Chapter Thirty-Three Vladimir
The house lights dim, and the hush that settles over the audience feels almost sacred. I sit rigid in my seat, hands clasped together, heart pounding harder than it ever has before a gunfight or a negotiation gone sideways. The curtain rises, and there she is.
Anya.
For a moment, the world narrows to the stage. The fear of earlier—the image of her pale face, the syringe, the sound of her scream—tries to claw its way back into my mind. I force it down. She deserves better than that. She deserves this moment to belong only to her.
She moves with a grace that steals the breath from my lungs.
Every step, every turn is precise and fluid, as if the music itself lives inside her bones.
The spotlight catches her costume, soft fabric shimmering as she spins, but it’s her expression that holds me captive.
She’s focused, fierce, utterly present. Not broken and not frightened.
Strong.
Pride swells in my chest, sharp and overwhelming.
She went through hell today, and yet here she is, commanding the stage like nothing could ever touch her.
Beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Talented, yes—but more than that, she’s brave in a way few people ever are.
She faced terror and still chose to step into the light.
I realize then that I am irrevocably lost.
As the final act unfolds, I slip from my seat and move quietly toward the wings.
I don’t want to miss the end, but I need to be close to her, need to be the first thing she sees when the curtain falls.
I stop near the edge, watching from the shadows as she delivers the last moments of the performance with raw emotion that makes my throat tighten.
The applause is thunderous. She earns every second of it.
As the curtain closes, my thoughts drift—unbidden, dangerous—toward the future. Toward the phone call I made earlier. Telling Alexandr that his daughter was safe. Telling him what Igor confessed. The silence on the other end of the line had been heavy, calculating.
Then his offer.
Alexi’s position. Power within the Bratva. And Anya’s hand in marriage, spoken of as if it were another asset to be transferred.
I told him I’d think about it.
The truth is, I don’t want power that comes at the cost of her freedom. I don’t want her handed to me like a bargaining chip. I want her to choose me. She needs to choose us. Whatever that means, whatever it costs.
I make my way down the hall to her dressing room, my heart steady now, certain in a way it hasn’t been before. The door opens, and she steps out, still glowing from the stage, eyes searching—
Until they find me.
Her smile is radiant, unguarded, and it shatters every lingering doubt inside me. She doesn’t hesitate. She runs straight into my arms, and I catch her, holding her close as if letting go would be impossible.
I kiss her, slow and sure, pouring everything I feel into that single moment. The world, the Bratva, Alexandr’s offer—all of it fades into nothing.
She’s warm, alive, real in my arms.
Whatever choices I have to make, whatever battles lie ahead, I know one thing with absolute clarity.
Anya is my everything.
The drive back to Anya’s house is quiet, but not uncomfortable.
She sits beside me, fingers laced together in her lap, staring out the window as the city slips past. Every so often, she glances my way, as if grounding herself in the fact that this is real—that she’s safe.
I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting close enough that she can reach for it if she wants. If she does, I’ll never let go.
“Would you have dinner with me tonight?” I ask Anya. We have our future to discuss.
Anya flits her gorgeous blue orbs to mine and smiles. “I’d like that.”
When we step inside, the entryway lights are already on.
Skylar stands near the sitting room, her posture tense, eyes sharp—until she sees Anya.
“Oh my God,” Skylar breathes, rushing forward. She wraps Anya in a tight hug, holding her as if she might disappear. “Are you okay? I heard—” Her voice cracks. “I was so worried.”
Anya hugs her back, gentle but reassuring. “I’m okay,” she says softly. “I promise. I’ll tell you everything, but I need to check on Nadia first. I just need to see her.”
Skylar nods quickly. “Of course. Of course.”
Anya gives me a small look over her shoulder before heading down the hall. The moment she’s gone, the air in the room shifts. Skylar straightens, her expression guarded now, calculating.
I don’t waste time.
“Your CIA contacts,” I say flatly. “They’re the ones who told you what happened tonight, aren’t they?”
Her eyes flicker. Just for a second. Enough.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, too fast. “I heard bits and pieces—”
“I saw you,” I cut in, stepping closer. My voice is low, controlled, far more dangerous than if I were shouting. “I saw you with them. I heard what you told them. About Anya. About her family. About turning them into assets. Spies.”
The color drains from her face.
“That’s not—Vladimir, you don’t understand how this works,” she says, backing up a step. “I am trying to protect her. This is bigger than—”
“If you hurt her,” I say quietly, “if you manipulate her or use her for your handlers, I will kill you.”
The words land heavily between us. I mean them. She knows it. Skylar swallows hard, her bravado crumbling as fear seeps through the cracks.
“I would never hurt Anya,” she whispers.
“You already have,” I reply. “Don’t do it again.”
Footsteps sound in the hallway. Skylar stiffens just as Anya returns. Her expression shifts instantly, concern and warmth snapping back into place like a mask. She forces a smile and takes Anya’s arm.
“Come on,” Skylar says softly. “Let’s go upstairs. Tell me everything that happened.”
As they walk away, Skylar glances back once.
Our eyes meet.
I don’t blink.
She turns and follows Anya up the stairs, knowing exactly what she saw in my gaze—and exactly how far I’ll go to protect the woman I love.
Alexandr’s office has always felt like a throne room pretending to be a study.
Dark wood paneling, heavy desk, the faint scent of leather and old cigars—everything about the space is designed to remind anyone who enters exactly who holds the power here.
I stand in front of his desk, hands clasped behind my back, my expression neutral. Inside, I’m coiled tight.
He studies me for a long moment before speaking.
“Have you considered my offer?” Alexandr asks, his voice calm, measured. Dangerous in its patience.
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
One eyebrow lifts. “And?”
“I’m considering it,” I say carefully, “only because I want to be with Anya.”
The words hang between us, stark and honest. Alexandr leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, his gaze sharpening.
“You would refuse power,” he says slowly, “refuse Alexi’s position, if not for her?”
“I would,” I reply without flinching. “I don’t want your empire. I don’t want your title. I want your daughter. And I won’t take either unless she chooses it.”
His jaw tightens. “She belongs here. With her family. With her people.”
“She belongs to herself,” I counter. “And she’ll decide whether she stays in Russia or returns to the States with me. Not you. Not the Bratva. Her.”
For the first time since I’ve known him, Alexandr’s composure cracks. His hand comes down on the desk, not hard enough to be a threat, but enough to be a warning.
“You speak as if you have the right—”
A knock interrupts him.
Sharp. Insistent.
“Come in,” Alexandr snaps.
The door opens, and Alexi steps inside.
For a moment, no one moves.
Alexi looks thinner than the last time Alexandr saw him, his face still marked by healing bruises, but his eyes are clear, steady. Alive. Alexandr rises slowly from his chair, the authority draining from his posture, replaced by something raw and unguarded.
“My son,” he breathes.
Alexi crosses the room without a word. They stop a few feet apart, staring at one another as if confirming that this isn’t some cruel trick. Then Alexandr pulls Alexi into a fierce embrace. Alexi hesitates only a second before returning it, one hand gripping the back of his father’s jacket.
I avert my eyes, giving them the privacy they deserve, but I can’t help watching from the corner of my vision. Whatever else Alexandr is, he is a father who believed his son dead. The relief on his face is unmistakable.
I step back quietly, moving toward the door.
“Vladimir,” Alexandr says, his voice rough now.
I pause and turn.
“We will continue this discussion,” he says. It isn’t a command. It’s a promise.
“Yes,” I reply simply. “We will.”
I leave them there, closing the door softly behind me.
Anya is waiting just outside the office, pacing the hallway like a caged thing. The moment she sees me, her face lights up, tension melting into relief. She rushes toward me, stopping just short, as if unsure whether she’s allowed to cling to me here.
I take that choice away from her, pulling her into my arms.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, her voice hushed.
“Yes,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Your brother is with your father.”
She exhales, emotion shuddering through her. “Good.”
I hold her a little tighter, knowing that whatever storms are coming—whatever choices must be made—we’ll face them together.
And this time, I won’t let anyone take her choices away again.