“Pakhan,” he says, inclining his head with a respect tinged by wariness. His gaze flicks to Ivy before snapping back to me. “We’ve been expecting you.”
I incline my head before hooking my fingers under the handle, pushing the door open. The guards step back, giving me a wide berth of room. Moving around the hood, I open Ivy’s door myself. My hand hovers in front of her, not quite touching, but close enough for her to know it’s there if she needs it.
She doesn’t take it. Instead, she steps out on her own, shoulders squared, even as her legs wobble under the weight of her nerves.
As much as I hate to see her struggle, I can respect her resolve to stand on her own.
The guards don’t speak as they turn and lead us toward the doors. The warmth of Sergei’s domain spills out into the cool air, wrapping around us the moment we step through the threshold.
We’re brought to Sergei’s study soon after. The marble floors gleam beneath our shoes, each strike of our heels echoing sharp against the vaulted ceilings. The chandeliers overhead cast fractured light down on us from the sun now starting to peek through the windows, golden prisms dancing in front of our steps.
Once, I might have admired decor like this.
Now, it feels gaudy. Too fragile.
The walk is familiar. I have taken it dozens of times since the beginning of our partnership, passing by the same polished corridors, the same oil paintings of grim ancestors watching with hollow eyes. But this morning, every step feels heavier.
It’s the slow cadence of a death march.
Ivy walks beside me, her silence suffocating. My hand flexes at my side, wanting to reach for her, to steady her, to tell her this is almost over.
The guards stop before the heavy oak doors. One knocks twice, the sound hollow against the carved surface. A voice answers from within, low and commanding.
When the doors swing open, the study yawns before us—dark wood paneling, shelves stacked with leather-bound tomes, the faint smoke of Sergei’s cigar curling in the air. He sits behind his desk, eyes lifting to meet mine immediately.
Ivy tenses beside me.
I guide her inside with a hand at the small of her back. Her steps falter only once before she steadies herself.
His gaze sweeps over me first, then slides to Ivy. It lingers there on her face. I don’t miss the way his brow creases when he takes in the discoloration on her cheek, the faint shadows under her eyes.
He doesn’t comment. Yet.
“Antonov. I wasn’t expecting to have you arrive at my estate so early in the morning. I see you’ve finally brought Miss Bennett back to me.”
I don’t waste time with pleasantries. “Ivy is leaving. She’ll be returning to the States. Today.”
For a moment, silence reigns. The crackle of the fire in the hearth across the room hums, the faint tick of a clock somewhere on his desk loud. All of it becomes more pronounced with how still Sergei sits.
His gaze flicks back to Ivy, then to me, narrowing.
“Leaving,” he repeats. “And how is this your decision to make?”
“Her time here is finished.” My tone is final, brooking no room for argument.
Sergei exhales smoke through his nose, the plume curling upward before dissolving into the lamplight. He sets the cigar carefully in its ashtray. “That’s not up for you to decide, Antonov.”
“It is safer,” I counter. “For her. For you and your daughter.”
His eyes flicker, just enough to betray the thought that cuts through him before he reins it back. A faint crease pulls between his brows, lines etching deeper into his weathered face. He doesn’t like me reminding him of Yulia, but he doesn’t deny the truth either.
His gaze drifts back to Ivy. This time, it lingers.
“Do I get no explanation?” he asks finally, voice almost a growl.
“My Bratva’sobshchakis no longer breathing,” I tell him. “I put him in the ground for many things. Treason is one of them. Any man who has followed him will soon join him. That’s all you need to know.”
The silence stretches once again.
