His jaw tightened slightly, and I saw the predator in him then. “There are factions inside the Bratva that don’t touch trafficking,” he said. “Old-school men. They move weapons. Deal with territories and political leverage. They consider selling women a dirty business.”
“That doesn’t make them good.”
“No,” he said calmly. “But it makes them useful.”
I understood immediately. “You know who they are.”
“Yes.”
“And they’d align with you?”
“They already hate the men who blur the lines. Trafficking brings heat. International attention. Unwanted alliances.” Hisexpression darkened further. “Even among criminals, there are lines.”
The idea that there were moral hierarchies inside hell almost made me laugh.
“So you don’t take down the whole machine,” I said slowly. “You carve out the rot.”
“Yes.”
“And if they come for us?”
His hand tightened in my hair, not painfully but possessively.
“Then they come.”
There it was. The bitter truth. He wasn’t pretending to be a hero or talking about reform. He was telling me about selective execution.
Something flickered in his eyes as he stared at me, and I swore I saw hesitation and vulnerability.
“You’re the only thing in this world I would hesitate over,” he said. His hand slid down from my hair to my waist, pressing me flush against him despite the injury pulling at his side. I could feel the tension in him. The violence still coiled tight beneath his skin.
I closed my eyes for a second as the image of my father’s body flashed behind my eyelids. The way his eyes had changed when he realized I was the one ending him would be something I’d never forget.
When I opened my eyes again, I exhaled in short, uneven pants.
I didn’t want to be protected. I wanted to be involved.
Dmitry’s thumb traced slowly along my jaw. “We're in this together,” he said in a low, deep voice that somehow made everything feel like it would be okay.
And for the first time since I pulled that trigger, the shaking stopped. Not because I felt relief but because I knew exactly where I stood.
With a killer. He was mine; I was his, and we were in this together.
Chapter 22
Zoya
Dmitry’s house no longer felt like a stronghold.
It felt lived in. Like a home.
Time and my personal touches had softened the edges without dulling the safety beneath them.
Dmitry’s wounds healed without issue. Scars replaced stitches. Bruises faded into memory. Although the violence that once pressed in from every direction didn’t vanish, it stopped defining every breath we took.
I knew in time, my own wounds, the ones one could see, would slowly heal. I’d carry the invisible scar tissue, and I knew I’d never get rid of it, but I would be okay.
We learned how to exist together in the aftermath. And love each other unconditionally. Mine was softer, whereas Dmitry showed he cared with his possessiveness, need for me to be safe, and, most of all, taken care of.
