"And Mama?"
"She's alive, as far as I know." I swallow hard.
My sister's face crumples, and fresh sobs shake her body. I pull her back into my arms, rocking her gently like I used to when she was little and had nightmares. Back when our biggest fears were monsters under the bed, not the monster living in our own house.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry you had to go through this. But I promise you, everything is going to be okay. You're going to live with me now, where you'll be safe and protected and loved."
"With you and…" She pulls back, her eyes darting past me to where Dimitri stands a few yards away, giving us space but watching carefully. "With him?"
I follow her gaze. Dimitri looks every inch the dangerous Bratva boss he is. His tactical vest is stained with blood and gunpowder residue. The dragon tattoo on his chest is visible through his partially unbuttoned shirt, a mark of his rank and power. His green eyes are hard as he surveys the scene, making sure every threat is neutralized.
But when those eyes shift to me, they soften. Just a fraction, just enough that I can see the man beneath the monster everyone fears.
"Yes," I say, turning back to Katya. "With him. He's my husband now."
Her eyes widen. "Youmarriedhim?”
I take her hands in mine, feeling how cold her fingers are. "I know you've heard stories about Dimitri. I know he has a reputation. But he saved my life, Katya. He came for me. And he came for you tonight. He's the reason you're alive."
Dimitri chooses that moment to approach, his footsteps careful and measured. Katya tenses, pressing closer to me, and I feel her trembling increase. I keep one arm around her shoulders as I look up at him.
He stops a respectful distance away and crouches down so he's at our level. The gesture surprises me. This man who commands armies, who kills without hesitation, is making himself smaller, less threatening, for my terrified sister.
"Katya," he says, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "I'm Dimitri. I know you're scared, and you have every right to be. But I give you my word that no one will hurt you while you're under my protection. You're family now."
Katya stares at him, her brown eyes wide. I can see her taking in the details—the scar above his left eyebrow, the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples, the dragon tattoo on the left side of his neck that marks him as hostile to authority. Everything about him screams danger.
But then she looks at me, sees the way I'm leaning slightly toward him, the way my body relaxes in his presence despite everything. She's always been perceptive, my little sister. She can read people better than anyone I know.
"Okay," she whispers. "Okay."
Dimitri nods once, then stands and extends his hand to help us up. I take it, feeling the warmth and strength of his grip, and pull Katya up with me. She sways slightly, exhaustion and shock catching up with her, and Dimitri steadies her with a hand on her elbow.
"Let's get you both home," he says.
Home. The word should feel strange, but it doesn't. The estate has become home in the short time I've been there. Or maybe it's not the place but the man standing beside me that makes it feel like home.
The drive back is quiet. Katya sits pressed against my side in the back seat, her head on my shoulder, her hand clutching mine. I stroke her hair with my free hand, the repetitive motion soothing us both. Dimitri sits in the front passenger seat, his phone pressed to his ear as he coordinates cleanup and damagecontrol. I catch fragments of his conversation—body disposal, witness management, political fallout.
This is my life now, this world of violence and strategy, of blood and power. But looking down at my sister's bruised face, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing as exhaustion pulls her toward sleep, I know I made the right choice. In Dimitri's world, we're protected. We're safe. We're together.
Dawn is breaking over the city as we approach the estate, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Katya has fallen asleep against me, her breathing deep and even. I'm grateful for it. She needs rest, needs time to process everything that's happened.
The gates swing open, and we drive through onto the familiar grounds. The fountain sparkles in the early morning light. The gardens are perfectly manicured. Everything looks peaceful, normal, like the past few hours of violence and terror never happened.
Then I see it.
A silver Mercedes parked in the circular driveway, gleaming in the dawn light. I know that car. I've ridden in it hundreds of times, sat in the back seat while my mother drove me to ballet lessons and piano recitals and all the activities meant to make me a proper Bratva daughter.
My mother's car.
My blood runs cold.
30
DIMITRI
The silver Mercedes gleams in the early morning light like a bad omen. My hand moves instinctively to the Glock at my hip, fingers closing around the grip as I process what I'm seeing. Irina Popov's car. Here. At my estate.
