Chapter 14
MOLLY
Idon’t know why Davyd’s comment sticks with me the way it does. He’s Samuil’s friend, so it was just a jab at him, right? He said it like it was an inside joke I was supposed to laugh at too. But something about the way he looked at Samuil when he said it didn’t feel like a joke.
Living with the Devil himself.
The words keep repeating in my head as I make my way to the kitchen. I open the fridge, pull out vegetables, and start rinsing them in the sink. I tell myself I’m overthinking it.
But there’s a small, steady knot in my chest that won’t loosen.
It feels like a tiny fist tightening under my ribs, unbearably persistent.
I keep rolling my shoulders back, trying to ease the tension, but nothing helps.
A weird static buzz moves through me, like the air is too charged.
I realize my body has gone into fight-or-flight, ready to bolt at the earliest sign of danger.
I chop carrots slowly, mechanically, trying to shake it off. The knife taps rhythmically against the cutting board, the familiar motion grounding me a little. Still, my mind won’t stop circling the same question.
What did he mean by the Devil?
Each time the word repeats in my head, something cold sweeps down my spine.
I’m not someone who spooks easily, but there was something so casual in the way Davyd compared Samuil to evil.
He’s Samuil’s friend, so he’s aware of exactly who he is and what he’s done. I’m the one who’s not in on the joke.
I pull out a pot and start putting in the ingredients. On such a cold day, I thought it would be nice to make some homemade soup. I didn’t expect to get caught up in such an awful loop of my own thoughts.
Cooking doesn’t bring me any comfort. I move through the kitchen mechanically, too focused on who Samuil might be to really pay attention to what I’m doing.
I’m stirring the pot on the stove when I hear his footsteps behind me. He pauses in the doorway like he’s taking me in before committing to stepping into the room.
His voice is warm when he speaks. “Something smells good.”
I nod but don’t look up. “It’s good soup weather,” I answer as casually as I can.
Even as I say it, I feel my pulse spike. I don’t want him near me all of a sudden. My body reacts as if there’s a predator in the room. Alarm bells are going off. I try to catalog everything I know about him and realize there’s so little in that file. How could I be so stupid?
He comes closer, stopping at the island counter, watching me with that quiet focus he always has. It always knocks me a little off-balance. I take a breath, steady my voice, and finally look at him.
“Hey,” I say lightly, as if the question means nothing. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” he answers immediately.
That single word nearly breaks me apart. He’s so open with me, so confident that he can give me any answer I’m searching for. He doesn’t realize that I’m bursting at the seams, ready to tear open at the wrong word.
“What did Davyd mean earlier,” I ask quietly, “when he called you the Devil?”
His face doesn’t change, but his eyes do.
They sharpen just enough that I notice. It’s such a subtle shift, but it lands like a punch.
My heart races even faster, and I wonder if it’s loud enough for him to hear.
I grip the spoon tighter so he won’t see my hand shaking.
The air between us feels so thick it’s hard for me to draw in a full breath.
He lifts his chin slightly. “I knew that bothered you,” he says, almost under his breath.
“I don’t know if bothered is the right word,” I say carefully. “I just didn’t quite understand it.”
He studies me for a long moment, hands braced on the counter. I can almost hear him deciding how much to tell me. Then he exhales slowly, like he’s made up his mind.
“I thought you already knew,” he says simply.
Something inside me goes very still.
“Knew what?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
In that second, time seems to stop. All of my dread gathers inside of me, ready to explode when the floor inevitably falls out from underneath me.
“Who I am,” he answers simply. “And what I do.”
I blink once slowly, trying to come up with a response to this.
I don’t know any of it. How could I? He never tells me about what he does. My only glimpses into his world are the scary men he employs to follow me around, all in the name of keeping me safe.
“I mean, I knew you were involved in something,” I manage. “But I guess I thought it was business. Shady business, maybe, but…” I trail off because the words sound na?ve even to my own ears.
He tilts his head slightly, not unkindly. “Molly. You saw me kill a man in the alley.”
“I thought…” I swallow. “I thought that was because I was in danger.”
His expression softens, but not in a comforting way. It’s more like he’s bracing himself for my reaction.
“I was raised in this world,” he says quietly. “My father ran this organization before me. I didn’t choose it. I was born into it. And when he died, I inherited everything that came with the title.”
His words drop at my feet like an anvil. My brain tries to catch up to what he’s saying. He doesn’t look ashamed. He doesn’t try to explain it away. He doesn’t minimize it or dress it up. He just tells me plainly who he is.
“What is your organization, exactly?” I ask in a tight voice.
He takes a deep breath, but doesn’t try to push into my space. He can clearly see that I’m trying to understand all of this.
“I’m the pakhan of a Bratva—what you would probably call the Russian mafia.”
I take a slow step back, needing a little more space to breathe.
“So when Davyd calls you the Devil?” I inquire, trying to keep my voice level.
“It’s because when I was young,” he interrupts softly, “I made sure the men who betrayed my father or me never got the chance to hurt us again. The same way I took care of that man in the alley. The same way I’ll take care of the one that got away.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“So you kill people for a living?” I whisper.
His eyes meet mine. They’re steady. Dark. Not cruel, but not apologetic either.
“It isn’t my main job description.” He chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. “But, yes, when the situation requires it, I do what needs to be done to take care of business.”
Something cold trickles down my spine, clashing with the hot steam of the soup.
He watches the shift in me, the way I straighten, the way my hands curl into fists at my sides, and his jaw flexes, like he hates that he caused it.
“Molly,” he says slowly, “nothing’s changed here. I am exactly the same man you’ve known since that first night.”
“Are you?” I ask, a little desperately.
He nods once. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t think that this was something I should know?”
His throat works, like the question hits deeper than he expected.
“I thought you understood what it meant when I brought you here. You’re such a smart woman, Molly. I thought you’d put it together.”
I shake my head, numb. “I didn’t. I really didn’t.”
He steps closer, but I instinctively move back. Just a little. Just enough that he notices.
“Molly,” he murmurs, pained.
“I’m not scared of you,” I say quickly, because I need him to know that. “But I’m scared of what this means. For the baby. For me.” I take a shaky breath. “You’re part of something that gets people killed, Samuil.”
His face hardens. Not with anger, but with a kind of acceptance.
“Yes. I am.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me before I…” I gesture vaguely, helplessly. “Before any of this?”
“I didn’t lie to you,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t tell you the parts I didn’t want you to worry about.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
He looks down for a moment, then back up at my face. “I’m just trying to protect you,” he says hopelessly. “From the first moment I met you, I’ve only been trying to protect you.”
“I know,” I say, my voice barely steady. “But I needed the truth. I needed to know what kind of world I was walking into. What kind of world my baby is being born into.”
He winces when I call it my baby. I see it. Then his face softens, eyes lowering to my stomach for the briefest second. He reaches toward me, then stops, letting his hand fall back to his side.
“I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you,” he says quietly. “Either of you.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. I think of all the restrictions he’s already put in place, all of the ways he’s already limited my comings and goings. Is this what my life is going to look like? Will our child grow up in a bubble, never able to experience the fullness of the world?
I feel surprisingly steady, almost detached, like someone who’s finally seeing the whole picture instead of the parts they want to see.
“I need some air,” I whisper.
“Molly—”
“I just need a minute.”
He exhales, long and slow, and nods once. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”
I scoop up the little hat on my way out of the kitchen and hold it tightly in my hand. It’s the only soft thing in this moment, the only thing that calms the sharp edge inside me.
When I reach the quiet of the hallway, I press the hat to my chest and whisper, steady and sure, “I’ll keep you safe. No matter what.”
It’s the first promise I make to my baby, and one I intend to uphold for the rest of my life. No matter what happens, I’ll put my child first.
If we need to cut and run, that’s what we’ll do.