Chapter 21
SAMUIL
When I walk into the apartment that evening, the atmosphere is off. Tense in a way it hasn’t been in days. I’ve gotten used to finding Molly lesson planning or working with Anya, a buzz of excitement and activity in the air. Tonight, it’s still. Almost frigid.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Something is wrong. I’m immediately on my guard. I pad quietly into the living room, ready to grab the gun hidden under the couch. As soon as the couch comes into view, though, I know there’s no physical threat.
Molly is curled up at the far end, her back pressed into the cushions, knees drawn to her chest, shoulders shaking in that barely-there way that tells me she’s been crying for a long time.
Her hair is down around her face, hiding most of it, but what I can see looks pale and devastated.
Her eyes are glassy and swollen. She’s breathing in tiny, uneven pulls, like she can’t quite catch a full breath.
My heart jumps straight into my throat. I haven’t seen her this shaken since the night I found her in the alley.
She stares vacantly at nothing, her gaze a thousand yards long.
It’s like she’s seen a ghost or been threatened by someone dangerous.
My blood boils, and I’m overcome with the need to fix whatever is wrong.
Whoever made her feel this way is going to beg for death by the time I’m done with them.
“Molly,” I say sharply.
She doesn’t move or respond.
“Molly,” I try again, crossing the room in three long strides and dropping into a crouch next to the couch. “Look at me.”
She doesn’t even lift her head to look at me, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Her fingers tighten around the edge of a throw blanket, though, making my stomach twist. She looks sick or scared. I don’t know which is worse.
“Tell me who did this,” I demand. “Who hurt you?”
Her voice comes out so small I almost don’t hear it.
“You,” she says on a breath.
The word hits me like someone drove a blade straight between my ribs.
I sit frozen for a second, stunned. I don’t know how to process that. What could she possibly mean? I rack my brain, trying to remember anything I’ve done to hurt her or betray her. I come up with nothing.
She’s hollow and vacant, like she’s given up on me. I try to tamp down my frustration. I thought we were past all this. Apparently not.
When she finally moves, it’s only to shift the blanket enough for me to see the tablet resting beside her thigh.
A news article glows across the screen. It’s open to a photo I know too well: Zahn.
His crew. The bodies covered in blood on the pavement.
The police tape. My own photograph is inset in the corner with a headline that names me as a suspect and then clears me halfway down the page.
It’s an old case, but a bloody one. It definitely wasn’t my proudest moment. Not by a long shot. I was doing what needed to be done, but I know she’ll need some time to come to terms with that. I try to approach it carefully.
“Molly,” I say quietly, trying to steady myself. “That article is over a year old.”
She still doesn’t look at me. She stares straight ahead, her gaze fixed on nothing. She keeps her voice level and cold.
“I don’t give a fuck about when it was written,” she says more sharply than I’ve ever heard her say anything. “I care about the content.”
I exhale slowly, trying to rein myself in. “Let me explain,” I tell her calmly.
“I already read the explanation,” she says, barely above a whisper. “I read the police reports. I read the analysis. I read the speculation. They were all killed the same way. They were all found in the same pattern. Everyone knows it was you.”
“They would have killed me first,” I fire back. “They were gunning for me and my men. Zahn tried to undermine my operations for months. He killed three of my guys before I retaliated.”
She flinches, but she takes great care to hide it.
I force my voice lower. “Just like everything in my line of work, it wasn’t personal. It was survival.”
She finally turns her head. Her eyes meet mine for only a moment, and that moment guts me. There is no warmth there. No fear either. Just a steady, numb disbelief.
“Is this what got Anya’s mom killed?”
My breath stops.
She says it as a realization rather than a question. It’s like a puzzle piece has snapped into place and she hates that it makes sense. For the first time in my life, I feel an overwhelming sense of shame.
I run a hand over my face and sit back slightly, not because I want distance, but because what I’m about to say deserves honesty that requires me to ground myself and speak from the heart.
“Her mother’s death was a retaliation for the Zahn crew,” I tell her slowly. “They were aiming for Davyd. They knew taking him out would hurt me more than anything. He’s my second-in-command and my best friend.”
She doesn’t respond. I’m not even sure if she hears me, but I press on anyway.
“When they got there, he wasn’t home. His wife, Lena, was. She was there with Anya and a few staff members.”
Molly stays perfectly still, but her breathing becomes more ragged, like she might start crying again.
“They broke the code,” I say. “Women and children are off limits. That’s the one rule every Bratva and every crew follows. Only soldiers live and die in this world. Only the ones who choose it.”
She keeps staring at the far wall like she can’t bear to look at me.
“Zahn’s people didn’t care about the code. They wanted blood for blood. They couldn’t get to Davyd, so they killed his wife instead.” I let out a breath. “She had nothing to do with the business. They gunned her down anyway. Anya was in the house when it happened.”
Her eyes squeeze shut.
I watch her swallow, slowly, painfully. Every instinct in me screams to take her into my arms, to tell her it’s going to be all right, but it’s not all right. Not for her or Anya or anyone who’s been affected by our business.
She opens her eyes again and stares down at her hands. “So, this is what I’m bringing my child into,” she says harshly. “A world where mothers can just be gunned down in front of their children. Who’s to say your other enemies care about your damn code? What if they kill our child?”
“That would never happen,” I say quickly. “That would be an act of all-out war. Anyone stupid enough to try that would be dead in the next breath, and I would scorch the earth.”
She laughs once, a short, humorless exhale. “What would it matter?” she spits. “If someone is that stupid, they’re not going to care, Samuil. They’d probably do it to provoke you. You can’t guarantee our safety.”
She gently rubs her stomach on the word our, and I can’t help but grit my teeth.
“Molly.” I sigh, trying to stay patient.
“Listen to me. What happened to Lena should never have happened. If I could change that day, I would. I’d have protected his home better.
Hell, I probably never would have gone after Zahn in the first place.
I can’t rewrite the past, but you have to believe me when I tell you that I’ve learned from it. ”
She finally looks at me, and the devastation in her expression nearly buckles me.
“I’m sure that’s a great comfort to Anya,” she answers with so much venom it’s like she’s stabbing me in the heart.
“I know,” I say, hanging my head. “I can never bring back her mother, and I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life, but I’ve been honest with you. I’ve told you the truth about everything you asked.”
“You told me pieces,” she corrects softly. “You told me things in a way that made you sound like the good guy. I didn’t know the full picture. I didn’t know that you’re the reason Anya doesn’t have a mother anymore.”
I inhale sharply. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe. But it’s true,” she says.
Her voice isn’t angry or hostile in any way. Worse than that, it’s flat and resigned. She’s come to an indisputable conclusion about me, and there’s nothing I can do to change her mind.
She wipes her cheek with the back of her wrist and sits up straighter. “You have to choose,” she says suddenly, her tone crisp. “Your business or our baby.”
My entire body goes still.
It feels like every molecule of air in the room disappears in an instant. My heart thuds once, hard, and then my ears ring with the sudden silence. I take a deep breath, then another.
“I can’t give up the Bratva,” I say slowly.
Her face cracks. Just slightly. Enough to show that she hoped, somewhere deep down, that I would say something else.
“You’re just scared right now,” I say, forcing the words out gently. “You read some old news stories and now you’re panicked.”
Her eyes widen with disbelief. “Panicked,” she repeats quietly.
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “You’re overwhelmed by everything. The baby, the trauma of your attack, the last few weeks. The idea of danger feels bigger and scarier than it actually is, but it’s manageable. I can handle it.”
“You can’t guarantee that,” she says.
“I’ll protect you,” I say forcefully, irritation mounting.
“You can try,” she corrects. “But there will always be someone out there who wants what you have. There will always be someone who wants you dead. And I will not be used to get to you. I won’t let our child be used to get to you.”
I feel a hot, sharp flare of anger at the idea that she believes I would ever let anything happen to her. How can I make her understand when she’s being impossible?
“I will do anything to keep you safe,” I repeat firmly. “Anything except abandon my men. I will not walk away from the brotherhood. It is a way of life. It’s the only thing that has ever been stable for me.”
Her voice breaks. “And what about us? What about our child?”
I stand up so fast the coffee table rattles.
“Don’t do this,” I warn. “Don’t make me choose.”
“But you already have,” she says, barely audible.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. Everything in me is fighting to stay calm, to speak logically, to not let rage or desperation drive the conversation. She looks at me with this crushed, hollow expression that hits me harder than any bullet ever could.
“You said you always wanted a family,” she whispers. “You said you wanted to do better than the people you came from. You told me you wanted to be a father who showed up. A father who cared.”
“I do.”
“Then why is everything else more important than us?”
“Because without the Bratva, I am nothing,” I snap, my anger finally getting the best of me.
Her eyes fill with tears, but she just nods and stares at me blankly. “If you truly believe that, then I can’t stay,” she says, more to herself than to me.
The words hit me with a cold finality.
“Molly,” I plead, my voice breaking at the sound of her name.
She stands slowly, wrapping her arms around herself.
“I won’t raise my baby in this world.”
“Molly—”
“I will raise this child alone far away from here if I have to,” she interrupts. “I will not be part of this.”
My chest tightens until it hurts to breathe. “Please don’t leave,” I say. It comes out raw and quiet.
In response, she picks up her tablet, holds it to her chest like a shield, and walks past me with her head bowed.
I don’t follow.