Chapter 28 Dimitri
DIMITRI
Artemy receives us at his country home, and the first thing I notice is that he doesn't treat us as subordinates.
He stands at the head of a long wooden table that's seen better days, worn but sturdy, and he nods to Rolan and me with the same respect he'd give to men of equal standing.
It's a deep honor and token of respect I know means our alliance will be a strong one.
"The vans are being inventoried now," he says, gesturing toward the courtyard where his men are already unloading the cargo found in the Radich vehicles after the firefight.
"It was a tough battle, but we won."
Rolan steps forward but his posture is relaxed.
It's time to really hash out what the future of this alliance is going to be.
"We're not here to hand over spoils and walk away. We want terms. A temporary joint command to unwind what's left of the Radich networks. They're wounded, but they're not dead yet. We need to finish this together, or they'll come back stronger."
Artemy considers this, his fingers drumming on the table.
Then he nods as he meets my eyes and says, "Agreed, but I want clarity. How do we split the profits? How do we handle intel? And if the Radiches retaliate, who moves first?"
I speak before Rolan can.
"Profits split by ledger. We keep records, divide based on who brought what to the table. Intel gets shared immediately, no holding back for leverage. And if they retaliate, we respond jointly. No one acts alone and leaves the other exposed."
Artemy's mouth twitches into almost a smile.
"Those are clean terms I can work with."
He extends his hand, first to Rolan, then to me.
His grip is firm, and when he releases me, I feel the shift in the room.
This is a partnership built on mutual benefit and respect.
It's the kind of alliance that can hold, and I know our father would be proud to know we've resurrected what he and Lyovik started decades ago.
"There's one more thing," Artemy says, moving away from the table.
"A gesture of good faith on my part."
I glance at Rolan, who looks as confused as I feel.
Artemy doesn't explain.
He walks toward the guest wing, gesturing for us to follow, and I fall into step behind him.
My mind is racing through possibilities—money, weapons, more intel—but nothing prepares me for what I see when he opens the door.
A woman is sitting on a narrow bed in one of the guest rooms.
She's small, her frame thin and worn down by years of hardship, and her hands are folded in her lap.
When she looks up, I see Katya's eyes staring back at me.
The same gray-green, the same shape, the same wary exhaustion.
Never in a million years did I think a member of the Morozov family would want to track down and reunite with the mother of Lyovik's illegitimate daughter.
She looks so scared and overwhelmed, and I know the instant Kayta gets to see her, there will be tears.
"This is Anzhela Volsky," Artemy says confidently.
Now his smile is genuine but soft.
"I arranged her transport from Perm at dawn. I thought Ekaterina might want to see her."
The world narrows to that moment.
The woman who raised Katya away from all of this and kept her hidden and safe until circumstances dragged her back into this world is sitting here.
Artemy brought her here, which only displays how he understands the importance of family ties, and perhaps the lengths to which he will go to ensure we're telling the truth.
I hear movement in the hall behind me and glance over my shoulder to see Katya approaching, so I step back, allowing her to enter the room and nodding at the guard who escorted her here, probably at Artemy's command.
The moment she does, her face shifts.
She freezes.
Her breath catches, and for a second, she doesn't move.
Then she's across the room, dropping to her knees in front of her mother, and Anzhela's arms come up to wrap around her.
Katya folds into her, her face pressed against her mother's shoulder, and the sound she makes is raw and broken.
I give them space, and Artemy follows me out into the hallway.
He closes the door quietly behind us, and we stand there in the corridor, listening to the muffled sound of Katya crying.
"Why?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"Because she's Morozov blood," Artemy says simply.
"And because you brought her to me whole. I had to prove you…" His eyes narrow, then his face drops. "And Ekaterina needs her mother at a time like this."
I lean against the wall, my arms crossed, and I stare at the closed door in complete shock and wonder.
All this time, I thought Artemy may look at Katya as a threat to his empire, but I was so wrong.
There's more loyalty and strength in his family bond than I could ever have imagined.
I can hear Katya's voice muffled and thick with tears, and I think about everything she's been through.
Everything I've put her through.
I dragged her into this world, forced her into danger, used her as a tool to get what I needed.
And now, standing here listening to her cry in her mother's arms, I feel the full weight of it.
I love her in a way that's consuming, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.
And I want to give her everything.
I want to give her safety, stability, a life where she doesn't have to look over her shoulder or wonder if the next day will be her last.
I want to give her a home, a family, a future that doesn't involve blood and violence and betrayal.
But I don't know if I can.
I don't know if I'm capable of being the man she deserves.
The door opens, and Rolan walks out, his face tight.
He glances at me, then at Artemy, and he nods once before walking down the hallway.
Artemy follows, leaving me alone, and I take a breath before stepping into the room.
Katya is still on her knees, her arms wrapped around her mother, and Anzhela is stroking her hair with one hand.
They're both crying now, but I stay in the doorway, unwilling to intrude.
But Katya must sense me there, because she pulls back slightly and looks over her shoulder.
Her face is wet, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, and when she sees me, her expression shifts.
There's gratitude there that sucks me into those depths I love to get lost in.
I feel it, and I know she loves me back, even though neither of us has said it, and I can't think of a better time to tell her.
She stands slowly, helping her mother to her feet, then turns to face me.
Anzhela looks at me too, her eyes wary and uncertain, and I know she's trying to figure out who I am and what I mean to her daughter.
Katya takes a breath, and says, "Mama, this is Dimitri Vetrov."
She pauses, and I see the hesitation in her eyes, the fear of saying too much.
But as her eyes well up again and she says, "He's the man I love," she reaches for me.
Her raw honesty untangles something in my heart I thought was forever lost to wars and violence.
It’s a tender spot I am humbled to give her.
I don’t just own her.
She owns me too, and if it weren't for that damn horse and Katya’s sticky fingers, we never would’ve found each other, and she never would’ve been reunited with her mother.
And now she's standing here, in front of her mother, claiming me as hers.
Anzhela looks between us, her face pale, and I can see the fear there.
She doesn't know me.
She doesn't know what I've done, who I am, or what I'm capable of.
All she sees is a man with blood on his hands and her daughter standing beside him.
I enter the room, closing the distance between us, and I meet Anzhela's gaze head-on.
"I'm Dimitri Vetrov," I say, my voice low. "And I love your daughter."