But we won.
Konstantin’s forces are either dead, captured, or fleeing. The survivors are being zip-tied and herded together by my men and Vincent’s.
I scan the area and spot Vincent immediately. He sees Vera and his face transforms from fear into relief. He rushes to her, pulling her into his arms, and she finally breaks, sobbing into her father’s shoulder while he strokes her hair and murmurs things I can’t hear.
I let them have that moment and turn my attention to the knot of men near the clinic entrance.
And there’s Konstantin.
My uncle is being held at gunpoint by three of his own former men. Men who chose truth over loyalty to a traitor.
Konstantin looks defeated, but there’s still that calculating gleam in his eyes as I approach. Like he’s looking for an angle, a way out.
Anger courses through me. The fucker is always scheming and planning, right up to the end.
“Nephew,” he says, and the casual use of the title makes my fist clench. “I’m impressed. You executed this better than I expected.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I fix him with a stare.
“It’s not too late,” he continues, his voice smooth and reasonable, like we’re negotiating a business deal. “We can still work together and split the territory. Both families under our control—you and me, like it always should have been. Alexei was a mistake, yes, but we can fix this. Together.”
I should shoot him right here for the absolute fuckingcheek.
“No,” I say simply.
His smile falters. “Dimitri, be reasonable?—”
“It ends now,” I cut him off. “Forbothof you. For what you did. For who you killed. For what you tried to take from me.”
I look at my men. “Take them to the estate. Both of them. We finish this at home.”
“Yes, sir.”
27
VERA
The sun is setting as we pull through the gates, painting the sky this deep blood-red color that's so on-the-nose it almost seems fake, like someone’s trying too hard with the symbolism. But the sky really is that color—crimson and orange and purple all bleeding together.
I think it’s grimly appropriate.
This all started with death (or what everyone thought was death) and now it ends the same way.
The convoy pulls into the circular drive and men pour out—Volkovs and Ashfords together, moving with that weird unified efficiency that would have been impossible just yesterday. My father is here, Uncle Marcus beside him, along with what’s left of the Volkov elders.
Dimitri’s hand is tight around mine as we walk into the main hall. His palm is slightly damp—the only sign he's not as calm as he appears. His face is an impassive mask, but I can feel the tension vibrating through him.
“You okay?” I murmur.
“No,” is his only response and I don’t press him any further.
The main hall has been prepared. I don’t know who did it or when, but someone cleared the furniture to the sides, creating an open space in the center. Both families file in, lining the walls, and I’ve never felt more exposed in my life.
But I’ve never felt more like I belong here.
I’m standing beside Dimitri at the front. Not behind him, but beside him. His hand is still tight around mine, and everyone can see it. They can see us. Together. Partners.
His wife.
