Chapter 13 – Dimitri
Last night, I did something I’ve never done.
I left the penthouse. Not to chase the shooters—that would have been pointless.
By the time I could react, they were long gone, shadows swallowed by the city.
I just…needed to be alone. Somewhere private to curse myself, to scream at the walls without anyone hearing.
If Vivian had been hurt…if she’d gotten even a scratch…
I don’t know how I’d have survived. My hands shake just thinking about it.
I’d put her in danger. I forced her into a situation she shouldn’t have been in.
The press, the cameras, the performance—it wasn’t enough to test her patience; it was life or death.
And I…I didn’t think far enough. I failed her.
I beat myself up for hours, pacing the room, every muscle taut with guilt and anger. The vodka I reach for only burns my throat, doing nothing to dull the memory of her face pressed against the cold floor, my body over hers, shielding her like a warrior should.
Lev, who’s been shadowing me the whole time, finally suggests, calmly but with that stubborn insistence I’ve learned to respect, “Call Seb.”
Sebastian Rusnak.
The Forger Prince.
He’s a ghost in our world, a master of everything subtle, hidden, untouchable.
An artist in the underworld, painting with forgeries, shifting identities, and whispers of information.
Everyone else in the Rusnak network is under scrutiny now—the press, the public, the investors—but Seb?
He’s untouchable. He can move unseen. He can find leads that the rest of us miss.
I call him immediately. My voice is tight, clipped, but I can hear the amusement in his tone the moment he answers.
“You’ve got a problem, Dimitri,” he says. “You haven’t called me in like five years.”
“Shut up, Seb. I need your help.”
There’s a pause on the line, the faint hum of a piano in the background, probably one of his neighbors or just Seb’s way of enjoying his chaos. “Your timing is atrocious,” he finally says. “And I don’t work for Rusnaks. You know that.”
“You’re a Rusnak, idiot. You’ll help me,” I reply, my patience fraying. “Find me the men who tried to touch my wife. And find me whoever leaked the scandal. I know you’ve been following up with the news. I don’t care what it takes.”
Hours pass. Seb dodges, teases, and refuses with every ounce of flair only Sebastian possesses. I grit my teeth and make threats—threats of ruin, threats of violence, threats that I’ll personally ruin his favorite toys if he doesn’t comply.
Finally, after Lukin’s interference and his usual stubborn brilliance, he relents. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll help. But you’re still an insufferable bastard.”
I hang up and stare at the ceiling. I hate that he’s right.
I hate that I have to rely on him. I hate that this whole mess exists because I let the world see Vivian.
And worst of all—I can’t stop thinking about the way she froze when the bullets came, the way her body pressed into mine.
I should be furious with her for being in danger. But all I feel is…possessive.
And I can’t let anyone else touch her. Not now. Not ever.
Now it’s morning.
Vivian is still locked in her room. Kyle said she’s been in there since last night. Good. At least I know she’s safe. She can’t be anywhere else, not after last night.
Sebastian texted a few hours ago that he found something—and that he’s on his way. Typical of him, though. Won’t give me details over the phone. No hint. Just a smug little promise that I’ll see soon enough. The idiot thrives on tension.
For now, the penthouse has become a war room.
Rusnak security sweeps through every floor, scanning every corner, testing alarms, recalibrating cameras.
Niko and Lev are on the line, coordinating protection, asking the right questions I can’t focus on.
Sylvester is hunched over surveillance footage, rewinding, zooming, pausing, replaying every moment of the chaos from the night before.
Every frame. Every shadow. Every movement.
And me? I pace restlessly, back and forth, the polished floor cold beneath my shoes. My hands clench into fists, unclench, pace again. Waiting. Waiting for Sebastian. Waiting for news I don’t know if I’m ready to hear.
The city outside my windows hums with life, oblivious to the chaos that is tearing through my home. And yet, every instinct in me tells me that this isn’t over. Not even close.
I can’t stop thinking about her. Vivian. The way she froze. The way her body pressed into mine. Safe, for now, but how long before this nightmare finds her again?
I pace. And I wait.
Finally, the elevator beeps as Sebastian arrives. I punch in the code that’ll bring him up, muscles tense. The doors slide open, and there he is.
Tall, broad, dark auburn hair catching the light, green eyes sharp and calm, hands ink-stained from sketches.
Sebastian. Seeing him in person after five years makes my chest tighten.
Relief, somehow, that he’s fine. I haven’t let myself feel it in years, but seeing him—he’s alive.
Safe. And for once, my heart softens just a fraction.
“Your hands are covered in paint,” I say, noting the stains.
He shrugs, almost amused. “I was sketching before I came.” Then he wraps an arm around my shoulders, easy, like no time has passed. “How’s my little brother? I can’t believe you went ahead and got married.”
I roll my eyes, irritation masking the relief. “You’re here to help me save my wife, not lecture me.”
He snorts, a laugh teasing, almost indulgent. “Why? I didn’t tell you to get married. Having a wife is like having a constant liability breathing down your neck. Freedom is underrated.”
I ignore him and head for the study. Niko and Lev are already there via video call, and they greet Sebastian warmly. Light banter fills the room—teasing, sarcastic quips—but I barely hear it. My mind is focused. The real work starts now. But I let them have their moment.
Sebastian looks around, taking in the setup, the monitors, the files strewn across the desk. “Looks like chaos,” he murmurs, smirking at me. “Reminds me of my studio.”
“Welcome to my life,” I mutter.
He grins, sharp and knowing. “Then let’s fix it.”
“Tell me what you have,” I demand, trying to keep my voice steady despite the gnawing tension in my chest.
The room falls silent. Even Niko and Lev, watching via video feed, pause their chatter. All eyes are on Sebastian.
He leans against the desk, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “I watched the footage,” he begins, voice calm but precise. “It was blurry, but I spent all night enhancing it. Identifying movements, tracing shadows, cross-referencing known associates….” He pauses, letting the suspense build.
“And?” I snap, pacing like I haven’t in years.
“One of your shooters,” he says finally, “is Pavel Koval. Former money launderer. His family business collapsed shortly after your return from university. He has motive. Connections. And now, he wants to send a message.”
I feel my stomach drop. “A message to me?” I growl. “To Vivian?”
Sebastian nods. “Exactly. He doesn’t just want to hurt you—he wants her out of the way too. Collateral. You both are targets.”
My fists clench. “So the attack last night…it wasn’t random.”
“Not in the slightest,” Sebastian says flatly. “Everything was calculated. He chose the press conference because it would humiliate you both, destabilize your public image, and hit where it hurts—your empire, your family.”
I run a hand through my hair, chest tight. “And he’s smart. He planned it knowing we’d be out in public, knowing there would be cameras….”
Sebastian tilts his head, studying me. “Smart, yes. Dangerous, yes. But not untouchable.”
He hesitates, just for a breath. Long enough for my pulse to spike.
“I found something else.”
My patience disintegrates. “What?” I snap, sharper than intended.
He exhales. “The shooters didn’t force their way in. They used an access code. A valid one. And that code is tied to a Laurent-owned construction firm.”
Silence slams into the room.
Then my temper detonates—violently, instantly.
“Of course,” I sneer, pacing like a caged animal. “It always comes back to that cursed family.”
Sebastian doesn’t interrupt. He knows better.
“They breed poison,” I spit. “Every time I think I’ve cut them out, another viper crawls out of some hole. They’ve been losing power for years. This is exactly the kind of cowardly stunt they’d pull to claw some back.”
The room goes still again. Thick. Heavy. Sylvester clears his throat softly, stepping forward like he’s approaching a live explosive.
“Dimitri,” he says, voice steady, “maybe you should call Roman. Loop him in. Get his advice before this escalates.”
My laugh is humorless. A sharp, dangerous sound. “Roman has enough on his plate.”
Sylvester pushes gently. “He won’t see it that way.”
I shake my head. “I’m not dragging him into this.”
“I think—”
“I said no.”
The word cracks through the room like a whip.
Niko’s face tightens on the video feed. Lev leans back, silently watching, already calculating outcomes.
Sebastian folds his arms and studies me with that annoyingly perceptive gaze of his. “You’re being stubborn,” he says, not unkindly.
“I’ll clean up my own mess,” I snap. “This started decades ago, long before Vivian. Long before any of you were involved. I’m not calling another one of my brothers so he can carry weight that belongs to me. I have three of you involved, and that’s already too much.”
Sebastian lifts one brow. “Right. Because God forbid Roman realizes you’re not immortal.”
I grit my teeth.
“I’m handling this,” I say, voice low, lethal. “The Laurents sent a message.” I look each of them in the eyes. “Now I’ll send mine back.”
The room goes quiet—Lev’s jaw ticking on the screen, Niko leaning forward like he wants to break something, Sebastian raising an eyebrow like he always does when he finds my rage entertaining.
We spend the next hour bouncing ideas off each other. Night falls. Still nothing solid. No strategy that doesn’t leave us exposed. No solution that doesn’t risk Vivian.
By the time the others decide to regroup tomorrow, my entire body feels wired, heavy, and restless.
I head straight for Vivian’s suite. I haven’t seen her since last night. She hasn’t stepped out all day. Kyle keeps saying she’s been in her room, quiet. Too quiet.
I stop at her door and knock once.
Silence.
“Vivian.” My voice is rough, too sharp. “Open up.”
The door opens instantly.
And she’s just…standing there, in a black lounge set that hugs her skin and makes my pulse misfire for half a second before I drag my eyes back to her face. She looks tired—no, wrung out. Big eyes, soft and startled, like she’s been pacing this room for hours.
She steps closer and grips my arm. “Kyle said you’ve been working nonstop on figuring out what happened. Did you find anything?”
There’s no way to soften it.
“We did,” I say, blunt. “Someone called Pavel Koval was behind the shooting. He has motive, and he wants me dead. That’s the first part.”
Her breath catches. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
I continue, because dragging it out would be worse.
“And the shooters…they got in through a construction company your family owns. Someone inside handed them the access code.”
She goes pale instantly.
“Wait.” Her voice cracks. “My—my family? My father’s company?”
“Yes.” I hold her gaze. I don’t let her look away. “Someone tied to the Laurents opened the door for them.”
She shakes her head slowly, like she’s denying a nightmare that won’t dissolve. “Dimitri…I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t—”
For the first time, I don’t push. I don’t interrogate.
I just look at her. Really look at her.
That’s when I see the faint, fingertip-shaped bruise on her upper arm. Right where I grabbed her last night when the bullets started flying. Right where I yanked her out of the line of fire like she was glass I didn’t want shattered.
Guilt punches straight through my ribs. I step closer, slow, controlled, because she’s already on edge.
Then I reach for her arm. She flinches. A sharp, involuntary recoil that slices clean through me.
“Vivian,” I breathe, barely audible. My fingers hover, not touching now. “I’m sorry.”
She blinks, stunned—like she didn’t expect the word to exist in my mouth.
“You shouldn’t have been there,” I continue, voice low, unsteady in a way I hope she doesn’t notice. “None of this was supposed to touch you.”
For a moment, she says nothing. Her throat works, her eyes glisten—not with tears, but with the weight of realization settling into her bones.
Then softly, almost like it hurts: “It already has.”
The words slice deeper than any bullet ever could.
The silence that follows is thick, charged, dangerous.
Not the kind that explodes—the kind that changes things.
My hand is still hovering near her arm, close enough to feel her warmth but not close enough to touch. I don’t know how long I leave it there. A second. A breath. A lifetime.
Then I make myself pull back. Not because I want to. Because I have to.
Her eyes follow the movement, sharp and quiet.
She’s not looking at me with hatred anymore.
No—this is worse.
She’s seeing me.
Really seeing me.
Past the anger, past the performance, past the armor I’ve worn since I was seventeen.
She sees the man who dragged her into danger.
She also sees the man who threw himself over her when the bullets came.
She sees both—and she understands in a way that makes my chest tighten.
That look….
I’d rather she screamed.
Understanding is a threat.
Understanding is intimacy wearing a different face.
And from Vivian, it feels like a hand around my throat.
I turn around and leave the room.