“Anton—”
He cuts me off with a look. That hard, silent one that makes everyone else back down. But I’m not everyone else anymore.
“You almost died,” I say. “You’re still healing. And now you’re walking into whatever this is?”
“I’m ending it,” he says. “Before he gets close.”
That possessive look flares in his eyes. Dark. Dangerous.
Tears blur my vision before I can stop them. “But… why?”
He doesn’t answer. Just exhales once, long and slow, then pulls me against him—tight, almost rough. Like holding me is the only way to keep himself together.
My cheek presses to his chest, skin against the hard line of muscle, and I can hear it—the sound steadies me for a second: one, two, one, two. His heartbeat is stubborn and alive.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and stripped bare.
“Igor saw it as betrayal.” The words come out flat, like a confession he’s said too many times in his head. “Timofey was his nephew. His blood. I’m just the soldier he dragged out of the dirt and built into something useful.”
His jaw flexes above me, the muscle ticking once.
“He made me what I am, but he never forgot where I came from. To him, I’ll always be the dog he trained—never the man who learned to bite back.”
The bitterness in his tone cuts. I push myself up so I can look at him properly.
“He’s always been insecure about me,” Anton continues. “About my influence. My connections. The fact that half the council respects me more than they respect him.” He pauses. “When Timofey died and I survived, Igor saw his chance.”
“To what?”
“To turn the Bratva against me. Make it look like I orchestrated the whole thing. Like I wanted Timofey dead so I could take over.”
My stomach twists. “Did it work?”
“No.” A dark smile crosses his face. “Because Ray Bishop’s raid exposed everything. Caleb’s money laundering. Timofey’s trafficking networks. Igor’s offshore accounts.” He leans back against the headboard. “The council saw who was really bleeding them dry. And it wasn’t me.”
“So Igor ran.”
“He fled to Moscow with what was left. Three loyalists. Some cash. No territory. No power.” Anton’s eyes meet mine. “He’s trying to rebuild. Asking the Moscow Bratva for backing. For soldiers. For a second chance.”
“And they’ll give it to him?”
“No.” His certainty is absolute. “I’ve already made calls. Every network Igor might’ve turned to—they know what he did. How he operated. They’re not backing a dying king.”
I process this. “Then why are you going?”
“Because he’s desperate. And desperate men do desperate things.” His hand moves to my face, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. “He already lost his nephew. His empire’s falling apart. The only thing left to hurt me with,” his eyes flick to my stomach, “is you. You and our baby.”
Ice slides down my spine. “So he’ll come for me.”
“He’ll try.” Anton’s voice goes lethal. “Which is why I’m ending him first.”
“Can’t you just—I don’t know—send someone else? Dima or—”
“No.” The word is final. Absolute. “I’m doing this myself.”
I stare at him. “Why?”
His eyes go dark. “Because it’s personal.” His jaw tightens. “His network’s been quiet. Too quiet. Which means he’s building something. Getting support. Waiting for the right moment to strike.”
