I return to my room, the door clicking shut behind me. The silence feels heavier now. Lonelier.
I toss the bloody shirt onto the floor and sit at the edge of the bed, running a hand down my face. That’s when my phone buzzes. It’s Katia. My younger sister’s name lights up the screen, followed by a string of texts.
Katia:Adrian told me what happened. Don’t argue with me—I’m flying into L.A. tomorrow.
I sigh and type back quickly.
Me:It’s handled. Stay in Moscow.
The three dots pop up immediately, then disappear. A second later, she calls.
I answer with a low, “Katia—”
“Don’t start. You should’ve told me the second someone came after your wife.”
“She’s fine.”
“You almost lost her.”
Silence stretches.
“I’m coming,” she says again, gentler this time. “You can’t shut me out for this. Not again. I’m your sister; I won’t let you face this alone.”
Before I can respond, the line goes dead. I stare at the screen for a long second, jaw clenched. She’s always been stubborn, and right now I’m too tired to handle two stubborn women under my roof. But when Katia puts her mind to something, there’s no stopping her.
Chapter Twenty-Five - Zoe
It’s been two weeks since the evening Lukin killed the man who came for me.
Two weeks since I watched blood spill onto garden soil. Since I felt my heart nearly claw its way out of my chest. The fear has dulled, sure—but it hasn’t vanished. It clings to me in quiet moments, like a shadow stitched into my skin.
I’ve kept my distance since then. Moved into the guest room. Spoke only when necessary. I can feel him watching me sometimes—at breakfast, in passing, late at night when I slip into the hall for water. But neither of us says anything. We just orbit each other in silence, pretending we’re not burning.
Tonight, though, I don’t get to pretend.
There’s a family dinner at the estate—something formal, something Bratva. As Lukin’s wife, I’m expected to show up, smile, and look the part.
I stare at myself in the mirror longer than necessary. The black dress I choose is simple, elegant, high-necked. Modest, like armor. I skip the heavy makeup, pull my hair back, and smooth my palms down the fabric as I head downstairs.
The dining room is already filling when I enter. Arseny’s there, speaking in low Russian with a man I don’t recognize. Adrian lounges at the far end, tossing something up and down—a knife, probably. Katia, Lukin’s younger sister, who I hardly speak to, is also in the far corner, staring at me like I’m a lab specimen. I try to keep my distance from Lukin’s family, but when I do run into them, they’re kind, polite, and respectful.
And then there’s Lukin.
He sits at the head of the table, dressed in black, jaw tight, eyes sharp. He looks up the second I step in.
I can’t read his expression. I don’t try to.
I take the seat beside him, spine straight, hands in my lap. Our arms don’t touch. We don’t greet each other. But his gaze lingers on me longer than it should, and I feel the weight of it like a touch against my skin.
Tonight we’re presenting a picture of a happy couple to his family. Let the performance begin.
Dinner starts, and I do exactly what I came here to do. Pretend. Nothing more, nothing less.
I sit straight, speak only when spoken to. When Arseny asks how I’m feeling, I smile politely and say, “Fine, thank you.” When Katia comments on my dress, I nod and murmur, “It’s just something simple.”
I don’t touch the wine. I barely touch the food.
Lukin sits beside me, composed as always. He talks with Arseny about shipments, something about the northern border being unstable again. He switches to Russian often, and I let the unfamiliar words blur into background noise. Every now and then, his hand drifts near mine on the table. Not touching. Just… close. I don’t know if he’s testing, but he hasn’t tried to speak to me since that night. It’s like he’s also angry, which is strange because I’m the one who relived a trauma. His world is so different from mine, and it scares me sometimes.
