Chapter Twenty-Eight Anya
The knock lands like a gunshot.
Three sharp raps slice through the living area, and every muscle in my body locks. The silence that follows is worse—heavy, expectant, suffocating. My heart slams against my ribs as I look instinctively at Alexi.
He doesn’t hesitate.
The moment our eyes meet, he’s already moving.
He pushes back from the table, chair legs barely whispering against the floor, and slips into the bedroom.
The door closes softly behind him, but the sound echoes in my head like a warning bell.
My brother is hiding again. From ghosts.
From consequences. From the life he never wanted.
Vladimir is already standing.
He gives me a brief look—steady, reassuring, commanding me without words to stay where I am—before crossing the room and opening the door.
Three men stand in the hallway.
Two are uniformed police officers, rigid and impersonal, their presence instantly recognizable. The third stands slightly forward. Plain clothes. Dark coat. Cold eyes that miss nothing. Authority clings to him more tightly than any uniform ever could.
He flashes a badge. “Senior Investigator Ivanov. Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation.”
My stomach drops.
“We’re investigating a homicide,” Ivanov continues, his tone calm, almost conversational. “The bodies of Oleg Petrov, Pavel Nazarov, and Artem Sorokin were discovered early this morning inside Pavel Nazarov’s nightclub.”
The names hit me one by one, each heavier than the last.
Dead.
All three of them.
Shock freezes me in place, but beneath it—terrifying and undeniable—relief blooms. My chest tightens, breath catching as images flash through my mind: Alexi beaten and broken, Oleg and Pavlov’s faces as they taunt me in the dressing room, a dark future where I’m trapped for life with one of them.
The men who have turned my stomach into knots are gone.
Murdered.
“How were they murdered?” Vladimir asks.
“Someone shot all three of the men at close range in the VIP section of the club. According to the night manager, the three were still inside the club when he shut down. We think whoever shot them was hiding because we haven’t found signs of a break-in.”
I don’t realize I’ve stepped forward until I hear my own voice. “Vladimir and Dominic were here all night,” I say. “They never left the hotel.”
Ivanov’s gaze slides to me, sharp and assessing. I force myself to stand tall, to meet it without flinching. I’m not lying. I won’t be intimidated into silence anymore.
Vladimir confirms it smoothly, offering nothing extra, his voice controlled and confident. Ivanov listens, nods once, then slips his notebook back into his coat.
“For now, this will suffice,” he says. “We may be in contact.”
The door closes.
The suite falls silent again—but this time, the quiet feels different.
Not threatening.
Final.
And somewhere behind the bedroom door, I know my brother has felt it too.
The bedroom door opens slowly, like Alexi is testing the air before stepping back into it. He looks the same—rumpled, tense—but his eyes are different. Sharper. More awake. He crosses the living area without a word and stops near the table.
Vladimir studies him. “You heard?”
Alexi nods once. “Every word.”
No one says the names again. They hang between us anyway, heavy and undeniable. Dead men don’t stop consequences from coming, and we all know it. What happens next is a question none of us can answer.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly exhausted. “I need to go home,” I say. The words feel strange in my mouth. Home doesn’t feel safe anymore, but it’s still home. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to tell my father about where I’ve been and why I left.”
No one argues with me.
The knock comes again—softer this time, but no less startling. Alexi stiffens, instinct screaming at him to disappear, but Vladimir reaches the door before he can retreat.
When it opens, Skylar stands there, brows drawn together, eyes sharp with concern. “I saw the police leaving,” she says, glancing past Vladimir. “What happened?”
Relief floods me so fast my knees nearly buckle. “Sky,” I breathe, stepping forward. “How did you—”
“I tracked you,” she admits without apology. Her gaze shifts, locking on Alexi. Recognition flashes. “You’re—”
“Alexi,” he says quietly.
Skylar’s eyes narrow. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Does someone want to explain why the police were here and why you’re hiding in a hotel suite?”
“It’s a long story,” I say.
I tell her a shortened version—about the investigator, about Oleg, Pavel, and Artem. About them being found dead. Skylar listens without interrupting, her expression sobering with every word.
Vladimir clears his throat. “We’ll drive you both back to Anya’s house,” he says. “You can talk on the way. Dominic will come with us.”
Alexi doesn’t protest when he stays behind. He just gives me a look—apologetic, protective, proud all at once.
The car ride is quiet at first, the city lights blurring past the windows. Then the words spill out of me, messy and trembling. I tell Skylar about my father. About the Bratva. About Alexi being the heir to something soaked in blood—and how he doesn’t want it.
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’m so sorry, Anya,” she says softly. “That’s… a lot to carry.”
I nod, swallowing hard.
For the first time, I’m not carrying it alone.
The house is lit up like it’s bracing for a storm.
Every light in the front rooms blazes as Vladimir pulls into the drive, and my chest tightens before I even see my father.
Alexandr stands just inside the doorway, coat thrown over his shoulders, phone clenched in his hand like he’s been gripping it for hours.
He doesn’t bother hiding his relief when he sees me step out of the car—relief that curdles almost instantly into anger.
“Where have you been?” he demands the moment I cross the threshold. His voice is sharp, brittle around the edges. Afraid.
Before I can answer, Skylar steps smoothly in beside me. “She was with me,” she says without hesitation. “Anya stayed over. We lost track of time.”
My father’s gaze flicks to her, searching for cracks. Skylar doesn’t flinch.
“And Vladimir?” Alexandr asks, turning his attention to him. “Why are you here?”
Vladimir’s expression is carefully neutral. “I contacted Anya when I heard about the murders,” he says evenly. “I wanted to be sure she was safe.”
That lands harder than a lie ever could.
My father is still. The word murders hangs in the air between them, heavy with implication. He looks at Vladimir for a long moment, then nods once, sharply. “We need to speak. In private.”
Vladimir glances at me—just a flicker of concern—before following my father down the hall. Dominic lingers by the door for a moment, giving Skylar a polite nod, then sits in the chair outside my father’s office, leaving us alone.
The silence presses in.
“Come on,” I murmur to Skylar, already heading toward my room. My legs feel unsteady now that the adrenaline has worn off.
The door closes behind us, cutting off the rest of the house. Skylar drops onto the edge of my bed, eyes bright with questions she’s been holding back since the car.
“So,” she says quietly. “The murders.”
I shake my head, sitting beside her. “I don’t know much. Just what the investigator said. The manager discovered Oleg, Pavel, and Artem dead in Pavel’s nightclub. All of them shot.”
Skylar exhales slowly. “Jesus.”
“The police think whoever did it was hiding inside after the club closed,” I continue. “Waiting. That’s it. That’s all I know.”
She studies my face. “And Alexi?”
The name tightens something deep in my chest. “He’s still in hiding. Vladimir thinks he can help him—help him take control without becoming like our father.”
Skylar’s brows knit together. “Help him how?”
“By eliminating the Bratva’s human trafficking,” I say softly. The words feel heavy every time I tell them. “Using the power instead of pretending it doesn’t exist.”
Skylar leans back against the headboard, processing. “That’s… ambitious.”
“It’s dangerous,” I correct. “But Alexi can’t live like this forever.”
A glance at the clock on my dresser makes my stomach flip. “I need to shower,” I say, standing. “I have to get ready. I perform tonight.”
Skylar waves me off. “Go.”
The bathroom fills with steam quickly, the hot water pounding against my shoulders like it’s trying to wash the last few days off my skin.
I close my eyes, letting the heat loosen muscles I didn’t realize were locked so tight.
My thoughts drift—Alexi, Vladimir, my father’s tense voice, the way Skylar lied so easily to protect me.
By the time I turn the water off, my fingers are wrinkled, and my mind is still racing.
I wrap myself in a towel and step back into my room.
“Sky?” I call.
No answer.
The room is empty.
Her jacket is no longer on the chair. Her phone isn’t on the nightstand where she left it. The door to the hallway stands slightly open, like she slipped out without wanting to be heard.
A chill crawls up my spine, sharp and sudden.
I don’t know where she went—or why—but the sense of safety I felt moments ago vanishes, replaced by the quiet certainty that something has shifted again.