Chapter 29
Luciano
Five days.
I’ve been living at the Petrov compound for five whole freaking days.
They say I’m a guest here, but since I’m not allowed to wander around without a fucking chaperone, it feels more like I’m a prisoner than an invited guest.
Not that Frankie seems to notice.
She’s too high on the thrill of finally finding her family to realize that Stella and I aren’t exactly being welcomed with open arms.
“I know. I know,” Stella says into the phone, shooting me a glare like I got her in trouble. “Yes, Papà. We will. No, Papà. They haven’t. Yes, Papà. I know…I know…I know. Jesus, Dad! I know! God!” she snaps, losing her patience.
But whatever our father says next brings her rage down fast.
“Understood. Please tell Anna and Mar that I miss them. Mom, Gio and Dom, too. Yes. Yes. We’ll be home soon. I love you, too.”
She hangs up, tosses her phone onto the bed, and slumps against the pillows. Her bullet wound is healing nicely, but Kirill has her on bedrest until he’s sure there’s no risk of infection.
“Well, that was fun,” she scowls. “Nothing like getting your head chewed off by the Capo dei Capi and a worried dad.”
“That bad, huh?” I mutter absentmindedly, while staring out the window and watching Frankie laugh hysterically at something Mikhail said to her.
What could he have possibly said to have her laugh like that?
It’s not like the Bratva Pakhan is known for being a bundle of laughs.
He’s her uncle, moron. Quit with the jealousy already, my subconscious rears its ugly head to scold me.
“Lucky? Lucky? LUCKY! Did you hear anything I just said?” Stella shouts angrily.
Nothing new there.
She’s always angry at something or other.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mumble. “Our dad’s pissed. Shocker. But come on? On a scale from one to ten, how upset could he possibly be with us?”
“ Us? There is no ‘us’, Lucky. He’s pissed at you, not me.”
“Why only me?” I ask, pulling the curtain back into place and settling on the edge of Stella’s bed.
“Because you’re the one who didn’t kill Kirill when you had the chance. Not only didn’t you kill that rat bastard, but you let him kidnap us and bring us all the way to Russia.”
Me kill Kirill? And then what? Start a war?
But of course, my father would rather start a war with the Bratva than let his children get taken by them. He may be the head of the Outfit, but first and foremost, he’s a father.
Our father. And we don’t exactly make life easy for him. For any of them really.
Good thing Mom got us three dads, because we’re a fucking handful.
“Dad’s right, you know?” Stella crosses her arms over her chest. “You should have just killed him and be done with it.”
“Why? To not have Dad on my case, but have you pissed at me instead? Yeah, I don’t think so. I don’t see how I would’ve won in either scenario.”
“Why would I care if you killed Kirill or not?” she asks, feigning confusion.
“Are you saying you wouldn’t?”
“Nope,” she says flatly, but I don’t miss how she won’t meet my eyes.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll pretend to buy that shit for now. Got too much on my plate as it is,” I explain, getting up from the bed to take another peek outside to check on Frankie again, only to frown when I don’t see her.
“Of all the girls you could’ve fallen for… you had to pick a Bratva principessa. ” Stella shakes her head with a goading smirk on her lips.
“Hey, it’s not like any of us knew who her family was,” I try to defend.
Well… one person did.
Remus.
Remus knew.
Remus knew and I just blew him off.
Fuck.
Ever since he went ballistic on my girl over Thanksgiving break, I’ve been icing him out. He’s called a million times, and I haven’t picked up once.
If I had just answered his calls or replied to his texts, then maybe… maybe he would’ve warned me.
Too late now.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for Frankie.
I know what it means to her… to find her family, to know she wasn’t abandoned like yesterday’s trash.
But why the hell did it have to be the fucking Petrovs?
“Stop brooding, Lucky. It’s not cute on you. And while you’re at it, stop thinking so hard. You’ll give yourself an aneurysm,” Stella mutters, like she’s reading my mind.
“What else did Dad say?” I ask, eager to move to another topic. “Is Enzo okay? Alejandro? Any fallout from Father McDonagh?”
“They’re fine. Alejandro was discharged a few days ago from the hospital. As for Father McDonagh? His disappearance has been all over the news. Apparently, that psycho was beloved by the parish. No one believes he’d just walk away without saying goodbye. Dad said there’s even an open investigation on his disappearance.”
“That’s… a problem.” I frown.
“Our dads have it covered. I’m more worried about Mar, to be honest.” She sighs. “He’s been… volatile lately.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is unhinged.”
“So what if he is? You have to be a little crazy to make it in the famiglia, ” she retorts.
“There’s crazy and then there’s whatever our brother is. You didn’t see him that night. It was like something possessed him.” I frown, remembering that vacant stare in my brother’s eyes. “I don’t know, Stella. I think Dad made a mistake naming him his heir. Marcello’s not fit to lead the Outfit. Not if he can’t control whatever demon’s eating him alive.”
“That’s treasonous talk, little brother. I’d be careful with what you say next,” she warns.
Of course, Stella would defend Marcello.
She needs him to stay sane and in power—her ticket up the syndicate ladder depends on it.
But she didn’t see what I saw.
When he killed that priest, I saw bloodlust in his eyes. Pure, unfiltered rage.
That kind of hunger doesn’t just go away.
When all his enemies are dead and gone, what happens next?
Will he turn on his men?
His family?
Yeah, that doubt doesn’t sit well with me, and it sure as fuck shouldn’t sit well with Stella either.
I’m about to tell her that when the bedroom door opens.
“I didn’t know you had company,” Kirill says as he walks in like he owns the place. “I came to check on you. See if you needed anything,” he adds, his focus solely on my sister.
“What I need is to get out of this damn bed,” Stella grumbles, arms crossed.
“Oh, I don’t know. I think you’re perfect right where you are.” He smirks and moves closer. Stella throws him her most menacing glare and then pointedly turns her head away.
“Your prisoner is fine. You can go now,” she says, refusing to look at him.
“Fair enough. I just wanted to tell you that Dr. Solokov will stop by later to change your bandages. You can ask him if you’re ready to be off bedrest then.”
“I don’t need a doctor to tell me what I already know. I’m perfectly fine,” she snaps. “Besides, it’s just a flesh wound. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
“No,” he corrects, grabbing her chin and pulling her face towards him. “It’s not a flesh wound. It’s a bullet wound. I know because I fished the bullet out of your body myself. And that type of injury is not to be taken lightly.”
“What I take seriously is the fact that I got shot by your order.”
“I never told my men to shoot you, milaya, ” he says, visibly offended.
“No, you just told them to kidnap Frankie. By any means necessary. If I got shot, then that’s on you.”
Kirill scowls at Stella before releasing his grip off her and shifting his attention to me.
“Frankie was looking for you downstairs. You should go to her.”
I don’t budge since leaving Stella alone with him doesn’t feel right with me. But when she waves me off, I have no choice.
“Go. I can deal with this asshole on my own just fine.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“She’s sure,” they both answer in tandem.
Well… that’s that, I guess.
I leave Stella’s room and go looking for Frankie. But when I find her in the library, seated across from Mikhail and Aleksandr, my hackles rise.
“You wanted to see me, babe?”
She opens her mouth, but it’s not her voice that answers my question.
“Have a seat, Luciano. We have much to discuss,” Mikhail says, with that impenetrable stare of his.
I sit down beside Frankie and kiss her cheek.
“Hi.”
“Hi back,” she replies, trying to sound like everything is fine, but I can tell something’s got her rattled.
“You okay?”
“Kira is fine,” Aleksandr interjects, standing behind his boss like some overzealous bodyguard.
“Her name is Frankie,” I snap.
He looks ready to argue, but Mikhail raises a hand to silence him.
Damn.
If I raised my hand to silence any one of my siblings, I wouldn’t have any fingers by now.
“Let’s not squabble over names,” Mikhail says evenly. “We have more pressing matters to discuss.”
“And what pressing matters are those?” I arch a brow.
“Your stay here.”
Well…fuck.
Guess this guy has never heard of lube when he’s about to fuck someone in the ass.
“As I was telling my niece, I appreciate all that you have done and how zealously you have looked after her. But as you can see, she’s quite safe here. Your protection is no longer necessary.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so. I’ll always protect Frankie.”
Misha sighs and leans back in his chair.
“Again, I appreciate your dedication to Ki—Frankie. It’s clear your feelings for her run deep. That said,” he fixes me with a steely gaze, “you must understand the position your presence puts me in. My enemies and even my own men question how I can welcome one brother into my home while I’m waging war against another.”
Jude.
Fuck.
He means Jude.
The war between the Bratva and the Firm in London has been raging for years now. Years filled with blood, betrayals, and bodies. That kind of history isn’t easily buried, and it took Mikhail bringing the issue up to remind me.
“I’ve tolerated your presence—and your sister’s—not only for Frankie’s sake but out of respect for your father. My quarrel was never with Vincent. Even when he drove the Bratva out of Chicago decades ago, I didn’t hold it against him. The former Pakhan earned that defeat. But I’m the Pakhan now. Which means I intend to do business…everywhere.”
Ah, syndicate politics.
The kind of crap I never cared about or was ever remotely interested in.
Still…
“If memory serves, Kirill is operating in Chicago just fine. To my knowledge, my father hasn’t tried to banish him from doing business on our turf.”
“Because your father is a smart businessman. He’s seen what I’ve done to the Cranes and doesn’t want to get caught in a similar war. Your brother, on the other hand—”
“My brother doesn’t work for the Firm. He’s more like… the Outfit’s ambassador,” I say, grateful I remember that much.
“Do not toy with me, young Romano. His wife, Mina, is the boss of the Firm. We all know where his loyalties truly lie…and it isn’t to the Outfit.”
Well. Shit.
He’s got me there.
“Mina Crane and her cousins have cost me many nights of restless sleep. So yes, it looks…what’s the word…ah yes, suspicious for me to entertain you under my roof while they remain my enemies.”
“So what exactly are you saying here?”
“I’m saying… it’s time for you to go home.”
I let out a relieved exhale.
“Shit, that’s it? Book us a flight and we’re gone.” I chuckle.
“Actually, Lucky…” Frankie says softly, “I’m… staying.”
“The-fuck-what now?” I cup a hand to my ear. “You wanna run that by me again, babe?”
“You heard her. Kira’s staying. This is her home,” Aleksandr pipes up.
“Uncle Sasha,” Frankie says warningly. “Please.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I shoot to my feet. “You’re calling that ugly bastard Uncle now?”
“That’s what I am, pissant,” Aleksandr scowls.
“Oh, you wanna go, old man?” I growl, rolling up my sleeves.
“Lucky!” Frankie pleads.
“Sasha,” Misha warns.
“He started it,” I mumble.
“The pissant needs to learn some manners,” Aleksandr huffs.
“Both of you—quit it!” Frankie orders, sounding utterly exhausted. “Uncle Misha, can I speak to Lucky alone for a moment?”
“Of course, plemyannitsa. ” Mikhail rises and nods to Aleksandr, who throws me an ugly glare but obeys his Pakhan ’s orders, nonetheless.
Before Mikhail leaves the room, he pauses just inches from me and places a firm hand on my shoulder.
“This is not personal, Luciano. You’ve shown courage, loyalty in protecting my niece the way you have, even at your own risk. I won’t soon forget that.” He gives my shoulder what feels like an apologetic squeeze and then walks out.
Once the door clicks shut behind him, I round over to Frankie.
“You seriously want to stay here? With them?!”
“You say that like I’m making the worst decision of my life,” she scoffs.
“Because you are! Frankie, you don’t even speak Russian!”
“Then I’ll learn,” she snaps back.
“She’ll learn, she says!” I throw my hands in the air and start pacing the Persian rug, practically wearing a hole in it.
“Can you please calm down so we can talk like adults?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to calm down when you’re choosing to stay behind? Choosing to leave me?!”
“I’m not leaving you, Lucky. I just… I want to be here. I want to understand my roots, my traditions. I want to know more about my mother. I want to know…everything. And that takes time. Can’t you understand that?”
“What I understand is that you nearly had a breakdown when you found out my family runs the Outfit. But now that you’re Bratva royalty? Now it’s all honky-fucking-dory?!”
“That’s not fair, Lucky!”
“Fair? Fair? Nothing about this is fair! How can you even think about staying here?!” I shout.
“They’re my family!”
“And you’re fucking mine!”
When tears brim in her eyes, I rush to her, cupping her face in my hands.
“ You’re my family, Frankie,” I whisper. “I just fucking found you. How the fuck do you want me to feel when you’re choosing people you just met over me?”
She buries her head in my chest and wraps her arms around me.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.
“Don’t be sorry, Frankie. Just… don’t stay here. I can’t protect you if you do.”
“They won’t hurt me. They love me. Do you understand what that means? All this time, I had people out there who actually loved me. Who were looking for me. Who cared enough never to give up that search.” She then pulls back enough to meet my eyes. “You’ve always had family, Lucky. People who cared, supported you. This…this is mine. Don’t ask me to abandon them. Not when I’ve wished for them my whole life.”
“If you stay…” I force the words through the burn in my throat. “You’ll be abandoning Darius, too. Not just me.”
She shakes her head quickly.
“I already talked to Uncle Misha about him. He says he can bring Darius here, too.”
“How? By kidnapping him? Is that really what you want? To traumatize him like that?”
“No, of course not. I’ll find a way to do it right. Maybe… maybe I could even adopt him.”
“Adopt him? Frankie, you’re eighteen. How the fuck do you think that’s going to work?”
“I’ve taken care of him—and myself—this far. And now that I have my uncles and aunt, it’ll be easier.”
“None of this is easy. Every word out of your mouth is tearing me apart.”
She lifts her face again, locking eyes with me, unflinching.
“Can’t you just be happy for me? If you love me like you say you do… you’d want this for me.”
Fuck.
She’s right.
Am I the asshole here? Am I the one keeping her from what she was meant to find?
Her truth? Her family? Her fucking bloodline?
“What about culinary school? Are you just going to give that up too?” I ask, trying to find any reason to change her mind.
She shrugs, eyes wet but steady.
“I don’t know. Maybe. All I know is that right now, I need to be here. It feels like this is where I was always meant to be.”
“And I was meant to stand beside you. But I can’t. Not if you’re Bratva.”
“I’m not Bratva. I’m a Petrov.”
“Same difference, babe,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead before forcing myself to take a step back. “But you’re right. I am a selfish fuck for wanting you all to myself. All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy, Frankie. To have the life you deserve.” I glance around the massive library, filled with first editions of every book imaginable, then look back at her. “If this is where you’ll find that happiness… then who the hell am I to stand in your way?”
I turn and walk out, unwilling to let her see how living without her is going to kill every good part of me.
How it will destroy me.
How I’ll cease to exist without her.
Night in Russia hits different.
It’s colder than any Chicago winter I’ve ever known. It’s sharper, darker, almost cruel in its silence. The air here doesn’t just sting…it burrows into your bones, like the cold has teeth and fangs. Snow covers the vast countryside like a burial shroud, pristine and untouched, broken only by the trail of my footsteps crunching through the frost-covered garden outside the Petrov estate.
But I don’t feel the cold.
Not really.
I feel empty. So hollow it hurts to breathe.
The moon glows above me, bright and full, casting pale silver over the grounds like it’s mocking me. Mocking my heartbreak. My stupidity. My hope.
Yeah, the Russian countryside is beautiful. Serene even. But it’s not home.
Frankie’s my home.
And if she’s not in Chicago anymore… Does it even matter what city I call mine anymore?
Fuck.
This whole love shit…is not for the faint of heart, I can tell you that much.
Still, even now…knowing what I know, I’d do it all over again. Every risk, every lie, every scar. The months I had with Frankie were the best of my life. And if this pain is the price I pay for them, then so be it.
Just because she’s staying now doesn’t mean it’s forever.
Right?
She’ll come home.
She’ll come back to me.
She has to.
I glance up at the towering Petrov mansion, its sharp angles and gray stone glowing under the moonlight like some gothic fairytale castle—cold, imposing, untouchable.
Why would she ever leave this… for me?
I’m delusional if I think I can compete with the life her real family is offering her.
Her and Darius.
Little man is going to go bonkers when he gets a load of the house he’s going to be living in.
When my phone vibrates in my coat pocket, I quickly fish it out, expecting it to be Frankie.
But it’s not.
It’s a text from Remus.
Actually, two texts from him.
Remus: Just checking to see if you’re alive.
Remus: Wanker.
I don’t bother texting back and just call him.
“Hey.”
“Oi,” he answers with that overly posh British accent of his.
After that, the line goes quiet, thick with unspoken apologies that neither one of us has the balls to say out loud.
“Bollocks,” he finally mutters. “Let’s not do the whole teary-eyed ‘I’m sorry’ routine. I fucked up. You fucked up. Call it square, mate.”
My shoulders instantly relax only to tense up again a second later.
“You could’ve given me a heads-up.”
“I could have, yeah,” he says. “But I decided not to. It didn’t seem like she knew who she was anyway. Thought it best to keep it that way.”
“But you knew.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low.
“How did you know?”
“Got a front-row seat to that sigil of St. Peter when that asshole Aleksandr was pounding my face in two years ago. Fucker has it tattooed across his chest. Didn’t seem like a coincidence.”
“Well, your instincts were right.” I sigh and run a hand through my hair, eyes still fixed on the fortress in front of me. “Did Jude tell you where I’m at?”
“He did.”
“And how do you feel about it?”
“Not good,” he admits. “Half of me wants you to poison their food and burn the house down with every last Petrov inside.”
“And the other half?”
“Understands what it’s like to fall for the last person you should.”
“She wants to stay,” I tell him, my voice quiet.
Silence. Long. Heavy.
“Did you hear me?” I repeat. “She wants to stay. In Russia.”
“Where exactly in Russia?” he asks.
I open my mouth and just as quickly close it.
“Nice try,” I mutter. “I’m not telling you where the Pakhan lives. Frankie would never forgive me if I put her family in danger.”
“Then you’ve already made your choice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Remus lets out a long-winded breath.
“You’re not thick, Lucky. You know exactly what it means.”
He’s right.
Somehow, and without intending to, I’ve put myself in the middle of a war. Jude vs. Mikhail. The Firm vs. the Bratva. The Cranes vs the Petrovs. And by protecting Frankie’s secrets, by staying here, I’ve unwillingly picked a side.
I never meant to. But here I am.
And yet, I would never dream of betraying her trust.
Not for Remus.
And not even for my own brother.
“You’ve got to get out of there, mate,” Remus says. “The deeper you go, the harder it’s going to be to stay loyal—to the Outfit, the Firm, to me. I know mafia politics isn’t your thing, but guess what, fucker? You’re in it now. Smack right in the middle. My advice…get out. And stay out.”
“But I love her.”
Another pregnant pause ensues, and the next time Remus talks, his voice is more patient than I’ve ever heard it.
“How’s that saying go? If you love something, set it free, or whatever? Set your bird free, mate. Before she becomes an albatross around your neck.”
And with that, he hangs up.
“Easier said than done, asshole,” I mutter to myself, pocketing my phone and making my way into the house. The mansion is quiet when I step back inside. Almost too fucking quiet.
It’s the kind of silence that feels intentional. Almost like the walls themselves are listening in on my thoughts. The warmth of the house compared to outside, hits me instantly, but it doesn’t sink in. The cold in my bones is deeper than anything the radiators could fix.
I head up the stairs and then down the hall toward the guest wing, boots echoing against polished floors, when a shadow stops me short.
Kostya is leaning casually against the wall, arms folded over his chest, like he’s been expecting me all night. His face is unreadable, carved from the same stone the Petrovs built this house out of.
“Got a minute?” he asks, voice low and even.
I nod, wary. “Sure.”
He steps away from the wall, eyes flicking down the hallway to make sure we’re alone.
“You need to leave, Lucky. You and your sister.”
I blink. “What?”
“I’m not saying you’re in danger,” he clarifies. “Frankie’s safe here. Safer than she’s ever been. But you? You’re a problem no one knows how to solve yet.”
I cross my arms. “That supposed to be a threat?”
“No. It’s a warning,” he says, calm as ever. “Sasha’s a prick. He won’t lay a finger on Frankie. The fucker loves her too much. But you and your sister? You’re not untouchable. And Sasha doesn’t see people—he sees leverage.”
I narrow my eyes. “And you’re just telling me this out of the kindness of your heart?”
“Guess I am. Don’t make me regret it,” he mutters. “Look, I don’t like Bratva politics any more than you do. Especially when I know the game is rigged. And with Sasha, it’s always fucking rigged.”
“Should you even be telling me this?” I ask. “Won’t Aleksandr be pissed if he finds out you warned me?”
Kostya snorts. “Fuck Sasha. I’ve been on his shit list since the womb. Brothers. Am I right? Can’t live with them…can’t fucking kill them either. Believe me. I’ve tried.” He gives me another pointed look, then steps past me, brushing my shoulder with a nod. “Think about it, Lucky. You don’t belong here. And not all of us will pretend that’s not a problem.”
And just like that, he’s gone, vanishing into the shadows like a ghost.
I linger for a second, his words rattling around in my skull like loose bullets.
Not wanting to run into another Petrov brother, I make my way back to my room and to my girl.
Frankie is curled up on top of the covers, still fully dressed, her brow still creased from the fight we had earlier. But what really tugs at my heartstring is how her hand fists into the comforter like she reached out for me in her sleep and found nothing but air. She must have waited up all night for me, only to lose the fight to exhaustion.
I walk over and sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her, content to just watch her sleep.
This girl broke me open.
Rearranged every piece of me until I was hers.
And now, somehow, I have to figure out how to let her go without falling apart.
Just for tonight, though…
Just for tonight, I’m going to let myself pretend we’re still okay.
That she’s still mine.
I lean down and press a soft kiss to her temple and then lie down beside her, fully dressed, eyes wide open, heart burning in my chest.
I should leave her alone. Let her rest. But I can’t.
Not when this might be the last night I get to be near her like this.
The moonlight slips through the sheer curtains, painting her skin in soft silver. My fingers twitch, craving her. Not just her body—her warmth, her forgiveness, her everything.
I brush the hair from her face, and she stirs but doesn’t wake.
“Frankie,” I whisper, voice thick. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes flutter open, hazy and slow, and when she sees me, she doesn’t push me away.
Instead, she reaches for me.
That’s all the permission I need.
I lean in and kiss her gently—slowly. She sighs into my mouth, her arms winding around my neck, and when she pulls me closer, I follow without hesitation.
There’s no rush. No frantic pulling of clothes. Just the steady unraveling of the pain between us, one kiss at a time.
I take my time undressing her, my fingers reverent, like I’m touching something sacred. Because I am. Frankie’s love is sacred to me. And I will worship at her altar for as long as I’m breathing. Maybe even after I’m not.
She doesn’t speak either. Doesn’t need to. Her kiss…her body…tells me all she wants to say.
Her hands tremble as they touch me, sliding under my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go of me.
I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in.
“I’m here, baby,” I whisper. “Like I told you…you can’t get rid of me. Not now. Not ever.”
Her only answer is a kiss that steals the air from my lungs.
And when we come together, it’s not just about sex.
It’s about the ache of love that’s too big for words. The fear of losing what you can’t live without. The desperate need to hold on, even if just for a few more hours.
We move like we’re trying to burn each other into memory—every touch, every moan, every whispered plea echoing in my soul.
And when it’s over, when we’re tangled together and her breath is soft against my chest, I don’t sleep.
I just hold her.
Because if this is goodbye…I want to feel her heartbeat against mine until the sun rises.