Chapter 24
ANDREY
Ididn't go to bed last night.
The bottle of vodka sits on my desk, half-empty now, and the ice in my glass has long since melted.
I stare at the list of safehouses spread across the mahogany surface, the names and addresses blurring together as exhaustion pulls at the edges of my vision.
But I can't sleep. Not when Mariya is upstairs dealing with the aftermath of the bombing.
Not when three people are dead because someone wanted to send her a message.
I'd wanted to go to her. Wanted to hold her and tell her everything would be okay.
But I could see in her eyes that she needed space, needed time to process what happened.
So I gave it to her, even though every instinct I have screams at me to be near her.
To protect her. To keep her close where I can see her, touch her, and know she's safe.
The office feels too quiet. Too empty. I keep thinking about the way she looked at me before she went upstairs. Like she was trying to figure out whether I was the enemy or her salvation. Maybe I'm both. Maybe that's the problem.
The office door opens, and Matvey walks in without knocking. He never knocks. He crosses the room in three long strides and drops into the chair across from my desk, his dark eyes immediately going to the scroll.
He shakes his head slowly. "Dangerous."
"I know." I pour myself another drink, the vodka burning as it slides down my throat. The burn is good. It reminds me that I'm still alive and still functioning, even if I feel like hell.
"What the hell was Pushkin doing with this?" Matvey leans forward, his finger tracing one of the addresses. "What was his plan?"
"I don't know." I set down my glass and rub my eyes. They're gritty from lack of sleep, and my head is starting to pound. "But whatever it was, it got people killed. And now someone else wants it badly enough to blow up a fucking library."
Matvey grunts, which could mean anything from agreement to concern. With him, it's hard to tell. He's been my right hand for years, and I trust him more than anyone. If he thinks this is dangerous, then it's even worse.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, both of us studying the list. Some of the safehouses are in major cities.
Others are in remote locations, places where you could hide for years without anyone finding you.
And a few are right here, scattered throughout this state.
The scope of it is staggering. This isn't the work of a man planning to run.
This is the work of a man planning for war.
"We need to check them," I finally say. "All of them. See what Pushkin left behind."
"Could be a trap."
"Could be." I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking beneath my weight. "But we won't know until we look."
Matvey's jaw tightens. "And if it is? If someone's waiting for us at every location?"
"Then we deal with it." I meet his eyes. "We've dealt with worse."
He doesn't look convinced, but he nods. That's all I need.
A commotion upstairs makes both of us tense. Raised voices, footsteps, and then Mariya's voice cutting through it all, loud and furious.
"Get out of my way!"
I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving, my hand instinctively going to the gun at my hip. Matvey stands too, his body coiled and ready for action. My heart pounds in my chest, adrenaline flooding my system. If someone got to her, if they hurt her…
"I said move!" Mariya's voice is closer now, coming down the stairs.
Relief hits me so hard, I almost stagger. She's okay. She's angry, but she's okay. I force myself to breathe, to relax my grip on the gun.
I hear her footsteps in the hallway, quick and angry, and then she's walking past my office.
She stops abruptly and backs up when she sees me through the open door.
For a second, we just stare at each other.
Her blonde hair is disheveled, like she's been running her hands through it, and her green eyes are blazing with fury.
She's wearing one of the T-shirts I'd bought her yesterday and a pair of leggings that hug her ass and thighs so lovingly that my cock twitches.
The shirt is loose, hanging off one shoulder, and I can see the curve of her collarbone, the smooth skin of her neck.
Christ, she's beautiful. Even furious and exhausted, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
She doesn't wait to be invited inside. She storms into my office, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"Your guards," she says, her voice tight with barely controlled rage, "weren't going to let me out of the room."
I glance at Matvey, who's watching this exchange with what might be amusement in his dark eyes. "Is that so?"
"Yes, that's so." She takes another step toward my desk, and I can see the exhaustion beneath the anger.
Dark circles under her eyes and the slight tremor in her hands.
She didn't sleep either. "If I'm going to be the Pakhan’s wife, then they damn well had better treat me with respect. I'm not a prisoner anymore."
The corner of my mouth twitches. She's magnificent when she's angry, all fire and defiance. I want to pull her across this desk and kiss her until she forgets why she's mad, want to strip those leggings off and remind her exactly what being the Pakhan’s wife means. "I'll take care of it."
Matvey nods once and stands, moving toward the door. He pauses when he reaches Mariya, and for a moment, I think he's going to say something. But he just gives her a slight nod, something that might be approval, and then he's gone, closing the door behind him.
The silence that follows is awkward. Heavy. Neither of us seems to know what to say. The air between us feels charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks. I can smell her perfume from here, something light and floral that makes me think of summer.
I gesture to the chair Matvey just vacated. "Sit."
She doesn't move, just stands there, her arms crossed over her chest, and I can see her nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her shirt.
No bra. The realization sends heat straight to my groin.
I force myself to look at her face, but that's not much better.
Her lips are slightly parted, and an image of those lips wrapped around my cock pops into my brain.
"I'm fine standing," she says.
Of course she is. Stubborn woman.
I pour another drink, then pour a second glass and slide it across the desk toward her. "You look like you could use this."
She eyes the vodka for a moment, then moves to the desk and picks up the glass. She doesn't sit, but she takes a sip, and I watch her throat work as she swallows. When she sets the glass down, some of the tension has left her shoulders.
We both start talking at the same time.
"About last night—"
"I need to know—"
We both stop, and I almost smile. Almost. I shake my head and hold out my hand, indicating that she should go first.
She takes a deep breath, her fingers wrapping around the glass like she needs something to hold onto. "Why do you really hate my father? Why do you believe so strongly that he was behind the massacre and that he stole your family's heirlooms?"
I lean back in my chair, studying her face. She deserves the truth. All of it. Even if it hurts. Even if it makes her hate me more than she probably already does.
"Your father had been under suspicion for a while," I say. "All the families knew about his quest to gain more power. His suspicious behavior. Things seemed to disappear from homes after he'd visited. Small things at first. Jewelry, documents, and items that wouldn't be missed right away."
Mariya's face pales, but she doesn't interrupt.
"No one knew his motives or what he planned to do," I continue.
"We all just watched and waited, trying to figure out his endgame.
My father had meetings about it. Discussions with the other Pakhans about what to do if Pushkin made a move.
But we were too slow. Too cautious. And then the massacre happened.
Entire families were wiped out in a single night. My mother and sister among them."
My hand tightens around my glass, the memory of that night still fresh even after all these years. Coming home to find them dead. The blood. The silence. My mother's eyes staring at nothing, my sister's small hand still clutching her favorite doll. I was supposed to protect them. I failed.
"Your father never confirmed or denied being behind it," I say, my voice rougher now.
"But then he testified against the families.
Against the very organization he'd been part of his whole life.
He named names, revealed secrets, and destroyed alliances that had stood for decades. That pretty much screamed his guilt."
"Or his conscience," Mariya says quietly.
I look at her, surprised. "What?"
"Maybe he testified because he knew who was really behind it. Maybe he was trying to stop them." She sets down her glass and moves closer to the desk, her eyes searching mine. "Did you ever consider that?"
"No." The word comes out harsher than I intend. "Because the evidence pointed to him. The timing, the stolen items, and the way he disappeared right after testifying. It all adds up."
"To what? A man trying to protect his daughter from the same people who killed your family?
" Her voice rises, and there's passion in it now.
Conviction. "You said yourself the massacre was organized.
Coordinated. That takes planning, resources, and connections.
My father was powerful, yes, but he wasn't that powerful.
Not powerful enough to orchestrate something like that on his own. "
She's right, and I hate that she's right.
I've spent years believing Yegor Pushkin was responsible for my mother's and sister's deaths.
Years hunting for him and the heirlooms he stole, for answers.
And now his daughter is standing in my office, poking holes in the narrative I've built, making me question everything I thought I knew.
"Then who?" I demand, standing up. I need to move, need to do something with the energy coursing through me. "If not your father, then who was behind it?"
"I don't know." She looks down at the list of safehouses on my desk, and I see her hand tremble slightly as she reaches for it. "But maybe that's what he was trying to tell us. Maybe that's why he hid all of this."
I move around the desk, closing the distance between us. She doesn't back away, doesn't flinch, just tilts her chin up to meet my eyes, and damn if that doesn't make me want her even more.
"You're asking me to believe that everything I've thought for years is wrong," I say, my voice low. "That I've been chasing the wrong man. That your father was innocent."
"I'm asking you to consider the possibility." Her voice is softer now, almost pleading. "I'm asking you to look at the evidence with fresh eyes. Because if you're wrong, Andrey, if my father wasn't behind the massacre, then the real killer is still out there. And they're coming for both of us now."
Before I can respond, the office door opens. One of my captains steps inside, his face pale and his breathing labored like he's been running.
"Boss," he says, his voice urgent. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but—"
"What is it?" I'm already standing, my body tensing for whatever bad news he's about to deliver.
"Some of the men on the docks." He swallows hard. "They've been attacked. I don't know how many, but there are deaths."