“For now, this will suffice,” he says. “We may be in contact.”
The door closes.
The suite falls silent again—but this time, the quiet feels different.
Not threatening.
Final.
And somewhere behind the bedroom door, I know my brother has felt it too.
The bedroom door opens slowly, like Alexi is testing the air before stepping back into it. He looks the same—rumpled, tense—but his eyes are different. Sharper. More awake. He crosses the living area without a word and stops near the table.
Vladimir studies him. “You heard?”
Alexi nods once. “Every word.”
No one says the names again. They hang between us anyway, heavy and undeniable. Dead men don’t stop consequences from coming, and we all know it. What happens next is a question none of us can answer.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly exhausted. “I need to go home,” I say. The words feel strange in my mouth. Home doesn’t feel safe anymore, but it’s still home. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to tell my father about where I’ve been and why I left.”
No one argues with me.
The knock comes again—softer this time, but no less startling. Alexi stiffens, instinct screaming at him to disappear, but Vladimir reaches the door before he can retreat.
When it opens, Skylar stands there, brows drawn together, eyes sharp with concern. “I saw the police leaving,” she says, glancing past Vladimir. “What happened?”
Relief floods me so fast my knees nearly buckle. “Sky,” I breathe, stepping forward. “How did you—”
“I tracked you,” she admits without apology. Her gaze shifts, locking on Alexi. Recognition flashes. “You’re—”
“Alexi,” he says quietly.
Skylar’s eyes narrow. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Does someone want to explain why the police were here and why you’re hiding in a hotel suite?”
“It’s a long story,” I say.
I tell her a shortened version—about the investigator, about Oleg, Pavel, and Artem. About them being found dead. Skylar listens without interrupting, her expression sobering with every word.
Vladimir clears his throat. “We’ll drive you both back to Anya’s house,” he says. “You can talk on the way. Dominic will come with us.”
Alexi doesn’t protest when he stays behind. He just gives me a look—apologetic, protective, proud all at once.
The car ride is quiet at first, the city lights blurring past the windows. Then the words spill out of me, messy and trembling. I tell Skylar about my father. About the Bratva. About Alexi being the heir to something soaked in blood—and how he doesn’t want it.
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’m so sorry, Anya,” she says softly. “That’s… a lot to carry.”
I nod, swallowing hard.
For the first time, I’m not carrying it alone.
The house is lit up like it’s bracing for a storm.
Every light in the front rooms blazes as Vladimir pulls into the drive, and my chest tightens before I even see my father. Alexandr stands just inside the doorway, coat thrown over his shoulders, phone clenched in his hand like he’s been gripping it for hours. He doesn’t bother hiding his relief when he sees me step out of the car—relief that curdles almost instantly into anger.
“Where have you been?” he demands the moment I cross the threshold. His voice is sharp, brittle around the edges. Afraid.
Before I can answer, Skylar steps smoothly in beside me. “She was with me,” she says without hesitation. “Anya stayed over. We lost track of time.”
