.
Anya sees me step into her space and her eyes flash hot. Even with her gun trained on Mikhail, she’s ready to fight me off too if I get in her way.
“You don’t want to kill him,” I say to her, my voice low and gentle. “That isn’t who you are.”
She glares like she wants to argue, but her eyes flick to Mikhail again. Her grip tightens. Mikhail just smirks at her like he knows he’s got her right where he wants her.
“I want him dead,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Then let me do it,” I say softly, just loud enough for her to hear me.
My hand wraps around hers and she relaxes just enough to surrender the gun to me. Mikhail chooses that second to move. He clears his jacket, gun coming up, and I see the calculation in his eyes.
I use the only advantage I have, which is speed and certainty. I pivot so Anya is behind my shoulder, then raise the weapon in my hand without losing line of sight. Mikhail lifts his gun at the same time. I fire first.
The shot hits him in the chest and forces the breath out of him. His face changes quickly, and he staggers back into the flowers. His guards surrender the moment he hits the ground. I’m not even sure if he’s dead yet, but their loyalty was only to a paycheck.
I take the second shot without hesitation.
It goes cleanly through his head, and I watch as the light leaves his eyes.
It feels a little anticlimactic after everything he’s put us through.
The only thing that matters, though, is that he’s dead.
And that is satisfaction enough. Consequences can come later.
Guests scream at the turn of events. I shout orders to my men to wrap it up and retreat. One of Mikhail’s guards must signal to another, because they all stop shooting and stand down.
My men tighten the perimeter. Sergei and Misha’s crew sweep through the remaining pockets of resistance, forcing weapons down and putting down anyone who tries to be heroic.
The rest of the guards retreat or freeze, suddenly aware that they are now standing on the wrong side of a room full of witnesses.
I turn toward Anya.
She is staring at Mikhail’s body with composed expression on her face. Her hands are empty now. Her fingers twitch once at her sides, and her breathing is shallow. I can tell she is holding herself together with stubbornness alone.
“He’s dead,” she says in a low voice.
“He is,” I confirm.
Her eyes narrow at me. “I would have shot him,” she says proudly. “You didn’t trust me to do it myself.”
“Of course I did,” I tell her. “It’s one thing to shoot a man who’s shooting at you. Shooting a man point-blank changes you. You don’t deserve to have to live with that.”
I see the moment she processes my words, and she finally just nods and takes a breath. I shift my stance, keeping my voice calm even though my pulse is still beating hard enough that it hurts.
“You’re free now,” I say. “Mikhail is dead. Your father’s contract is null and void. You can do whatever you want with your life. If you’re taking suggestions, though, I’d really like it if you came with me.”
She holds my gaze. She’s calculating, weighing my words against what’s just happened. This is the first time in her life she’s ever been given a choice.
“If I leave with you,” she says slowly, “It’s just for preservation.”
“Okay.”
“This war isn’t over,” she says confidently. “The struggle for power in Brooklyn is never going to end.”
“That’s true.” I nod
“If I leave with you, it’s not because I’m a prize you won by killing Mikhail. You don’t get to parade me around and act like I’m your property.”
My jaw tightens. “Of course you aren’t, Anya,” I tell her earnestly. “I didn’t save you because I think you’re a prize. I saved you because I love you.”
Her eyes soften for a fraction of a second, so small most people would miss it. Then she nods once, decisive in the way she always is when she finally chooses.
“Then I’ll come with you,” she says. “Just don’t get any ideas about what this means.”
I hold my hand out to her carefully. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say with a smile. “Now let’s get out of here before the cops show up.”
She steps forward and places her hand in mine. Her grip is firm, but I keep my promise. I don’t take it to mean anything more than survival. With Anya, I’ll take whatever I can get.
We move fast after that, because the room is still dangerous even with Mikhail dead. Sergei barks orders. My men clear a path. The cars are positioned to move immediately. We leave before the police get close enough to complicate things, and before any coward decides to take a shot for revenge.
Anya is quiet in the backseat, her hand resting over her abdomen. Her face stays neutral, but her eyes are distant. She is processing everything that’s just happened, and I don’t interrupt her. She’s can take as much time as she needs.
When we reach my home, I get her upstairs and into a secure room. This isn’t a safehouse. We aren’t hiding. This is my place in Brooklyn. The only home that actually feels anything like home me. Even so, it’s incredibly secure.
Guards patrol the grounds and hallways at every hour.
There are security cameras almost everywhere.
We’re safe from any retaliation that may come after tonight.
Though, I don’t expect any noise. We killed anyone who mattered in the Grinkov empire, and I doubt any of his allies are going to rush in to incur my wrath.
My only objective over the next few weeks is to make her feel safe.
Grinkov’s structure fractures immediately, and everyone in Brooklyn moves to claim what they think they deserve.
The smaller families that once asked me for help are now fully sufficient without his iron fist ruling over them.
A few factions try to condemn the violence, but no one outright defies me.
I handle it the way my father taught me. I secure routes. I cut off weak crews. I buy loyalty where it can be bought and remove problems where it can’t. It takes time, of course.
Ivan Malenkov tries to get in my good graces after the wedding. He wants to see his daughter. He wants the opportunity to meet his grandchild.
I refuse without Anya’s express permission. She gets to call the shots on that aspect of her life. For now, she doesn’t want him anywhere near her, and that’s good enough for me.
She heals slowly. The physical wounds don’t take as much time as the psychological. She refuses the offer of a new nurse, but she does finally allow me to bring in a companion for her. Someone who can keep her company when I’m busy, who is also good at keeping an eye on her.
The pregnancy becomes more obvious by the week.
Once the first trimester officially ends, she seems to get a lot of her old spark back.
She isn’t combative anymore, though. She doesn’t have to be.
This isn’t a prison and she can leave whenever she wants.
Whatever is out there in the world for her is hers to take. Still, she decides to stay by my side.
I try not to hover. Not at the ultrasound appointments or at the checkups. I try not to be suffocating, even though all I want is to get clarity on how she feels. I laid all my cards on the table, but she keeps hers so close to the vest. Most days, I’m not even sure that she likes me very much.
Then, in the blink of an eye, seven months have gone by. She comes into the kitchen with her jaw clenched and one hand braced against the counter, breathing shallowly like she did a lot after she was shot.
“Don’t panic,” she says vaguely.
“Why would I panic?” I ask curiously.
Her mouth twitches once. “My water just broke.”
I nod and make my way to the door, where I’ve had a bag packed for the last three weeks. I help her out to the waiting town car and we have a relatively peaceful drive to the best hospital in the city, where I’ve had the deluxe birthing suite on hold.
She bears the pain with the same amount of grit she bears everything.
She doesn’t scream or cry. The doctor brings her an epidural, and she merely winces as they stick the longest needle I’ve ever seen into her spine.
I’ve killed a lot of men in my time as pakhan, but I was about ready to pass out from the sight of that.
Hours pass in a blur. The nurses who help her are steady and blunt. The doctor gives instructions. Anya actually listens and follows their orders. It’s a modern-day miracle.
Near the end, when exhaustion finally cracks the edges of her composure, she grabs my wrist and pulls me closer.
“If something happens to our baby,” she says through clenched teeth, “You have to make them all pay for it.”
“Nothing is happening to her,” I tell her confidently. “You’re just being a worrywart like always.”
She rolls her eyes at me, and I think my words give her the motivation to pull through. Then it’s time to start pushing. She holds my hand tightly, but I don’t mind the pain. It’s nothing compared to what she’s had to endure for the last nine months.
It feels like time stops moving, and then there’s the strong, proud cry of our baby girl.
It starts thin and then grows stronger, filling the room and cutting through everything else like a blade.
The nurse lifts a small, squirming body, pink and furious and alive, and places her against Anya’s chest.
Anya stares down like she can’t quite believe her. Then her face softens in a way that doesn’t erase her edges. It just adds something new to them.
“Congratulations on your baby girl,” the nurse says.
Anya laughs once, breathless and disbelieving.
“Hi, my daughter,” she says affectionately. “I’m never going to let anything happen to you.”
She looks up at me, eyes wet, and she doesn’t apologize for it. There’s no reason for her to.
Once our daughter is cleaned up and we’re taken back to Anya’s suite, we just stare at the little girl sleeping in Anya’s arms. She’s so perfect.
“I need to tell you something,” Anya says quietly, looking down at our daughter.
“You can tell me anything,” I say, running my fingers through her hair.
She nods, and I can tell that she’s nervous about whatever she’s going to say. I wish she knew by now that she never has to be nervous to tell me anything. There’s nothing she can say that would drive me away.
“I told you once that I wished we had a boy,” she starts. “I didn’t want a girl who would be treated like an object and given no choice in her life. But you showed me that there’s another option. You’re the first person who’s ever let me just be myself, without expectation or asking me to change.”
“You’re perfect the way you are,” I say quietly, a lump forming in my throat that I don’t quite understand.
“You’re the first person who ever thought so.
” She laughs. “And I tried so hard not to love you for that. I thought that love was weakness. I thought it meant I had to give up myself to make someone else happy. But over the last few months, I realized it’s the opposite.
I want you to be happy because I love you. ”
My heart stutters in my chest. This is the first time she’s given me any indication of how she feels. I don’t speak. I don’t want to shatter this perfect moment.
“I never wanted to belong to anyone before,” she continues. “But Viktor, I really want to be your wife. And I want us to raise our daughter to see what healthy love can look like. I want her to know that she can hope for better in this life.”
I nod and bend down to kiss her gently. It’s chaste and gentle. After all, our tiny daughter is sleeping on her chest. Even so, I feel her love through that kiss, and it’s the best feeling in the entire world.