I slide under his arm, taking his weight on my shoulder, feeling him lean into me.
Galina moves to his other side, her small frame somehow supporting more of his weight, and together we lift him from the Pakhan’s chair toward the service entrance at the back of the dining hall.
“Vmeste,” she says, echoing my earlier word. “Together. That’s how Volkovs survive. That’s how we’ve always survived.”
We cross the dining hall as a trio, past captains who bow as we pass, past Vadim’s corpse cooling on marble, past the ruins of the old empire crumbling around us while something new struggles to be born.
The tunnels swallow us again.
Somewhere above, thermite charges detonate, the fire consuming ledgers and evidence, and the last traces of a regime built on suffering.
We emerge into the grey Moscow dawn.
Snow falls softly.
Three SUVs are waiting with engines running and drivers who don’t ask questions.
Galina presses a kiss to Roman’s forehead before releasing him to my care, her eyes bright with tears she refuses to let fall.
“I’ll handle the captains,” she tells me. “Get him somewhere safe and keep him breathing until I can reach you. Ya naydu vas. I will find you both.”
I help Roman into the back seat of the first SUV, slide in beside him, and watch Galina direct the others.
Luka tears away from the estate as flames begin consuming the upper floors, orange light painting the snow in colors that don’t exist in nature.
Roman’s unconscious within seconds, his body finally surrendering to the damage that’s been trying to kill him since the river.
I check his pulse.
Thready but present.
I hold him against my chest while Moscow streaks past the windows, my chin resting on top of his head, my arms wrapped around the man who chose me over everything.
Behind us, the Volkovskaya estate burns.
Ahead lies an empire fractured and unstable, captains who swore from fear as much as loyalty, Polina Tarasova moving onthe ports, Eleanor Keene with warrants and questions, and the full weight of international law.
But Roman’s heart is beating against my palm, and Mishka is safe in Rotterdam, and the trafficking routes are burning, and the throne is ours.
We are the Volkovs.
Pakhan and Tsaritsa.
Partners in an empire we claimed with bullets and blood and love that should have been impossible.
The convoy speeds toward whatever comes next.
I hold him while Moscow wakes to news of the bloodiest succession in fifty years.
And I know with absolute certainty that I would do it again.
Every choice.
Every bullet.
Every body.
Because we are the wolves now.
