A soft exhale of amusement. “I proved a point.” My hand tightens around the phone. “You don’t want this to continue,” he says. “Come home. Make the announcement. Say it wasgrief. Trauma. Confusion. We stabilize the markets. We restore order.” “And if I don’t?” I ask.
There’s no immediate answer. Then quietly “Next time, I won’t miscalculate.” The line goes dead.
For a long moment I just sit there on the edge of the bed, the phone still pressed to my ear even though there’s nothing on the other end. He didn’t threaten. He demonstrated capability. He reached Moscow. He reached a secured underground garage. He reached my father. Which means he can reach my brothers. Which means he can reach Roman. And Roman has no idea. I stand slowly and walk to the closet.
The small safe sits where it always does, tucked behind a row of jackets. He thinks I don’t know the combination. I do. I kneel and punch it in. The lock clicks open. The Glock rests inside exactly where it should be, clean and oiled, spare magazine beside it. When I lift it into my hand the weight feels familiar. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Practical. Papa’s voice echoes in my memory from those range mornings when I was thirteen and too stubborn for my own good. Never carry without intent, Anastasiya.
I check the chamber. Loaded. Good.
This isn’t negotiation anymore. It isn’t chess. He moved a piece and drew blood.
I sit back on the bed, phone in one hand, gun resting heavy against my thigh. If I tell Roman, he goes nuclear. If I tell Papa, he escalates. If I do nothing, Konstantin tries again. And next time he won’t miss.
I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress and my bare feet hit the hardwood, cold enough to snap me fully awake, and Irefuse to let myself picture what Roman’s face would look like if he walked in right now and caught me doing this, the way his jaw would lock tight and his voice would drop low while he tried to talk me down, or worse, how he’d probably try to physically stop me, maybe even chain me to the bed until I “came to my senses,” but no, this needs to end today and it needs to end on my terms, not his, not my father’s, not Konstantin’s.
So I pull on yesterday’s jeans and the black long-sleeve tee and then the hoodie that still smells faintly of gun oil and Roman’s shampoo, and I go to the closet and drag out the small safe he thinks I don’t know the combination for, which is honestly just his birthday backwards because men are predictable like that, and inside is the Glock 19, the spare magazine, the ankle holster.
I strap the holster low on my right leg, slide the gun in, tug the jeans cuff down to cover it, check the chamber to make sure there’s one in the pipe, flick the safety on, and all of it feels like muscle memory from those Saturday mornings at the range when I was thirteen, Papa standing behind me with his arms crossed, saying in that calm, cold voice, “Never carry without intent, Anastasiya, and when you have intent, you pull the trigger without hesitation,” and back then I’d roll my eyes but I listened, I always listened.
I don’t hesitate now. I pick up my phone again and dial Konstantin’s number while I’m lacing my boots, and he answers on the first ring like he’s been sitting there waiting for it. “Printsessa,” he says, smooth and expectant, almost warm, like we’re old friends catching up.
“I want to meet,” I tell him, keeping my voice flat and businesslike so he won’t hear the way my pulse is hammering in my throat. “Today. Somewhere public enough that you won’t try anything obvious, but private enough that we can actually talk.”
There’s a soft chuckle on his end, and then he says “I’m already in town. Meridian Hotel. Penthouse suite. Thirty minutes?” My stomach drops hard because of course he’s already here, of course he flew in the second that photo dropped, but I swallow it down and say “No escort. I drive myself.”
“Thirty minutes,” he agrees. “Come alone.” I hang up without another word.
I don’t leave a note for Roman, don’t send a text, don’t even turn on the tracker in the SUV because if this goes sideways I don’t want him charging in and getting himself buried under federal heat or worse, so I just grab the keys and pause for half a second at the front door, looking back at the house, at the porch swing where we made love yesterday afternoon with the birds calling and the wind moving the trees, at the coffee mugs still sitting in the sink, at the bed upstairs that’s probably still warm from our bodies, and then I lock the door behind me and walk out.
The drive to the Meridian is quiet, windows down, wind whipping my hair across my face, and I keep running through the scenarios in my head the whole way, picturing the layout of the penthouse from the one time I’ve been in a suite like it years ago, thinking about where the exits are, how many men he’ll probably have waiting, whether he’ll already have a weapon drawn when I walk in, and I can almost hear my brothers’ voices from those family dinners when they drill me for fun, “Room full of enemies, little sister, where’s the first shot coming from? Where do you go when the lights drop?” and I get it wrong half the time and they laugh their asses off, but then they make me run it again until I get it right, until the answers come automatic.
I park in the underground garage, back in so I can get out fast if I need to, check the Glock one last time in the rearview mirror,flick the safety off now because I’m not playing anymore, and take the elevator up.
When the doors open to the private foyer, the same two suits from before are waiting, earpieces in, faces blank, and they don’t pat me down, don’t even try to touch me because even they know better than to lay hands on a Dragunov without explicit permission, and one of them opens the double doors and says “He’s waiting.”
The suite smells like leather and expensive cologne, all cream marble and floor-to-ceiling windows with the city sprawled out below like some map he thinks he controls, and Konstantin is standing at the bar cart pouring two fingers of whiskey into crystal glasses, charcoal suit, no tie, top button undone, looking calm and controlled like nothing has ever rattled him in his life.
“Drink?” he asks, holding one out to me. I stay right by the door, weight balanced on the balls of my feet.
“I’m not here to toast.”
He shrugs and sets the glass down, leans back against the bar. “You came. That’s progress.”
“You came to my country uninvited,” I say. “That’s escalation.” His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Your country now? Loyalties shift fast.”
I take one step forward. “Cut the shit, Konstantin. You sanctioned Volkov. You sent the men to hurt my father. You really think I’m coming back because I’m scared?”
“I think you’re coming back because you’re smart,” he says, swirling his drink. He sets the glass down harder than necessary, crystal ringing against marble. “You were promisedto me before you even understood what promises were. Our bloodlines were meant to merge. Empires stabilize. You don’t get to burn decades of planning down just because you found someone who fucks you raw and calls it love.”
The word hits exactly like he wants it to, heat crawling up my neck, but it’s not embarrassment, it’s pure rage, and I step closer again. “I get to burn whatever I want because I’m a person who decided she doesn’t want to be your arm candy at board meetings and galas.”
He pushes off the bar slowly, crosses the space until he’s close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his body and smell the whiskey on his breath. “You think this is love?” His voice drops, almost gentle, mocking. “It’s adrenaline. It’s rebellion. In six months you’ll miss the structure, you’ll miss knowing exactly where you stand, you’ll miss the power.” He lifts his hand and brushes his knuckles along my cheek. I let him, just for one heartbeat.
Then I slap his hand away hard, the crack echoing in the quiet suite. “Don’t.”
His eyes darken. “You forget who you’re speaking to.” He grabs my wrist and twists, pain shooting up my arm, and his other hand snaps to my throat, fingers clamping down, not choking yet but promising he can.
“You will come home,” he says low and even. “You will smile for the cameras. You will tell them it was all a mistake, that the American was a lapse in judgment, that you’re grateful I came to retrieve you.”
