"I'm glad you care for her," she says, her voice softening. "Truly. Alina deserves someone who will protect her. But you need to understand what you've gotten yourself into. Viktor had enemies, yes, but he also had allies. Families who benefited from his arrangements. They won't accept his death lying down."
"Is that a threat?" I ask.
"It's a warning." Irina moves toward the door, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. "The Bratva doesn't forgive easily. Viktor's death has created a power vacuum, and nature abhors a vacuum. There will be consequences."
Alina follows her mother to the door, and I trail behind them both. In the foyer, Irina pauses and turns back to her daughter.
"I know you hate me right now," she says quietly. "I know you think I should have done more. Maybe you're right. But I did what I had to do to survive. Just like you're doing now."
"We're nothing alike." Alina's voice is steady, final. "I would never sacrifice my children for my own comfort."
Irina flinches as if she's been slapped. For a moment, I see genuine pain in her eyes. Then the mask is back, perfect and impenetrable.
"You say that now," she says. "But wait until you have children of your own. Wait until you're faced with impossible choices. Then we'll see how different we really are."
She opens the door herself, not waiting for one of my men to do it. But before she steps through, she looks back one final time. Her gaze moves between Alina and me, and I see something calculating in her expression.
"The other families won't accept this marriage," she says, her voice carrying clearly in the quiet foyer. "They'll see it as a power grab by Dimitri, an attempt to consolidate Viktor's territory with his own. They'll view Alina as a traitor to her father's memory." She pauses, letting the words sink in. "War is coming, whether you want it or not. And when it does, you'll both have to decide what you're willing to sacrifice to survive."
31
ALINA
The door closes behind my mother with a soft click that sounds like finality. I stand in the foyer, staring at the polished wood, and feel something inside me crack. Not break, exactly. Just… fracture. Like ice on a frozen lake when the temperature shifts.
Dimitri's hand finds the small of my back, warm and solid. "Come," he says quietly. "Let's check on Katya."
I nod because I can't speak yet, can't trust my voice not to shatter along with everything else.
We climb the grand staircase together, his hand never leaving my back. The gesture is possessive but also protective, and I find myself leaning into it slightly, needing the anchor he provides.
The bedroom they've given Katya is two doors down from ours, decorated in soft blues and creams. A maid sits in a chair by the window, reading by lamplight. She stands when we enter, her expression respectful.
"How is she?" I whisper.
"Sleeping soundly, Mrs. Morozov," the maid responds. "She woke once, asking for you, but settled when I told her you'd be back soon."
Mrs. Morozov. The name still feels foreign, like a coat that doesn't quite fit. But I'm wearing it now, for better or worse.
I move to the bed where Katya lies curled on her side, her dark hair spread across the pillow. In sleep, she looks even younger than sixteen. Vulnerable. Innocent. Everything I no longer am.
I sit carefully on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to smooth a strand of hair from her face. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers, and I feel my throat tighten. She's alive. Safe. Here.
The bruises on her face have darkened to purple and yellow, stark against her pale skin. Evidence of what she endured. What our father allowed to happen to her.
No. What our father orchestrated.
I trace the curve of her cheek with gentle fingers, careful not to wake her. "I'm so sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you sooner."
But I can protect her now. I will protect her now.
I make a silent promise as I watch her sleep. Katya will have the life she deserves. She'll go to college, study art like she's always dreamed. She'll travel to Paris and Rome and all the places she's sketched in her notebooks. She'll fall in love with someone who treats her well, someone who sees her value beyond what she can offer a Bratva alliance.
She'll have choices. Freedom. A future that's hers to shape.
Even if I have to burn down anyone who tries to take that from her.
The thought should frighten me, the casual way I'm contemplating violence, the ease with which I've accepted this world's brutal logic. But I'm too tired to be frightened, too numb to feel much of anything except a fierce, protective love for the girl sleeping before me.
