Three captains Roman thought were neutral.
Networks stretching far beyond Vadim into connections that span continents and will take years to unravel.
“Killing him doesn’t end this,” Roman says from the doorway.
“Then we burn what we can and rebuild from what’s left.” I plant thermite charges around the study, setting timers with hands that stay steady because handling volatile materials is something I’ve done before. “Thirty minutes until this room becomes a crematorium for evidence.”
Galina watches me work, her rosary beads clicking softly against her palm while she murmurs prayers for the dead we’ve left behind and the dead we’re about to create.
The estate intercom crackles to life, and Vadim’s voice pours through the speakers.
“Come to the dining hall, nephew. I’ve been waiting twenty years for this conversation. Let’s not delay any longer.”
Roman’s jaw goes tight as he suppresses the urge to shoot the speaker broadcasting his uncle’s voice.
“Together,” I tell him, moving to stand beside him in the doorway. “We go in together, Roman, that’s the deal we made.”
His hand finds my face, palm cupping my jaw, thumb stroking once across my cheekbone with tenderness.
“Ya lyublyu tebya,” he says quietly, and the words settle into my chest beside all the other things I’m carrying tonight. “Whatever happens in that room, Anya, know that I love you more than the throne, more than the empire, more than every breath left in this body.”
“I know.” I turn my head to press a kiss against his palm, feeling the calluses from weapons and violin strings and all the violent, beautiful things those hands have done. “Now let’s go kill your uncle so you can tell me again when we’re not standing in a room full of thermite charges.”
Galina makes a sound that might be a laugh, quickly smothered, and falls into step behind us as we move toward the dining hall.
* * *
The dining hall doors are carved mahogany depicting wolves at hunt, the detail in the teeth and eyes excessive in ways that feel appropriate given the man waiting on the other side, and I force myself to breathe evenly while Roman reaches for the handles.
He pushes them open without hesitation.
The room stretches before us in crystal chandeliers and silk wallpaper and a table that could seat forty. Vadim sits at the head in the chair that belongs to the Pakhan, wearing a navy suit tailored to perfection with silver hair immaculate.
Eight soldiers surround him with weapons trained on the doorway.
He’s smiling.
“There’s my boy.” The warmth in his voice sounds genuine, and that makes it infinitely more obscene, more horrifying, more wrong. “You survived the river, the factory, all of it. The Volkov blood truly does run strong.”
Roman raises his Makarov with hands that shake from damage and fever and rage barely contained. His uncle studies the tremor.
“And you brought her.” Vadim’s attention shifts to me. “The little chemist playing at queenship. Tell me, doctorushka, do you really believe the Bratva will bow to a woman who was property ten weeks ago?”
“I think they’ll bow or they’ll bleed. Same choice I’m offering you.”
He laughs, and the sound fills the dining hall with the absurdity of my threat.
“You’ve reached my dining room, and you think you’ve won?” He rises from the Pakhan’s chair. “Polina Tarasova has already taken the Odessa ports. Three of my captains are positioning to carve up whatever remains of Roman’s claim. The empire is already fracturing, nephew, and you’re too busy bleeding to hold it together.”
“We’ll handle them after we handle you,” Roman says.
“Such conviction from a man who can barely hold his weapon.” Vadim moves around the table toward us. “But since this is our last conversation, let me give you a gift, nephew. A truth I’ve been saving for exactly this moment.”
He pauses, savoring the silence, letting it stretch until I can hear Roman’s breathing grow ragged beside me.
“I killed your mother personally.” His smile widens, feeding on Roman’s stillness. “Put my knife in Irina’s throat while she begged me to spare her little wolf cub, while she offered me everything she had—money, information, her body, her loyalty—if I would just let you live.”
The silence that follows is absolute.
