“I’m not shouting, Elena,” he replied evenly. “I haven’t raised my voice.”
“I know,” I whispered. “I’m just... s-saying.”
For a long moment, he studied me as if I were a foreign language he hadn’t decided whether to learn or destroy.
Then he exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.
“I don’t intend to disrespect you in front of my men,” he said. “But understand this: the calf was meant to be sold. That was my decision.”
I took a small step forward before I could stop myself.
“Please don’t.”
His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in calculation.
“I watched you kill a man last night,” I said softly. “The therapist. The one who betrayed me. Who sold me to my aunt’s husband so he could violate me.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“I saw the rage in you,” I said quietly. “The way you destroyed him.” My voice trembled despite my effort to keep it steady. “And even though violence terrifies me... seeing his body floating there was satisfying. He deserved it.”
Silence fell between us—heavy, dangerous.
“Do not mistake that,” Ruslan said at last, voice low, lethal, “for permission to interfere in my affairs. That restraint is how you live longer than I originally planned.”
He turned away from me, already walking back toward the house.
I didn’t let him go.
Three quick steps and I was beside him, my pace matching his despite the way my heart hammered in my chest.
“I’ve never been to Greece,” I said, voice low but unyielding. “I never met you before the altar. I never met your pregnant wife. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill anyone.”
He didn’t slow.
“I have no reason to lie to you, Ruslan.”
Still nothing. His expression remained carved from stone.
“I won’t be punished for a crime I didn’t commit,” I pressed. “What evidence do you have—real evidence—that convinced you so completely I was the murderer?”
He stopped.
So abruptly I nearly collided with his back.
He turned.
“Apologies,” he said quietly.
The word struck harder than a shout.
My breath caught in my chest, sharp and shallow.
I stared at him, unsure I’d heard correctly. Ruslan Baranov did not apologize. Not to his men. Not to his enemies. Certainly not to a woman he’d nearly buried alive.
“F-For...?” I managed, the single syllable fragile, exposed.
He turned slightly away, rubbing the bridge of his nose as though fighting off a headache—or something heavier.
