The city streaks by in streaks and headlight glare, but I see none of it. My vision—normally sharp, honed to read danger like second nature—tunnels now. It dims at the edges, wavering with the water collecting along my lash line. My hands stay steady on the wheel because that’s what they’ve been trained to do, but the rest of me feels like it’s crumbling to ash.
The devastation choking me is worse than any wound I’ve ever taken. Worse even than the day I stood at my mother’s bedside and held her hand as she left this world.
How is it that a person can go from being a stranger, to a lover, to a stranger again? It doesn’t feel fair.
I’ve done horrible, unforgivable things in my life. I’ve accepted that karma would come for me sooner or later, that I would have to pay for every drop of blood spilled in my name. But this feels like divine punishment for a crime I can’t even identify. A sentence I can’t appeal.
How do I go on now?
How am I supposed to live in Russia without my lover and child by my side?
Things were supposed to be different once I won the civil war. When Anton’s people were finished, I told myself everything would fall back into place—my life, my Bratva, my future. And when Mikhail was gone, the last remnant of that threat, it was supposed to mean safety. It was supposed to mean home.
But none of that is reality.
Instead, I’m left with the shattered remnants of my heart and expected to simply continue living like everything is normal. Like the last seven years weren’t all leading to this moment. Like I didn’t just lose everything I thought I was fighting for in the first place.
The car jerks into the lot behind the safehouse when I pull in. A large moving van sits pulled to the back stairwell, its engine ticking faintly from recently being shut off. The place is alive with movement when I get upstairs. My inner circle is already tearing our operation down, moving with cold precision as they pack the life we’ve been living the past few weeks away.
Boxes are stacked by the door, electronics wrapped and packaged, weapons cleaned and stored in sealed crates.
Katya glances up as I enter, her sharp eyes narrowing at the look on my face. She pauses mid-motion. “How did it go? Are they waiting in the car?”
“No.”
Everyone freezes all at once. One by one, they turn to look at me. Matvey’s glasses catch the light, Roman straightens from where he’s taping off a cardboard box. Even Andrey’s fingers go still on the zipper of his duffel bag.
They wait for me to explain.
I don’t want to. All I want to do is collapse onto the floor and beg whatever higher power there is to take mercy on me, to erase the image of Ivy’s face as she told me no. But thePakhanin me, the one who doesn’t get to grieve, forces my spine to straighten.
“All of you will go back to Moscow as planned. I will be staying behind for now,” I finally say, my voice flat and dead.
No one moves.
Katya straightens, her brows knitting together, the first flicker of defiance crossing her face. “Without you?”
“Yes.”
“No.” She spits the word like a curse, stepping closer. “We don’t leave you behind.”
“I’m not asking,” I snap.
The sound of it cracks through the safehouse like a gunshot. Katya’s mouth snaps shut. Around her, the others shift uneasily, their gazes bouncing between her and me.
I force my expression into a neutral one even as my insides rot. They can’t see the truth, that the only thing keeping me standing right now is the act of giving an order. Without it, I’d already be on my knees.
Roman is the first to speak again. His voice is tight but unwavering. “You heard him. Pack it up.”
There’s a pause, a long one. I can feel the resistance in the air, thick and bitter, a silent protest no one dares give voice to. But they know better than to disobey me. Even now.
Especially now.
One by one, they fall back in line.
Katya slams the tape gun down a little harder than necessary as she seals the last crate. Her glare cuts into the floor like it’s responsible for my pain. Andrey mutters something under his breath and shoulders his bag. Matvey doesn’t even look at me as he unplugs the last monitor, tucking the wires away like he’s folding a flag after a funeral.
I don’t say a word as they file out, boots thudding against the floor like a slow-moving funeral march.
