Tyler stares at her for a long moment, his chest heaving with barely controlled sobs. Then he turns and walks out, his shoulders shaking, leaving Eva standing in the middle of the media room with tears streaming down her face.
I want to go to her, to pull her into my arms and comfort her. But I stay where I am, giving her space to grieve for the boy whose heart she just broke. After a moment, she wipes her face with the back of her hand and looks at me.
"I need to be alone," she says quietly.
I nod and watch her leave, her hips swaying beneath that clinging sweater, her bare feet silent on the marble floors. The urge to follow her, to strip away that sweater and remind her exactly who she belongs to, is almost overwhelming. But I force myself to turn toward my study instead.
Lev and David are already waiting when I enter, both men looking as exhausted as I feel. David has his laptop open, his titanium-framed glasses reflecting the screen's glow. Lev stands at the windows, his dark suit immaculate despite the late hour, his expression grim.
"Tell me something good," I say, pouring vodka for all three of us.
David removes his glasses, cleaning them with methodical precision—his tell when the news is bad. "The Chinese are threatening to break the alliance completely. Another gambling operation was hit last night. Three more dead, weapons traced back to our armory. They're convinced we're expanding aggressively into their territory."
I drain my vodka, feeling the burn settle in my chest.
"The Irish are demanding a sit-down." Lev's voice is flat, professional. "They want to 'discuss concerns' about our territorial ambitions. It's code for an ultimatum, Roman. They're drawing a line."
Blyat.I pour another vodka, my mind racing through options. "The IRS audit?"
"Expanding," David says, his voice carefully neutral. "They're now looking at transactions from seven years ago. More banks are freezing accounts. I'm running out of legal maneuvers to protect the legitimate businesses from federal scrutiny."
The walls are closing in. Abram Yakovlev is systematically destroying everything I've built, and I still can't prove it, can't move against him without triggering the war he wants, without uniting the other families against me.
Lev's phone rings, cutting through the heavy silence. He glances at the screen, and I watch his expression shift from concentration to something I've rarely seen on mysovietnik'sface. Fear. His dark eyes meet mine for a brief moment before he answers, his voice low and urgent as he speaks in rapid Russian.
I catch fragments—Moscow, the council, concerns about leadership. Lev's jaw tightens with each word, his knuckles going white where he grips the phone. The conversation lasts less than two minutes, but when he ends the call, his face is ashen.
"Roman," he says, his voice carefully controlled. "We have a problem."
David looks up from his laptop, his green eyes sharp behind his glasses. I set down my vodka glass with deliberate precision, my hands steady despite the dread coiling in my gut.
"Tell me."
Lev's dark eyes bore into mine. "That was my contact in Moscow. Word has spread about the attacks, the financial exposure, the fractured alliances. The council is… concerned."
"Concerned," I repeat, my voice flat.
"They're questioning whether you're fit to remain Pakhan."
37
EVA
Ican't sleep. Again.
The guest room feels suffocating tonight, the expensive sheets tangled around my legs, my mind replaying fragments of the conversation I overheard earlier. Roman's voice, low and controlled, discussing problems with the businesses. Lev's grim tone mentioning the council questioning Roman's fitness to remain Pakhan. Words like "financial exposure" and "fractured alliances" that make my stomach clench with dread.
I'm marrying this man in a few days. Carrying his child. Living in his world of violence and blood and secrets. And I'm operating completely blind, stumbling through darkness while enemies I can't see circle closer.
Fuck that.
I throw off the covers and pad barefoot across the cold marble floors, my thin nightgown doing nothing to ward off the November chill that seeps through the estate's walls. Roman's study door is closed, but light spills from beneath it. He'sstill awake, probably drowning in vodka and whatever crisis is threatening to destroy everything he's built.
I don't knock. I push open the door and find him exactly where I expected, standing at the windows with a glass in hand, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the city lights beyond. He's wearing dress pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing those prison tattoos that used to terrify me. Now they're just part of who he is. Part of the monster I've agreed to marry.
He turns when I enter, his blue eyes sweeping over my body with an intensity that makes my skin flush with heat despite my anger. I'm acutely aware of how thin my nightgown is, how it clings to my curves, emphasizing my breasts that have grown fuller with the pregnancy. His gaze lingers there for a moment before dropping lower, and I see his jaw tighten with restraint.
"Eva." His voice is rough, his accent thicker than usual. "You should be sleeping."
