2. Ana #2
Outside, the day hangs gray and cold with a promise of rain.
Black cars line the street, armored and expensive, because grief here moves in convoys.
I ache for something else, for laughter, color.
A moment that isn’t this loaded. I can’t remember the last time I had one.
My throat’s dry. I could use a shot of vodka more than sympathy.
The council gathers just inside the funeral hall’s antechamber, near the heavy double doors that lead to the crematorium.
I’m summoned by a retinue in dark suits.
I catch sight of Dominik in the corner, half-shadowed by a column.
He doesn’t move or blink, but I know he’s listening.
He falls in beside me as I approach the chamber.
A few brows lift. The question is unspoken but clear.
Why does a bodyguard need to be present here?
Viktor, his face cracked like old leather and eyes always calculating, tilts his head a fraction in acknowledgment. That ends it. Dominik stays at my side.
Viktor steps forward and inclines his head to me.
“Ana,” he says, and the familiarity in his voice grazes my skin. “You understand the position we’re in.”
I look at him, then at the others. I keep my voice even when I say, “My husband is dead.”
“Yes,” he agrees, and his mouth twists because he enjoys stating the obvious when it serves him. “Which leaves a vacuum.”
I don’t respond because this isn’t a conversation. This is a declaration.
Viktor continues, unbothered by my silence. “A widow can’t remain unclaimed, not in our structure. You will remarry within the faction, and the transition will be smooth.”
“The question is when,” Sergei adds, too quickly, “not if.”
I feel Dominik shift behind me, just a fraction.
“I won’t,” I say.
The reaction is immediate. Several men stiffen. A chair leg scrapes against the stone floor. Sergei steps forward before Viktor can speak.
“How dare you,” he snaps.
Viktor exhales slowly and raises a hand, stopping Sergei mid-step.
“Refusal isn’t an option.”
I meet his gaze and hold it. “It is to me.”
Some of the men trade glances, lips twitching at the corners, eyes sliding back to me with thin smiles that don’t reach anywhere warm.
“The council has decided,” Sergei says, stretching his smile too wide. “You’ll marry, and the debts your husband accrued will be absorbed through the union. This protects you, and it protects us.”
“I don’t need your protection,” I reply.
That earns me laughter, soft and dismissive. That’s when the fourth councilman steps forward.
Vasiliev.
Broad, smug, his ambition runs ahead of his sense.
He circles every vacancy like a scavenger, waiting for weakness to show.
His gaze starts at my lips and holds there, slow and predatory, before sliding up to my eyes with mock courtesy.
Then it travels back down, lingering on my breasts until I cringe.
“The debts your husband left behind won’t disappear,” he says, voice smooth but cold. “Someone must absorb them.”
“I’m not a buyout,” I reply through my teeth, fighting for calm.
He smiles, teeth too white, the expression dripping with gratification. “And aren’t you?” he says.
Behind me, I feel Dominik step closer.
“You want to settle this?” I ask. “Then settle it like men. Not like vultures.”
The moment tests patience.
“No one touches her,” Dominik says, voice flat, without raising it or dressing it up. “No one speaks for her without clearing it with me.”
The men turn to him, surprise flickering across faces that expected compliance.
Viktor frowns. “Your role is security, Volkov.”
“My role is what I’m told it is,” Dominik answers, and his gaze doesn’t waver. “And right now, I’m telling you she’s leaving.”
There’s a beat of tension, measured and dangerous, and I can feel the shift as the council reassesses, because Dominik doesn’t bluff and everyone here knows it.
Finally, Viktor nods, slow and tight. “This isn’t finished.”
“It never is,” Dominik replies.
He places a hand lightly at the small of my back, guiding me toward the car, and the contact is brief, a signal meant for the room that this matter is closed.
As we move, my expression doesn’t change.
My pulse pounds in my ears, loud and insistent, because defiance has a cost, and I have no idea how they’ll choose to collect.
We’re halfway to the vehicle when the sound hits, hard and unmistakable. Gunfire cracks through the air, close enough that I feel it in my chest before I hear it fully.
Dominik reacts instantly, his grip tightening as he shoves me toward the open door, his body between me and the street as engines roar to life around us.
“Get down,” he orders, and I don’t hesitate.
I duck into the back seat of a waiting car as glass shatters somewhere behind us and men shout. Engines rev hard. One car jerks sideways to block the lane while another jumps the curb, doors slamming as they peel off in different directions.
Dominik slams the door, rounds the hood in a blur of movement, shots ringing out behind him.
He yanks the driver’s door open, shoves the man sideways with a grunt of surprise, and takes the wheel, all in one motion.
The wheels spin once, then catch with a vicious screech, flinging us into the street as the engine snarls.
The world outside blurs as we tear down the street, tires squealing, another vehicle locking on behind us with intent that needs no translation.
I brace myself against the seat, heart pounding, and I meet Dominik’s eyes in the rearview mirror for a split second. This isn’t random. This is an answer. They aren’t going to let me go quietly.