Alexi exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling. “Good.”
“Good?” I repeat.
He turns his head to look at me. “You told me yourself. This changes things. I have a chance to disappear for real this time.”
“You think that’s a coincidence?” I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “You’re attacked, beaten, shot, left for dead—and now the board is cleared for someone else to step in. You don’t think whoever did this wanted exactly that outcome?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I don’t care what they wanted.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve never wanted any of it, Vladimir. Not the company, not the crown, not the Bratva.”
I watch him closely, searching for hesitation, but there’s only a tired certainty there.
“I’ve played my role because it was expected. Because it was easier than fighting my father. But leading the Bratva?” He shakes his head. “I can’t. I won’t.”
He shifts slightly, wincing, then presses on. “I don’t agree with how the Bratva operates. The extortion, the violence—I’ve tolerated it. But the trafficking?” His voice drops. “Women. Children. Sold like inventory. That’s not power. That’s rot.”
I don’t interrupt him. This is something he’s carried for years. It’s something I’ve struggled with, too.
“If I take over,” he says, “I become responsible for all of it. Every shipment. Every broken body. Even if I try to stop it, I’ll be fighting men who have been doing this longer than I’ve been alive. Men who will smile to my face and undermine me the second I turn my back.”
“So you’d rather let them win outright?” I ask sharply.
He meets my gaze without flinching. “They can have it.”
The words settle heavily between us.
“You’re walking away from your name,” I say. “From your legacy.”
“My heritage isn’t violence,” he snaps. Then his tone softens. “It doesn’t have to be.”
I stand, pacing once before stopping at the foot of his bed. “If you vanish now, someone else takes your place. Someone worse. Someone who ordered your death to make it happen.”
“Let them,” Alexi says. “I’m done being a pawn on that board.”
“You think they’ll let you go?” I demand. “You’re a loose end. A liability.”
“That’s your fear,” he counters. “Not mine.”
I study him, really look at him—this man who survived three bullets and still chooses to walk away. There’s no cowardice here. Just resolve.
“I want a life that’s mine,” he says quietly. “Not one carved out by blood and expectation. If that means the world believes Alexi Stepanov died on a roadside in Ukraine, then maybe that’s exactly what needs to stay true.”
I don’t answer right away as I consider the ramifications. I let out a slow breath. “You’re asking me to protect a ghost.”
“I’m asking you to let me live,” he replies.
The ship rolls gently beneath us, carrying us closer to Russia, to obligations and shadows and choices that refuse to stay buried.
And for the first time since I found him, I don’t know which path is more dangerous—forcing him back into a throne he despises, or honoring his wish and unleashing whatever comes next.
CHAPTER EIGHT: ANYA
I twirl the glass with my fingers after taking a long sip. Where to begin? Skylar must recognize my dilemma, because rather than waiting me out, she makes another suggestion.
“If you’re not ready to tell me what’s bothering you, then how about you tell me about landing the role?”
