11. Via
VIA
The hot water in the shower is the only thing keeping me from completely falling apart.
I press my forehead against the cold marble tiles, letting the steam fill my lungs until my chest stops aching.
My hands are flat against the wall, my fingers trembling as the water beats down on my back.
I’ve been scrubbing my skin with a rough washcloth for twenty minutes, trying to erase the phantom feel of Ilya's hands, the lingering scent of his expensive tobacco, and the heavy, metallic smell of the club's private bathroom.
But I can’t wash away the bruises.
I look down at my hips. There are dark, purplish-red finger marks stamped into my pale skin, a map of the way he held me down against that vanity. My throat is tender, a faint shadow of pink marking the place where his thumb had pressed into my collarbone to remind me of my place.
I hate him. I hate his name, his house, and the way he looks at me like he owns every breath in my lungs.
But the worst part, the part that makes me want to scream into the drain, is the memory of my own voice.
I can still hear the breathless, pathetic whimpers I let out against his neck.
I can still feel the way my own body literally turned to liquid the second his fingers touched me, betraying my anger, my pride, and my father’s name in a single, humiliating rush of heat.
I turn the handle, cutting off the water. The sudden silence in the master bathroom is deafening.
I wrap myself in a thick, oversized grey sweater and a pair of simple black leggings I found in the bottom drawer of the vanity. I refuse to touch the silk dresses. I refuse to wear anything that makes me look like the queen he wants to show off to his violent little friends.
The digital lock on the bedroom door doesn't chirp when I turn the handle. It simply swings open.
I blink, staring at the empty hallway. He cleared my access. Or he just doesn't think I have the guts to run anymore.
I step out into the corridor, my bare feet padding silently against the cold stone.
The estate is quiet, but it’s a heavy, post-battle kind of quiet.
In the main foyer, three men in black suits are working silently, patching the shattered plaster where the bullets had chewed through the walls last night.
The smells of fresh wood filler and white paint are thick, trying to cover the scents of the sulfur and the blood.
They don't look at me as I pass. They go rigid, their eyes fixed on the floor, treating me like a ghost they aren't allowed to see.
I turn away from the grand staircase, heading down a narrow, dusty corridor in the east wing that I haven't explored yet.
The walls here aren't covered in expensive silk wallpaper. They’re bare grey stone lined with old, empty candle sconces and heavy oak doors that look like they haven't been opened in decades.
A soft, muffled sound makes me stop near the end of the hall.
It’s a wet, ragged hitch of a breath. A sob.
I slide my hand over the heavy brass handle of a carved oak door. It’s slightly ajar, a sliver of warm, dusty light cutting through the darkness of the hallway. I push it open slowly, the old hinges making a faint, groaning protest.
The room is an old parlor, completely covered in white dust sheets. Heavy velvet curtains are pulled tight across the tall windows, leaving the space in a dim, amber twilight.
In the center of the room, sitting on the dusty floorboards between two sheet-covered armchairs, is Ekaterina.
She’s huddled in a tight ball, her knees drawn up to her chest, her oversized knitted sweater pulled down over her hands.
Her dark hair is a messy tangle around her face, and her shoulders are shaking with silent, violent sobs.
I step into the room, my bare feet making no sound on the dusty floor. "Ekaterina?"
She flinches, her head snapping up, her eyes wide, red, and swollen. She quickly tries to wipe her face with her sleeve, her hand darting to hide a small, silver picture frame under the edge of her sweater. "You... you shouldn't be in here. Ilya locked this wing."
"Ilya isn't here." I walk closer, slowly dropping to my knees on the dusty wood a few feet away from her. "And honestly, if he wants to lock me up for walking down a hallway, he’s going to have to buy a lot more padlocks. What’s wrong?"
She looks at the silver frame in her lap, her fingers tracing the tarnished metal edge. "I found her. In one of the boxes Yara was going to throw away."
I slide a little closer, my shoulder brushing against hers. "Your mother?"
She slowly lifts the frame, turning it so I can see the photo inside.
My breath catches. The woman in the picture is beautiful, with the same soft, dark eyes as Ekaterina and the sharp, aristocratic jawline of her brother.
She’s standing in a sunny garden, wearing a simple white sundress, a gentle, genuine smile playing on her lips.
She looks so full of life, so completely untethered from the violence of this house, that it hurts to look at her.
"She was so pretty," Ekaterina whispers, her voice cracking as a fresh tear spills over her lashes. "I don't remember her very well. I was only a baby when she... when the men came."
I reach out, my thumb gently wiping the tear from her cheek. "I know. My mother was beautiful too. She had these bright, hazel eyes that always looked like they were laughing, even when my father was being impossible."
Ekaterina looks at me, her brow furrowing through her tears. "Ilya said your mother died a long time ago."
"She did." I look back at the photo of her mother, my eyes tracking the elegant, handwritten script at the bottom of the white border.
Marina Kovalevskiia. October 14, 2006.
The air in my lungs completely freezes.
My vision tunnels, the dusty parlor vanishing into a blinding, white-hot flash of memory. The smell of sulfur. The wet, heavy thud on the marble floor. The red blood on the white lilies.
October 14, 2006.
It was the same night.
I grip the edge of my oversized sweater, my knuckles turning white as my heart hits my ribs like a sledgehammer. "Ekaterina... the night she died. Was it... was it the Russo family?"
Ekaterina nods slowly, her eyes wide with a quiet, matching horror.
"Yara told me. It was a coordinated hit.
They struck three different houses on the same night.
They wanted to wipe out the leadership of the coalition before the treaty was signed.
Ilya was only seven. He was hiding in the pantry. He saw them."
He saw them.
The puzzle pieces in my head finally click together, the realization hitting me with a force that makes my stomach do a violent, sickening roll.
It wasn't just a random tragedy. Our mothers didn't just die in the same world, they died in the exact same bloodbath. The Russo family had launched a city-wide execution twenty years ago, targeting the wives of the Bratva leaders to break their spirits. My mother took three bullets in our sunroom. Ilya’s mother was executed in her own garden.
On the exact same night.
I look at the picture of Marina, then think of Ilya standing in the ruins of the cathedral, his obsidian eyes burning with that cold, terrifying possessiveness. I think of the way he held me during my panic attack in the weapons room, his heart beating a steady, grounding rhythm against my back.
He isn't just a monster who wants to own me. He’s a broken, scarred boy who watched his mother bleed out on the grass, and he’s spent the last twenty years building a fortress of concrete and blood to make sure it never happens again.
"Via?" Ekaterina’s small hand touches my arm, her face shadowed with concern. "Are you okay? You went completely pale."
"I'm fine," I whisper, forcing a small, shaky smile onto my face as I pull myself out of the memory.
I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her side against mine.
"I just... I realized something. Our mothers would have liked each other.
They both had terrible taste in men, but they were very good at making beautiful daughters. "
Ekaterina lets out a soft, wet chuckle, her head coming to rest on my shoulder. "Ilya says we’re cursed. He says the Kovalevskii name only brings blood."
"Ilya is a grumpy giant who needs to spend less time in a basement and more time in the sun.
" I squeeze her shoulder, my own defensive sarcasm finally softening into something real.
Something warm. "We aren't cursed, Ekaterina. We’re survivors. And we’re going to find a way to be happy in this house, even if we have to drag your brother kicking and screaming into the light. "
She looks up at me, hope flickering in her dark eyes. "Do you really think so?"
"I know so." I stand up, brushing the dust off my leggings, and offer her my hand. "Now, come on. Let’s get out of this dusty parlor before we both start sneezing. I promised I’d teach you how to do winged eyeliner, and I intend to keep my word. Your brother’s eyeliner is terrible anyway—he just uses soot and intimidation. "
Ekaterina laughs, a bright, genuine sound that seems to push back the heavy, dark shadows of the old parlor. She takes my hand, letting me pull her to her feet, the silver frame clutched tightly against her chest.
"Thank you, Via," she whispers as we walk toward the door.
I look back at the room one last time, the white dust sheets gleaming like ghosts in the amber light. "We’re family now, Ekaterina. You don't have to thank me."
As we walk back down the corridor, the heavy hand of the Kovalevskii name doesn't feel quite as suffocating anymore.
I still hate Ilya. I still hate the bruises on my hips and the way he forced my signature onto that marriage contract.
But as I look at the young girl walking beside me, her tear-stained face finally brightened by a small, tentative smile, I realize my sunshine isn't gone.
I’m Viallentinka Kovalevskiia now.
And if I have to burn this entire fortress down to keep this girl safe, I will do it with a smile on my face.