7. Veronica
VERONICA
Mikhail kneels in front of me, his knees pressed into the splintered floor, and I wonder if it hurts him or if he’s so used to discomfort that the nerves have deadened. He takes my left arm in both hands and presses a folded gauze pad to the thin, stinging cut on my elbow.
He’s already disinfected it with something that could double as paint thinner. The wound is shallow, but it won’t stop bleeding.
Mikhail works in silence, pressing and folding, winding the tape so tight I feel the pulse thud in my palm.
The safehouse is horrifying in its own way. I’ve taken many things for granted… and now I realize my list was too short. Some idiot must have thought plywood over the windows made it secure, and I spend more of my time trying not to look at the mold on the walls than anything.
The bed I’m sitting on sags in the middle and the wool blanket is stiff with detergent or maybe just time.
I keep my eyes on Mikhail’s hands. There’s not a tremor in them. Mikhail’s touch is cold and impersonal. Like he’s fixing a leaky pipe.
Rain batters the roof in sheets and drowns out every other sound. The only thing louder is Sergey’s pacing. His boots thud against the uneven floor, and his shadow slices back and forth across the wall.
He moves with a kind of manic energy, not the smooth violence I saw when he killed for me. I don’t need to look up to know he’s watching us — watching me, but not with hunger. With a feral, helpless agitation that I should find terrifying, but I don’t.
Thunder cracks directly overhead, and I jerk, just enough that Mikhail’s gaze flicks to my face. He says nothing, just presses the gauze in a little harder. Sergey stops pacing. I feel the pressure in the air shift, the way it does before a fight starts.
“We should disappear,” Sergey says. His voice is raw from smoke and shouting. “Burn the route, kill the phones, take her somewhere Orlov can’t find us—” He’s talking to Mikhail, but his eyes land on me, then move away again.
Mikhail doesn’t look up. “We have a job,” he says.
“She’s not a fucking job,” Sergey says. “You saw what they did to our crew. They want her dead, or worse.”
Mikhail sets the used gauze aside. “Lower your voice.”
Sergey laughs, a short, broken sound. “You want me to lower my voice? You’re fucking kidding. You’re the one who wants to follow orders that are going to get us fucking killed.”
Mikhail stands and finally lets go of my arm. He straightens to his full height, and for a second, I wonder if they’re going to fight. “We finish the job,” he says, quieter now. “That’s what we do.”
Sergey gestures wildly at me. “What if she doesn’t want to go? You want to ask her that? He tried to kill her just to fuck us over—to fuck Vasily and?—”
His words end in a strangled growl.
Mikhail’s jaw clenches. “You’re not thinking straight.”
“I’m thinking clearer than you,” Sergey fires back. “We take her and run. We disappear. We have enough cash from the last job to last us six months, easy.”
“And then what?” Mikhail’s voice drops lower. “You think Orlov will just forget? You think he won’t hunt us to the ends of the earth? You think he won’t torch everything Tolya has touched for the disrespect?”
They’re circling each other now, two wolves with the same blood but different instincts. I sit very still, watching the division widen between them.
It’s not about me, not really—but I’m the catalyst.
I should be terrified. I should be planning my escape while they’re distracted. Instead, I feel a strange, cold clarity settling over me.
“I want to go with you,” I say.
They both turn to stare at me.
Sergey’s eyes are wild and hopeful. Mikhail’s are guarded, suspicious.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Mikhail says.
I stand, testing my weight on legs that feel too shaky to hold me. “I know exactly what I’m saying. I don’t want to go to Orlov. I’d rather take my chances with you.”
Mikhail steps closer. “You don’t know us.”
“I know enough.” I look between them, this strange pair of brothers. “I know you both saved my life today. I know Orlov wants me dead or broken. I know my father sold me for his own gain, and that he’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
I take a breath. “I know what I’m asking, and I don’t care.”
The room goes quiet except for the rain. Sergey’s breathing is loud and ragged, like he’s been running a marathon in his own head. Mikhail hasn’t moved, but there’s something different about his posture.
“You don’t understand,” Mikhail says, but his words have less conviction. They sound rehearsed, like he’s trying to convince himself.
“I don’t care,” I say. “I’m telling you what I want. And what I want is to not be delivered like a piece of furniture to a man who tried to have me killed on a public highway.”
Sergey takes a step toward me. Then another. His eyes are dark and liquid in the weak light, and I can see the war happening behind them—desire and loyalty and something else. “Misha,” he says, without looking at his brother. “She’s right.”
Mikhail’s jaw works. I watch the muscle flex beneath his skin, the way he swallows like the words are physically painful. “We can’t just?—”
“We can,” Sergey cuts him off. “You know we can. We’ve done worse for less.”
I take a slow breath. My arm aches, but the pain is clarifying. I look at both men, then at the door, then back at Mikhail. “How long do we have?”
He glances at his watch and the gesture is so precise I want to laugh. “Eight hours, maybe less. If Orlov’s people are running hot, maybe two.”
Sergey stalks to the window, rattles the plywood with his fist. “We could be gone in one,” he says. “You want that?”
I want to say yes. I want to say no. I want to tell them both to fuck off and leave me here, but I know better. I tuck my hair behind my ears, feeling the sting from the cut on my jaw, and say nothing. Mikhail goes back to the corner, picks up his weapon, and checks the slide with a soft click.
The room holds the silence like an infection. Sergey paces again, more contained now, but the energy is worse for being quiet. I sit on the bed and press my palm to the bandage, not because it hurts but because I need something to do with my hands.
I watch Mikhail move through the shadows. I watch Sergey’s shadow on the walls. I wonder how long it will be before something breaks.
The rain has no intention of stopping. It turns the plywood windows into drums, shakes the bulbs, and makes the whole place feel even more temporary.
After the first hour, the brothers seem to have forgiven each other for their outbursts, but the tension hasn’t disappeared. Forgiveness is a strange thing between brothers. The silence of men who have said too much and can’t take any of it back.
Mikhail checks and re-checks the boards over the windows. Sergey eventually gives up pacing and slumps into the one good chair, arms splayed over his knees, jaw set so hard I’m amazed his teeth haven’t broken.
I should be numb by now, but the ache in my elbow, the raw line of the cut on my jaw, the way my muscles shudder every time thunder hits—all of it feels like proof that I’m still alive.
I’ve been traded between men before. My father’s business partners, his campaign managers, the staff who watched me as a child — every single one had a version of me they preferred, and each time I learned to slip into the role before anyone noticed it was a mask.
The only agency I ever had was to decide how much to give away, and how much to keep for myself.
I was no virgin. My father had undoubtedly lied to Orlov, but I didn’t know why he would care—he wanted a brood mare.
Now, for the first time, I see a door. Not an escape, but a gap, a sliver of space where I could wedge myself and force something to shift.
I take it.
I stand, smooth the front of my dress, and cross the room to Sergey. He’s slouched but alert, eyes flickering to me and away. I don’t touch him. I stop close enough that he has to look up at me. He does, and the charge between us is bright, sparking. He can’t hide it, and he doesn’t try.
“Did you mean what you said?” My voice is steady, so controlled that it sounds like someone else’s. “About running.”
He doesn’t answer at first. He works his jaw, tries to find a place for the words.
“Yes,” he says finally. “If you want it.”
I nod, just once, and turn. Mikhail is across the room, back to us, his hand pressed flat to the plywood as if he could feel the storm through the grain. For a second I think he’s not listening, but I know better.
I say his name. Just the one word, nothing else.
He turns. I hold out my hand.
The space between us is silent and loaded, but the world narrows until it’s just the two of us and the storm.
He crosses to me. When he gets close, I see the faint tremor in his hands. The only sign that this costs him something.
I straighten my shoulders and look at both men.
“Make a choice,” I say. “Deliver me to my death in the morning if you want, or take me far away from here — but I want to fuck you tonight. Both of you.”
They’re both silent. The thunder fills the gap.
Sergey is first. He always is.
He closes the gap in one raw, sudden movement, and grips my shoulders.
He doesn’t kiss me right away; he just buries his face in the curve of my neck and breathes in so deep I think he’s trying to pull something out of me and keep it for himself.
His hands are everywhere, rough on my back, my waist, my ribs—hungry and uncivilized.
I let him take whatever he wants.
Mikhail stands so close behind me, I feel the heat from his body, but he doesn’t touch. Not yet. He wants this as much as his brother, but he’s too disciplined to show it. Not until I give permission.
So I do.
I peel out of Sergey’s grip just enough to turn, and then I look up at Mikhail. He doesn’t move, not even when I reach for his face. The stubble on his jaw bites against my palm. His breathing is uneven, but he refuses to look anywhere but my eyes.