“Go, Lena. Please.”
She nods, her eyes full of a sad, deep understanding. She turns and walks away, her footsteps echoing in the quiet ruins of our home. I watch her go, and for a second I feel a pang of fear that she’ll never look at me the same way again. That the gore of this morning has finally stained me too deep for her to see the man underneath.
But then she stops at the door and looks back. She doesn’t say a word, but the look in her eyes is enough. She’s staying. Through the blood, through the lies, through the death—she’s staying.
I turn back to my men. My empire is wounded, my home is a wreck, and my best friend is a corpse on the floor. But I am still the Pakhan. And the judgment of Viktor Volkov has just begun.
I walk toward the basement, the sound of my boots on the marble the only heartbeat left in the house. The war is over, but the reckoning is just beginning. And this time, I won’t stop until the last ghost is laid to rest.
30
LENA
The guest house is too quiet. It smells of lavender and floor wax, a sharp, sterile contrast to the metallic tang of blood and cordite that is currently soaked into my skin. I sit on the edge of the velvet armchair, my hands shaking so violently I have to tuck them under my thighs to make them stop. Across from me, Theo is sitting on the rug, his small face streaked with tears and soot, clutching a toy truck as if it’s the only thing keeping him on this earth.
The image of him running into that hallway—running toward the gunfire, toward the man who wanted him dead—flashes behind my eyes every time I blink. My heart feels like it’s been shredded by a cheese grater.
“Theo,” I say, my voice sounding cracked and thin. “Come here.”
He looks up, his bottom lip trembling. He crawls over to me and leans his head against my knee. I reach down and grab his shoulders, perhaps a bit too firmly, because he winces.
“Theodore, look at me,” I command. He tilts his head up, his dark eyes—so much like his father’s—filling with fresh water.“You must never, ever do that again. Do you understand me? When there is noise, when there is danger, you stay where I put you. You could have been killed. You almost were.”
“I had to, Mama,” he whispers, a single tear rolling down his nose. “I had to protect my Dad. Superman was fighting the bad monsters. I’m a big boy. I have to help.”
The wordDadsends a fresh wave of grief through me. He finally said it, and it happened in the middle of a massacre. I pull him into my lap, hugging him so tight he grunts, but I can’t help it. I need to feel the rise and fall of his chest to know he’s still alive. I think of Mike, lying cold on that marble floor because he threw himself in front of this little boy. Mike, who fed me in a dungeon. Mike, who was a traitor but died a hero. The cost of living is becoming a debt I don’t know if we can ever pay.
The heavy oak door creaks open. I stiffen, my muscles coiling to run, until I see the silhouette.
It’s Razvan.
He looks like he’s walked through the center of a storm and barely made it out. His white shirt is ruined, stained a deep, rusted crimson. His face is pale under the smears of soot, and his eyes are vacant, staring at nothing. As he steps into the light, I see his hands. They are coated in blood—thick, drying, and dark.
He stops dead when he sees Theo looking at him. For a second, the Pakhan vanishes, and I see a man who is utterly ashamed. He quickly tucks his hands behind his back, hiding the evidence of the slaughter from his son’s innocent eyes.
“Is he okay?” Razvan asks. His voice is a ghost of a sound, raspy and broken.
“He’s fine,” I say, my voice softening. “He’s just shaken.”
Razvan disappears into the small kitchenette for a moment. I hear the sound of the faucet running, the frantic scrubbing of skin against skin. He stays there for a long time. When he finally emerges, his hands are red-raw from the hot water and the soap, but the blood is gone. He walks over to us and sinks to his knees on the carpet, looking at Theo with a hunger that breaks my heart.
“Dad,” Theo chirps, reaching out.
Razvan pulls him into a crushing embrace, burying his face in the crook of Theo’s neck. I see his broad shoulders heave once, twice, before he regains control. He pulls back just enough to look Theo in the eye, his hands gripping the boy’s small arms.
“Theodore, listen to me,” Razvan says, his voice stern but thick with emotion. “You must never run into the fight. Never. Do you hear me? You stay with your mother. You stay safe. That is your only job.”
“But I want to protect my family too,” Theo argues, his little chest puffing out. “I want to be a real man. Like you. I want to be strong.”
Razvan’s expression falters. He looks at me, a silent plea for help in his eyes, then looks back at his son. “Being a man isn’t about running into bullets, Theo. It’s about being smart enough to stay alive for the people who love you.”
Theo looks down at Razvan’s forearm, tracing the dark ink of the serpent tattoo with a small finger. “I want a tattoo like Dad. So the monsters know I’m a Volkov. Then I can protect Mama.”
It’s a soft, vulnerable moment that feels too heavy for a guest house. Razvan’s eyes glass over. He reaches out and strokes Theo’s hair.
“You will have the tattoo one day, son,” Razvan promises, his voice a mere whisper. “I will give it to you myself. But only if you promise me right now…you never run into danger again. Not until you are old enough and strong enough to truly protect. Until then, you let me be the shield. Do you promise?”
Theo looks at him solemnly then nods, his eyes drooping with the sudden exhaustion that follows a shot of adrenaline. “I promise, Dad.”
