Chapter 41 Lena
LENA
The house finally falls silent around two in the morning, the last of the staff finishing cleanup and disappearing to wherever they go when they're not polishing marble or arranging flowers.
My feet ache from hours in heels, and my face hurts from smiling at people who could probably kill me without breaking a sweat.
And probably would, given half a chance.
I kick off the torture devices masquerading as shoes and pad barefoot down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Sleep won't come, not with my mind replaying everything from tonight.
It was my first time putting together a party like that, and I have to say I'm proud of how it turned out.
Ironic, though, that it was a party for mobsters.
The kitchen is blessedly empty and quiet. I find a small pot and pour milk into it, setting it on the stove to warm. My mother used to make this for me when I couldn't sleep as a child, back when my biggest worry was a math test or whether the boy I liked would notice me at lunch.
Back when I was just Lena, not Maya, not a woman with a price on her head and a baby growing inside her that no one can know about.
The milk starts to steam, and I'm pouring it into a mug when footsteps make me turn. Danil fills the doorway, still in his suit pants and white shirt, though he's lost the jacket and tie. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing the full sleeve tattoo on his right arm.
"Can't sleep either?" His voice is rough with exhaustion.
"Too much adrenaline." I gesture to the stove. "Want some? It's an old remedy my mom used to make."
"Sure." He moves into the kitchen with surprising grace for a man his size, pulling out a chair at the small breakfast table. "Your mother sounds like a wise woman."
"She was." I pour another mug and join him at the table. "Is. I mean, I assume she still is. I don't actually know."
The admission hangs between us, heavy and sad. Danil takes a sip of the warm milk, his dark eyes studying me over the rim.
"You want to know about your parents," he says. It's not a question.
"I want to know if they're alive." My hands wrap around the mug, seeking warmth that has nothing to do with temperature. "If they're safe. If they…" I pause, the words catching in my throat. "If they think I'm dead."
Danil sets down his mug carefully. "Last I heard, they were fine. Living in the same place."
Relief crashes over me so intense, it makes my eyes sting. "They're okay. They're really okay."
"As far as I know." He leans back in his chair, and the wood creaks under his weight. "Aleksandr never went after them. The hit was only on you, and when you disappeared, he didn't turn it on them."
"Until now." I take a sip of milk, letting it coat my throat. "Now that I'm here, with him, does that put them in danger again?"
"No." His voice is firm, certain. "Aleksandr called off the hit. Officially. It's done. It just takes some time to make sure everyone got the message."
"But Katya recognized my name tonight." The memory of those sharp green eyes assessing me makes my skin crawl. "She knows who I am."
"Katya knows a lot of things." Danil's expression darkens. "But she's smart enough not to make a move without being certain of the outcome. And right now, you're under Aleksandr's protection. That makes you untouchable."
"Unless someone decides Aleksandr shouldn't be Pakhan anymore."
"Then they'd have to go through me first." The casual way he says it, like he's discussing the weather instead of his willingness to die, makes something in my chest tighten. "And I'm very hard to kill."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, both of us nursing our warm milk like children instead of adults tangled up in organized crime.
"Can I tell you a story?" Danil asks suddenly, a smile tugging at his scarred face. "About Aleksandr when he was younger?"
"Sure." I lean forward, eager for any glimpse of the man behind the Pakhan’s mask.
Danil's laugh is deep and genuine. "He was seventeen, maybe eighteen. Still running errands for the organization, trying to prove himself. There was this girl, Svetlana, the daughter of a local shopkeeper. Beautiful, completely out of his league, and he was obsessed."
I find myself smiling despite everything. "Let me guess. It didn't go well."
"He decided the way to impress her was to steal a car. Not just any car, but a Mercedes belonging to one of the captains." Danil shakes his head, still grinning at the memory. "He took it for a joyride, picked her up, tried to act like he owned it."
"Oh, no."
"Oh, yes. He's driving around, showing off, and the captain sees his own car go past with some punk kid behind the wheel." Danil takes another sip. "Aleksandr didn't realize until he pulled up to drop Svetlana off and found the captain waiting with three very large, very angry men."
"What happened?" I'm leaning forward now, completely invested.
"The captain made him wash and detail every car in the organization's fleet. By hand. In the middle of winter. Took him three weeks." Danil's eyes crinkle with amusement. "And Svetlana? She started dating the captain's nephew the next day."
I laugh, really laugh, for the first time since the party started. The image of a teenage Aleksandr, cocky and stupid and trying to impress a girl, is so far from the controlled, dangerous man I know that it feels like a different person entirely.
"He never tried to steal a car again," Danil adds. "But he did learn an important lesson about knowing your limits and picking your battles."
"Did he ever get the girl?" I ask.
"Eventually. Different girl, different circumstances. But that's a story for another time." He stands, taking both our empty mugs to the sink. "You should get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be busy analyzing everything from tonight."
"Thank you." I stand too, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. "For the story. For telling me about my parents."
"You're family now." He says it simply, like it's a fact rather than an opinion. "That means something to us."
He leaves, and I'm alone in the kitchen with the lingering warmth of the story and the knowledge that somewhere out there, my parents are alive and safe.
I make my way upstairs, my body heavy with exhaustion. The hallway is quiet, just the soft sound of my bare feet on carpet and the distant hum of the house settling. My bedroom door appears, and I'm reaching for the handle when I notice Aleksandr's door is open, light spilling into the hallway.
He's still awake.
I should go to my room. Should lock the door and try to sleep and not think about the way he looked in that suit tonight, or how his hand felt on my back, or the heat in his eyes when he watched me across the room.
I keep walking to my room, closing the door behind me with a soft click.
I change into sleep pants and a tank top, wash my face, and brush my teeth. The routine is soothing, familiar, something normal in a life that's become anything but. I'm pulling back the covers when a knock sounds at my door.
My heart jumps into my throat. I know who it is before I open it.
Aleksandr stands in the hallway, still in his suit pants and white shirt, though he's lost the jacket and his sleeves are rolled up like Danil's were. His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he's been running his hands through it, and those gold eyes are tired but alert.
"Can I come in?" His voice is quiet, respectful. Asking instead of demanding.
I step back, letting him enter. He closes the door behind him but doesn't lock it, doesn't move toward me. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, looking almost uncertain.
"I wanted to thank you again," he says. "For tonight. For everything you did to make it perfect."
"It was just a party." I move to sit on the edge of the bed, needing the distance since I suddenly feel shy. Embarrassed at his praise. "I picked flowers and approved menus. Not exactly rocket science."
"It was more than that." He moves closer but stops a few feet away, giving me space. "You played your part perfectly. Made everyone believe we're really together. That takes skill."
"Or desperation." The words come out more bitter than I intend. "Hard to mess up when the alternative is being seen as your prisoner."
His jaw tightens. "Is that what you think you are? My prisoner?"
"I don't know what I am." I look down at my hands, at the way my fingers twist together. "Your fake fiancée. Your protection detail's assignment. The woman you're keeping alive because it's convenient."
"Lena." He closes the distance between us, kneeling in front of me so we're eye level.
The position puts him between my knees, close enough that I can smell his cologne and see the flecks of darker gold in his eyes.
"You're not convenient. You're complicated and difficult and you make me question everything I thought I knew about myself. "
My breath catches. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"It's the truth." His hands rest on my knees, warm through the thin fabric of my sleep pants. "Did you have pets growing up?"
The question is so unexpected that I blink. "What?"
"Pets. I'm trying to have a normal conversation with you. Trying to be something other than the Pakhan for five minutes." His mouth quirks. "Humor me."
"A cat." I find myself smiling despite everything. "Her name was Duchess, and she was the most spoiled animal on the planet. She only ate tuna, refused to use a litter box if it wasn't perfectly clean, and slept on my pillow every night."
"Sounds like a nightmare."
"She was perfect." The memory makes my chest ache. "I had to leave her behind when I ran. My mom promised to take care of her, but I don't know if…" I trail off, the familiar guilt rising.
"I had a dog," Aleksandr says quietly. He stands, then sits next to me on the bed. "When I was maybe eight or nine. Stray mutt I found in an alley, half-starved and mean as hell. I brought him home, and my father beat me for wasting food on a useless animal."
My heart clenches. "What happened to the dog?"
"I kept him anyway. Hid him in an abandoned building, brought him scraps, and taught him to trust me." His hands tighten slightly on my knees. "He was the first thing I ever protected. The first time I chose something vulnerable over something easy."
"What was his name?"
"Volk. Wolf." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Not very creative, but I was eight."
"What happened to him?"
"He lived to be fifteen. Died in his sleep in my first apartment." His eyes meet mine. "I buried him in a park he used to love, under a tree where he'd chase squirrels."
The image of a young Aleksandr, already dangerous but still capable of loving a stray dog, makes something in my chest crack open.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, his voice shifting to something more serious. "Really feeling, not the polite answer you give everyone else."
"Tired." It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth, either.
"You still look pale." His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "Like you haven't recovered from that flu."
I look away, unable to meet his eyes. "I'm fine. Just need more rest."
"Lena." His voice drops lower, more intense. "Look at me."
I force myself to meet his gaze, and the intelligence I see there makes my stomach drop. He knows I'm pregnant. Or suspects. Or he is close enough to the truth that lying won't work much longer.
"You're holding something back," he says quietly. "I can see it in your eyes, in the way you won't quite look at me when I ask about your health."
"I'm just tired," I repeat, but my voice quavers.
He stands slowly, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "What else aren't you telling me, Lena?"