It’s over.
Gabriel holds me, cradling my head against his shoulder. He presses his lips against my temple—the same spot where the gun was—keeping them there and breathing me in.
His killer’s composure and coldness are gone. Now, he’s a man holding the woman he loves, the woman he almost lost.
“It’s over,” he says quietly.
I press closer and close my eyes.
And for the first time since this all began, since that horrible night when I woke up in a daze and was shoved onto an auction floor, I believe it.
It’s over.
We’re safe.
And we’re going home.
CHAPTER 49
THEA
One month later…
“How are you feeling?” I’m trying not to focus on how damn good Gabriel looks in his suit.
“Nervous. Scared.”
“That’s normal. You’ll do fine.”
I’m sitting at the head of a conference table in a Midtown law office, trying to look like I belong here.
I don’t. Not yet. Maybe I never will—at least, not in the way these men expect. But I’m here, and that means something. It means a five-year-old girl who survived her family’s assassination and who had been thought long dead, grew up, survived, and came back to sit at the chair that was always meant for her.
Even if that chair scares the hell out of me.
Alexei is seated across from us, composed as always. Next to him sits Viktor Fedorov—Max’s younger brother. He’s in his late fifties, broad and rough-looking with former-solder energy.
I can tell he’s angry.
At the far end, Grigory Volkov represents the broader Bratva council. He has the seniority and neutrality to ratify whatever it is that we decide.
Grigory clears his throat. Time to begin.
“The council has reviewed the necessary information.” His accent is thick, but his English is fluent. “We have conducted independent DNA verification, as well as witness testimony. Various authenticated records were checked, then checked again.”
With that, he turns his attention to me. I don’t avert my eyes.
“You are indeed Teodora Fetisova—the last surviving heir of Lev Fetisov’s line. By right and by blood, the Fetisov syndicate—its territories, its assets, its obligations—belong to you. And that includes those taken by the late Kolya Sokolov.”
The words settle over the room.
It’s official.
It’s all mine.
“Thank you, Grigory,” I say. My voice is steady; I’ve been practicing. “I want to be honest with everyone, because I think honesty is the only thing that’s going to make this work.”
I pause and take a breath.
