Chapter Seven Vladimir
“What?” Dom asks when he realizes I’m studying him.
“Just remembering when we first met,” I tell him. “How’s Dina? Is she enjoying college?”
Dom’s usually stern expression softens when he thinks of his younger sister. His smile is so broad it completely transforms his face.
“She’s happy now that she’s living in an apartment instead of the dorms. She says it makes studying easier, but I’ve seen the credit card bills; she’s also hosting parties. Not that it bothers me. Much. I’m glad she’s having fun.”
“She’s a political science major, right?”
Dom nods. “Yeah, I don’t know why she chose that major, but whatever makes her happy. I just want her to be happy.”
“She’s one of the happiest people I’ve ever met,” I told him with a laugh. “She always has been. You’re the sourpuss in that family.”
Dom grimaces but shoots me a grin. “I know. I’m trying to lighten up. It isn’t like our lives are conducive to frivolity.”
I nod in agreement. “Especially right now. I take it you came in here for a reason?”
“Our guest is showing signs of waking up. The nurse says he’s been moaning, and she saw his eyes fluttering. I thought you might want to be there if he wakes.”
About a week ago, a contact of mine in the Ukrainian Army informed me that they had located a man matching the description I provided.
They were outside Pischane, spying on the Russian soldiers and making preparations to retake the town.
The soldiers spotted a Russian vehicle dropping off several men.
The men dragged a fourth man from the truck and beat him before shooting him three times.
When the three men returned to the car and took off, the Ukrainian soldiers approached the body, believing it was one of their own.
However, they discovered he was Russian.
Luckily, one of the soldiers had seen my communique. They patched him up and contacted me.
I cross the hall from my cabin into the one we converted into an infirmary.
The doctor I hired to treat the man has the room next door.
The three nurses on shift have cabins on the deck below.
I nod at the nurse and gesture for her to leave.
Once she’s gone, I turn my focus on their patient.
He looks much better than he did, which is a relief.
The bruising has turned from an ugly bluish-purple into a yellowish-green.
Bandages still cover the bullet holes, but I assume they’re healing, too.
Grabbing the chair the nurse had been using, I pull it closer to the bed and take a seat.
There are other seats in the room, but Dominic chooses to lean against the door with his arms crossed.
I consider reaching over to shake the patient awake, but I’m not in a hurry.
He needs his rest. I’m hoping that by the time we reach St. Petersburg, he’ll be mobile.
We have only been waiting for twenty minutes when the man groans, and his eyes pop open. Instead of looking around, he stares at the ceiling. I cough to gain his attention. His eyes flick to me and widen.
“I know you,” he croaks out.
“You do,” I agree. “It’s been a long time. I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”
He glances around the room before returning his attention to me. “Where am I? What happened?”
“Don’t you remember?”
Alexi shakes his head. “I only remember leaving my house. I was supposed to meet a few friends for lunch. We were going to meet at a nightclub that one of the guys owns. I can’t remember if I made it there.”
“Who were you meeting?” I ask.
“Oleg Petrov, Pavel Nazarov, and Artem Sorokin. Their fathers work with my father.”
I glance at Dominic, who nods before leaving the room. He’ll contact our tech guy and ask him to run the men. I recognize the surnames as those associated with the Bratva, but I don’t know much about the three sons.
“Are you friends with them?” I ask.
Alexi shrugs, but then he hisses. “Shit, that hurts. What the hell happened to me?”
“Three men beat and shot you, then left you for dead,” I start. “When I heard you’d gone missing, I sent out feelers. For days, nothing. Then a message came through from a Ukrainian contact who recognized you.”
Alexi’s brow creases, so I slow my words.
“He said that he saw you dragged off the back of a truck by three Russian soldiers. No insignia, no questions. They beat you first—methodical, like they were trying to make a point. Then they shot you. Three times.” My jaw tightens despite myself.
“They left you there. Drove off like you were already dead.”
His fingers twitch against the sheet.
“The Ukrainians moved in once the truck was gone,” I say. “They found you bleeding out in the dirt and patched you up as best they could. Kept you hidden. Kept you alive.” I meet his eyes. “Barely.”
A breath rattles out of him, and I wait until it steadies.
“I got you out of Ukraine and into the States. I planned to have you recuperate there before putting you on a plane and flying you home. However, something came up, and I had to change those plans.”
“Where are we?” Alexi asks, finally noticing his surroundings.
“We’re on a ship headed for St. Petersburg. Your father believes you are dead. He knows you somehow ended up in Ukraine and believes the Ukrainians killed you when they took back the town. Your father was told you died while fighting for Russia.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. My father told me he made sure the army wouldn’t touch me.”
“They told him you enlisted,” I tell him.
Alexi shakes his head. “He believed them? He had to know that I wouldn’t have chosen to join the army. I didn’t think we should be attacking Ukraine.”
“I don’t know what your father believes, except that you are dead. It’s why he’s announced his plan for your successor.”
“My successor?”
“Yes. Your father wants someone to take over Stepanov Industries and serve as the head of the Bratva. He’s holding a birthday party in three weeks.
He plans to announce who will be taking over for you.
I plan to get you to St. Petersburg in time to claim your birthright.
You’ll have two weeks to recuperate. No one can find you here, so you’ll be safe. ”
“So,” he says finally, voice rough. “My father is appointing my replacement.”
“He believes you’re dead,” I reply evenly. “Stepanov Industries. The Bratva. All of it. He’s preparing to hand it over.”
Alexi exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling. “Good.”
“Good?” I repeat.
He turns his head to look at me. “You told me yourself. This changes things. I have a chance to disappear for real this time.”
“You think that’s a coincidence?” I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “You’re attacked, beaten, shot, left for dead—and now the board is cleared for someone else to step in. You don’t think whoever did this wanted exactly that outcome?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I don’t care what they wanted.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve never wanted any of it, Vladimir. Not the company, not the crown, not the Bratva.”
I watch him closely, searching for hesitation, but there’s only a tired certainty there.
“I’ve played my role because it was expected. Because it was easier than fighting my father. But leading the Bratva?” He shakes his head. “I can’t. I won’t.”
He shifts slightly, wincing, then presses on. “I don’t agree with how the Bratva operates. The extortion, the violence—I’ve tolerated it. But the trafficking?” His voice drops. “Women. Children. Sold like inventory. That’s not power. That’s rot.”
I don’t interrupt him. This is something he’s carried for years. It’s something I’ve struggled with, too.
“If I take over,” he says, “I become responsible for all of it. Every shipment. Every broken body. Even if I try to stop it, I’ll be fighting men who have been doing this longer than I’ve been alive. Men who will smile to my face and undermine me the second I turn my back.”
“So you’d rather let them win outright?” I ask sharply.
He meets my gaze without flinching. “They can have it.”
The words settle heavily between us.
“You’re walking away from your name,” I say. “From your legacy.”
“My heritage isn’t violence,” he snaps. Then his tone softens. “It doesn’t have to be.”
I stand, pacing once before stopping at the foot of his bed. “If you vanish now, someone else takes your place. Someone worse. Someone who ordered your death to make it happen.”
“Let them,” Alexi says. “I’m done being a pawn on that board.”
“You think they’ll let you go?” I demand. “You’re a loose end. A liability.”
“That’s your fear,” he counters. “Not mine.”
I study him, really look at him—this man who survived three bullets and still chooses to walk away. There’s no cowardice here. Just resolve.
“I want a life that’s mine,” he says quietly. “Not one carved out by blood and expectation. If that means the world believes Alexi Stepanov died on a roadside in Ukraine, then maybe that’s exactly what needs to stay true.”
I don’t answer right away as I consider the ramifications. I let out a slow breath. “You’re asking me to protect a ghost.”
“I’m asking you to let me live,” he replies.
The ship rolls gently beneath us, carrying us closer to Russia, to obligations and shadows and choices that refuse to stay buried.
And for the first time since I found him, I don’t know which path is more dangerous—forcing him back into a throne he despises, or honoring his wish and unleashing whatever comes next.