And despite everything—despite the war, the fear, Anton, the blood—it’s that same structure that has kept me alive.
That same power that means I’m still here. Still breathing. Still fighting.
And the reason I know I will continue to—no matter what comes next.
The door opens.
Anton walks in like he owns the air itself. Calm. Composed. Smiling. A thin folder in his hand, swinging slightly as he approaches.
“I told them to take care of you, little sister,” he says lightly. “I hope they did.”
My jaw tightens. I don’t answer him. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
He doesn’t seem bothered. Of course, he doesn’t. He takes his time crossing the room and sits directly opposite me, like this is a meeting. Like we’re equals. Like I’m not being held in the middle of a war I didn’t choose.
Then he slides the folder across the table.
My fingers hesitate for only a second before I open it.
And the world shifts.
Paperwork. Documents. Transfer of authority. Ownership. Control.
My breath catches. From recognition. These are the exact documents Sergei Volodin left me. The ones he died protecting.
A cold weight settles in my chest as I flip through them. Each page feels heavier than the last.
How did Anton get his hands on them?
My fingers still slightly on the edge of the paper.
How did he get these?
My eyes lift slowly from the folder to Anton.
The smile on his face doesn’t feel casual anymore.
It feels like victory he’s been waiting to collect.
He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the table like we’re negotiating terms in a boardroom instead of sitting in the middle of a stolen home.
“Sign it,” he says. “Transfer the Petrov empire to me…and maybe I’ll let you live.”
Maybe.
The word hangs there like it means anything.
I know better.
The moment my signature lands on that paper, I stop being valuable. I stop being useful. I stop being anything he needs to keep intact. He will kill me.
I don’t answer immediately. Because that isn’t what my mind is holding onto.
It’s not fear.
Not even anger.
It’s my father.
