The idea horrifies me. No, it terrifies me.
What I went through in that interrogation room, I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not even my worst enemies. And certainly never my son.
But the thing is, hiding won’t fix this. Going back to Russia won’t fix this either. If anything, it would place Leo and me directly in the eye of the storm. Yes, we’d be wrapped in the Antonov Bratva’s protection, but walls can crumble at any time. Case and point, the coup.
Men can be bought. Secrets can be shared and used as currency.
Nothing is infallible—not even Maksim.
“I can’t,” I say.
He sighs, leaning back just enough to scrub his free hand down the side of his face. “This isn’t up for debate,Milaya.”
The nickname sends a shiver racing up my spine. “You can’t predict when the next strike will happen, Maksim. Bringing us to Russia is only going to make it easier for this new faction to take us.”
“Not if I lock you behind the walls of the compound,” he growls out.
The image rips through me—Leo behind bars disguised as gates, his freedom stripped away under the guise of safety. My blood runs hot with anger. I shove at his chest, glaring up at him, refusing to let him cage me with that vision. “You’renotdoing that. My son isn’t going to become some fucking ornament for you to put on a shelf to keep safe.”
“Ourson,” he bites back.
I shove harder, my palms flat against the wall of his chest, but he doesn’t budge an inch.
“Whatever,” I spit out. “Figure out something else, Maksim, because I’m not coming to Russia with you. And neither is Leo.”
31
MAKSIM
She said no.
I shouldn’t be surprised.
I’d expected resistance, maybe even hoped for it in some twisted way until her need for obedience kicked in. Ivy has never been the type to be led anywhere without question. It’s one of the things I respect about her the most, even when it infuriates me.
Especiallywhen it infuriates me.
Her fire has always been a double-edged blade, one moment burning hot enough to light me alive, the next slicing deep enough to remind me she is not mine to control, no matter how badly my instincts demand it.
For now, I have my answer. She isn’t going to go anywhere without the guarantee that our son would be safe regardless of the threats leveled against me. She is drawing her line in the sand, planting her feet.
I didn’t argue more in the alleyway, or after she stormed off to finish the rest of her shift. Not because I accepted her refusal—that was something I would never accept—but because I knew pushing her would only drive her deeper into her defenses. She would be more likely to barricade herself behind those walls, and I would lose ground instead of gaining it.
She needed time, space, the illusion of control.
So I let her go. I nodded, pretended I was yielding, and told her I would be in touch before she vanished back around the corner again.
She has never understood me as well as she thinks she does.
I don’t yield. I simply regroup.
Once I’m back in my car, I head straight for the safehouse where Katya and Roman are waiting for me. My knuckles ache around the steering wheel from clenching it too tightly, the ghost of Ivy’s voice replaying in my head on an endless loop,no, no, no.
The safehouse comes into view—a nondescript two-story on the edge of a suburb. It’s rundown, no neighbors coming close enough to be nosy because of its dilapidated state. It has no records that could tie it to me or my Bratva. Katya secured it through one of her quiet contacts, a property tucked away under someone else’s name, scrubbed from the digital grid.
On paper, it doesn’t exist. That’s what makes it perfect. A safe, tactical position. Forgettable.
I park at the curb, scanning the street out of habit before stepping out. The late morning air smells faintly of cut grass. I move to the door, knock once in the prearranged pattern. The lock clicks, then Roman appears, scanning his eyes over me.
