The night of fire

My fingers shook in my darkened room, Volkov’s note—“You touch my young blood, I wipe out your existence”—crushing my chest. The Bratva’s attack, three capos’ severed fingers, Papa’s strangling rage, choked me, my hand clutching my stomach, guarding my unborn child.

How did Volkov know about my pregnancy? The question dragged me back five months, to the night that shattered my world and chained me to him, a night I’d give anything to erase.

I curled on my velvet couch, the Romano estate a silent cage, my heart aching for Matteo. He’d been in Naples for weeks, his calls clipped, his warmth fading like a dying flame. My fingers trembled over my phone, dialing, my breath catching in my throat.

“Emilia,” Matteo answered, his voice low, breathy, like he’d been running. “It’s late. What’s up?”

“I miss you,” I said, voice soft, sinking deeper into the couch. “I just… need to hear your voice. When are you back?”

“Soon, amore,” he said, but his tone was off, strained, distant. “Busy here. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” I murmured, heart clenching, a knot tightening in my gut. “Are you okay? You sound… out of breath.”

“Fine,” he snapped, too fast, irritation sharp. Just… training. Long day, Emilia.”

I swallowed, unease creeping like ice in my veins. “Okay. I love you, Matteo. I can’t wait—”

A moan cut through, sultry, sharp—a woman’s voice, followed by a giggle, low and teasing. I froze, my phone slipping to the bed, my heart slamming against my ribs. I grabbed it, voice quaking. “Matteo? What the hell was that?”

“Nothing,” he barked, his voice hardening, defensive. “TV. Chill, Emilia, Jesus.”

“TV?” My voice rose, trembling with rage. “That was a woman! Who’s with you, Matteo?”

“No one!” he shouted, but another moan—“Oh, baby…”—sliced through, her laugh mocking, cruel. My blood turned to ice, hands clenching into fists, nails biting my palms.

“You’re lying!” I screamed, tears burning my eyes. “You’re with someone! How could you do this?”

“Emilia, stop!” Matteo’s voice was sharp, the woman’s laugh louder, taunting. “It’s nothing, okay? I needed release. You weren’t here, so what?"

“Release?” My voice broke, heart shattering like glass. “I’m your fiancée! You swore you loved me, Matteo!”

“I do!” he yelled, but it was empty, hollow. “It’s just physical, Emilia. It doesn’t mean sh*it.”

“It means everything!” I sobbed, hurling the phone, its crash against the wall echoing my pain. I collapsed, tears streaming, chest heaving, Matteo’s betrayal gutting me, unraveling my duty as a Romano. I was done, my heart in pieces.

My phone buzzed, Ariana's name flashing. I answered, voice raw, choking on sobs. “Sof, he… he cheated.”

“That f*cking bastard!” Ariana's voice was pure venom, fierce and loyal. I’m coming over, Em. We’re going out. No crying over that scum, you hear me?”

“I can’t—” I started, voice shaking, but Ariana cut me off, her tone a whip.

“You will. Get dressed. Club. Now. Screw Matteo, he’s nothing.”

“Ariana, I'm a mess,” I whispered, wiping tears, my hands trembling. “I can’t face people.”

“You’re a Romano,” she snapped, her voice fierce. “You don’t hide. You make him regret it. I’ll be there in ten. Black dress, Em, show him what he lost.”

I nodded, though she couldn’t see, dragging myself up, resolve hardening. “Okay. I’m in.”

The club throbbed with bass, neon lights flashing, bodies writhing under strobes. I leaned against the bar, my black dress hugging my curves, face flushed with tequila and rage, the liquor burning my throat. Ariana, fierce in red, shoved another shot into my hand, her eyes blazing. “Drink, Em. Burn his memory out, every last piece.”

I slammed it back, the burn feeding my fury, my head buzzing. “He said it was nothing, Ari. Nothing! After everything we’ve been through!”

“He’s trash,” Sofia snapped, slamming her own shot, eyes scanning the crowd. “You’re Emilia Romano, Em. Make him choke on his mistake.”

“You’re right,” I said, voice hard, another shot down, my anger a live wire. “He doesn’t get to break me. Not tonight.”

Ariana grinned fiercely. “That’s my girl. Let’s own this place.”

My gaze drifted, rage crackling, when a chill hit my spine.

Across the VIP section, a man stared, tall, muscled, in a tailored black suit, his ice-blue eyes locked on me, cold and predatory. His chiseled face was familiar, but my tequila-fogged mind couldn’t place him. My breath caught, body flushing, a mix of fear and heat I hated myself for feeling.

“Who’s that?” I whispered, nudging Ariana, her voice unsteady, my heart racing.

Ariana glanced, whistling low. “Viktor Volkov. Guy owns the room, Em. I mean, look at him…power in every step.”

He did. Men avoided his gaze, women stared, but he ignored them, his eyes pinning mine, gleaming with recognition, as if he’d been hunting me. My heart pounded, thrill battling fear. I knew him—from a photo in Papa’s study, a Bratva threat—but Matteo’s moans drowned the warning, pulling me toward danger.

“Em, he’s moving,” Ariana hissed, gripping my arm, whispering, “He’s dangerous, Em. You don’t want his attention.”

“I’m sure,” I lied, voice trembling, shaking her off as he approached, his stride deliberate, every step a claim. He stopped close, his scent—leather, smoke—overwhelming, towering over me, his presence a storm.

“You don’t belong here, krasavitsa,” he said, his voice low, Russian-accented, cold as steel, sending shivers through me. “A woman like you is wasted on this filth.”

My chin lifted, defiance sparking despite my trembling hands. “And who are you to say where I belong?”

His smirk was icy, eyes raking me, stripping me bare. “Viktor,” he said, no last name, gaze unrelenting. “And you’re Emilia Romano. I know your kind.”

My breath hitched, fear spiking. How did he know my name? But Matteo’s moans roared in my mind, pushing me to recklessness. “You don’t know me,” I snapped, voice sharp. “And I’m not here for you.”

“Yet here I am,” he said, stepping closer, his heat searing me. “Dance with me.” His hand grazed my wrist, firm, possessive, a jolt shooting through my body.

“No,” I said, my voice faltering, my body drawn to his command. Sofia’s warning burned, but my fury screamed louder.

“One dance,” Viktor growled, pulling me to the dance floor, the crowd parting for him like water. I followed, heart pounding, skin flushed, my mind screaming to run but my feet moving anyway.

The music slowed, sultry, his hands gripping my waist, yanking me against his hard frame, eyes locked on mine. “You’re angry,” he murmured, lips brushing my ear, his voice cold but electrifying. I can taste it. Let it go, krasavitsa.”

“Don’t call me that,” I hissed, clutching his shoulders, moving with him, our bodies pressed tight, heat igniting against my will. “You don’t know my pain.”

“I know your betrayal,” he said, grip tightening, hips guiding mine, his touch a claim. “Your man’s a fool. I’d chain you to me.”

My breath caught, Matteo’s betrayal fueling my recklessness. “You don’t know him,” I said, voice trembling, his lips grazing my neck, sparking a fire I hated.

“I don’t need to,” he growled, hand sliding lower, possessive, voice ice. “You’re mine tonight.” His teeth nipped my earlobe, a shiver rocking me.

“Stop,” I gasped, my body betraying me, pressing closer, hands roaming his chest, feeling his power. “This is wrong.”

“Is it?” His hand cupped my jaw, forcing my gaze to his, eyes ruthless. “You want me. Say it.”

“No,” I lied, voice shaking, body arching, lips parting, craving him. His smirk was cold, victorious, as he leaned in, breathing hot.

“Liar,” he snarled, lips crashing into mine, rough, devouring, stealing my breath. I moaned into his mouth, fisting his shirt, kissing him back with desperate fury, my anger at Matteo pouring into him. His tongue claimed mine, hands gripping my hips, pulling me tight, his arousal hard against my thighs.

The club vanished, music a pulse, as Viktor broke the kiss, voice a growl. “Come with me.” He dragged me through the crowd, up a private staircase, to a shadowed room of leather and steel, slamming the door.

“Viktor, wait—” My voice trembled, but he pinned me against the wall, his body caging mine, eyes burning with cold hunger.

“No waiting,” he said, his voice raw, ruthless. You want to forget him? I’ll f*cking erase him.” His hand tore at my dress, ripping the strap, exposing my skin, his lips on my throat, biting hard, drawing a gasp. His fingers dug into my thighs, lifting me, my legs wrapping around him, the friction sparking heat.

I had a feeling he meant every word.

“This is crazy,” I panted, pushing his chest, but my body arched, needing him, shame and desire warring. “I don’t know you.”

“You know this,” he growled, hand sliding between my thighs, rough, teasing, finding my wetness, a dark chuckle escaping. “You’re soaked for me, krasavitsa.” His lips claimed mine again, brutal, his fingers relentless, pushing me toward the edge.

“Viktor!” I cried, clawing his back, nails digging, trembling under his assault. “Please—”

“Beg,” he snarled, voice cold, eyes locked on mine, his touch unyielding, driving me wild. “Say you’re mine.”

“No,” I gasped, hips rocking against him, betraying me, my moans filling the room. His laugh was dark, tearing my dress further, baring me to him, lips on my chest, sucking, biting, marking me as his.

“You’re mine,” he growled, shoving me onto a leather couch, his body over mine, suit jacket gone, shirt half-unbuttoned, revealing hard muscle. He yanked my legs apart, fingers rough, relentless, pushing me higher, my cries echoing. “Say it, Emilia.”

“F*ck you viktor” I sobbed, pulling him closer, body arching, desperate, as he stripped me bare, his touch raw, possessive. “Just… do it.”

He didn’t hesitate, belt clinking, his body claiming mine in one brutal thrust, a snarl escaping him. I screamed, nails raking his back, pain and pleasure shattering me. He moved hard, fast, each thrust a punishment, a possession, his eyes cold, ruthless, never leaving mine. “You feel that?” he growled, hand gripping my throat, not choking, but possessive. “No one else does this to you.”

“Viktor!” I cried, trembling, sweat slicking my skin, my world narrowing to him—his heat, his power, his dominance.

He drove me higher, relentless, my moans desperate, body clenching, shattering around him in a wave of raw release. He didn’t stop, thrust harder, drawing out my cries, his own release, a low growl, his grip bruising.

When it was over, Viktor pulled back, his face a cold mask, adjusting his shirt like nothing had happened. “Go home, krasavitsa,” he said, voice flat, ruthless. “This was nothing.”

I lay there, trembling, dressed in tatters, body aching, shame flooding me like a tidal wave. I’d wanted to erase Matteo, but I’d given myself to a monster, his power searing my soul. I stood, shaky, clutching my dress, and fled, his icy gaze burning my back.

The memory faded, Volkov’s note in my hand, his threat real, my room dark, breath ragged. That night with Volkov was my rebellion, my ruin, and now my child was his, a secret sparking war. My hand clutched my stomach, my voice a raw whisper. “I’ll protect you.”

Tears fell, my resolve hardening. I’d face Volkov, fight for my child, no matter the cost, even if it meant burning everything down.

The war's edge

I crouched behind a marble pillar in the foyer, my heart hammering, my bruised cheek throbbing from Papa’s slap. Volkov’s note, the warehouse attack, the three capos’ severed fingers, haunted me, each imagining a knife in my gut. My hand clutched my stomach, shielding my unborn child—his child—as fear choked me, my breath shallow.

Volkov, the monster who killed my mother, had stormed our estate uninvited, his audacity spitting in Papa’s honor. I’d slipped from my room, drawn to the chaos, needing to know his next move, my pulse racing like a war drum.

“Stronzo!” Papa’s voice thundered from the study, doors flung wide as he faced Volkov, his gun gleaming in his hand. “You crashed my gates, defiled my house after butchering my men? I’ll gut you where you stand!”

Volkov’s smirk was ice, his ice-blue eyes scanning Papa, Luca, Marco, Matteo, and the capos bristling with guns, their faces tight with rage. “Paolo’s blood was a warning, Romano,” he said, voice low, lethal, each word a blade. “You cage what’s mine. Emilia. My child grows in her. Hand her over, or I will paint this estate red.”

My breath seized, body trembling, a sob catching in my throat. That night, my fury at Matteo’s betrayal chained me to this devil, and I hated myself for it. How did he know about my child? My hands shook, fear drowning me, his cold gaze seeming to pierce the shadows where I hid, like he could sense my heartbeat.

“Hand her over?” Papa laughed, a snarl, stepping closer, gun trained on Volkov’s heart. “You raped my daughter, murdered my Sofia, and now you demand her? Vaffanculo, Volkov! I’ll burn your Bratva to ash before I let you touch her!”

Volkov didn’t blink, his voice a blade, dripping with menace. “Your Sofia was a pawn, caught in your pathetic war. Your men butchered my daughter Katya, Anya’s twin, my blood, in revenge. Emilia’s child is mine, and I take what’s mine, Romano. Think your little family can stand against me? My Bratva will crush you like roaches.”

“You dare threaten me?” Papa roared, his gun shaking, capos cocking weapons, the room a spark of chaos. “You’re a dead man, Volkov! You’ll never touch my daughter!”

Volkov’s eyes narrowed, his voice as cold as a grave. “I don’t ask, Romano. I’m taking Emilia, with or without your blessing. Defy me, and I unleash hell. Your sons, your capos, your legacy—gone. I’ll drag Emilia from your ashes myself.”

My heart seized, hand clutching my stomach, his threat a noose tightening. His Bratva’s power was legend, unmatched even by the strongest Italian families. Mama’s death, his doing, fueled my hatred, but his words shook me—war would kill them all. His voice echoed that night—“You’re mine, krasavitsa,”—and my knees nearly buckled.

“You’re a butcher, Volkov!” Matteo bellowed, lunging, fist raised, his face red with rage, but Marco yanked him back, cursing. “You ruined her, you figlio di puttana! She’s mine!”

Volkov’s gaze flicked to Matteo, a sneer curling his lip.

“Yours? You drove her to my bed, DeSantis. You’re a worm, not a man. Step up, and I snap your neck like a twig.”

“Try it!” Matteo spat, struggling against Marco, his voice a growl. “I’ll kill you for touching her!”

“Enough!” Papa shouted, his voice a whip, gun steady on Volkov, his eyes blazing. “You want Emilia? You’ll choke on your own blood first! We fight, every last man, for our honor!”

Volkov’s laugh was low, chilling, his soldiers tensing, guns raised, their eyes cold. “Honor? You’re a dying breed, Romano. One week. Deliver Emilia to me, or I will erase your name from this earth.” He turned, coat swirling, his men backing away, eyes never leaving us.

The doors slammed, his convoy roaring into the night, leaving dread thick in the air.

I stumbled back, breathing ragged. Volkov’s cold eyes burned into my mind, his threat a weight I couldn’t shake. I couldn’t let my family face that war. My child, my mistake, brought this hell. I had to act, or we’d all be dead.

The study was a storm, Papa at the desk, his face a furnace, capos and family—Luca, Marco, Matteo, and others—packed tight, their voices a roar.

I hovered at the door, my gown torn from yesterday’s chaos, hand on my stomach, fear and resolve warring in my chest, my heart pounding.

“Volkov’s declared war!” Papa bellowed, slamming his fist, glasses rattling on the desk. “He demanded Emilia, claims her bastardo child! We don’t kneel to that dog! Arm every man, fortify the estate. We fight to the last!”

“Fight?” Marco snapped, voice sharp, stepping forward. “The Bratva’s a f*cking tidal wave, Don! They outgun us, outman us! Paolo’s dead because of her!” He jabbed a finger toward the door, missing me, hidden behind it.

“Then we die for la famiglia!” Papa roared, eyes blazing, his voice shaking the room. “He killed Sofia, Mia Moglie! Giving him Emilia is betraying her blood, betraying everything we are!”

Matteo’s voice was poison, fists clenched, his face twisted. “She’s a traditore! She f*cked that stronzo, brought this curse on us! Let him take her, let them both rot for their sins!” (traitor).

“Enough!” Luca growled, shoving Matteo hard, his voice fierce. “That’s my sister you’re talking about! We don’t throw out family. We shield them, Matteo, you bastard!”

“Shield?” Matteo laughed, venomously, stepping into Luca’s face. “She’s his puttana now! You think she’ll fight for us when she’s warming her bed?”

Matteo’s “puttana” broke my silence, rage igniting. I stormed in, voice trembling but fierce, my hands shaking. “Stop it, all of you!”

The room froze, Papa’s glare lethal, his hand twitching for his gun, his eyes boring into me. “You dare, daughter?” he hissed, stepping close, voice low, deadly. “After your shame? Speak, or it’s your life, Emilia.”

“I heard Volkov,” I said, voice shaking, hands clutching my stomach, tears burning. His threat, his demand. I won’t let you die for my mistake. I’ll go to him… I’ll marry him.”

Gasps erupted, Matteo’s face twisting, his eyes wild.

“Pazza!” he shouted, lunging, Luca blocking him, fists ready. “You want that monster?"I knew you were a fucking slut, Emilia!”

“Shut up, Matteo!” I screamed, tears streaming, my body trembling, my voice raw. I hate him! That night was a mistake, my worst sin! He killed Mama, and I’ll make him bleed for it, I swear!”

“Bleed?” Papa roared, grabbing my arm, yanking me close, his voice a snarl, breath hot. “You think you can face that devil? He’ll see through you, rip you apart till you’re nothing!”

“I know he’s a beast, Papa!” I cried, wrenching freely, my voice raw, my chest heaving. “That’s why I’ll do this. Let me marry him, infiltrate his Bratva. I’ll earn his trust, gut his empire from within. For Mama. Per la famiglia, Papa, please!”

“Stupid!” Papa spat, face crimson, gun waving. “Volkov’s a serpent! You’ll die, and we’ll still burn for your foolishness!”

“She’s got a point,” Luca said, stepping forward, voice steady, eyes on Papa, his jaw tight. “We can’t win a war, Papa. Not against the Bratva. Emilia’s plan is our best shot. She’s a Romano, she’s sharp. We have to trust her.”

I looked at Luca, appreciating him. He was the only one who would understand where I was coming from. The rest were blinded by their hatred for the bratvas. But, it was obvious that we had no chance here. The bratvas were too strong, they outnumbered us in weapons, men and knowledge.

It was a dead end.

“Sharp?” Matteo sneered, shoving Luca, his voice dripping with hate. "She’s a traitor! She’ll spread her legs for him again and doom us all!”

“Enough, Matteo!” I shouted, hands shaking, facing him, my voice a blade. “I’m saving us! I hate Volkov, more than you’ll ever know. That night was your fault, your betrayal! I’ll destroy him, and I’ll come back to fix this.”

“You’ll fail,” Papa said, voice low, deadly, eyes piercing mine, gun still in hand. “Volkov’s no fool. You’ll be his toy, and we’ll pay for your weakness.”

“Then let me try,” I pleaded, tears falling, my voice fierce, my heart pounding. "Give me a chance to end this. I’ll make him trust me, I’ll tear him down. For Mama’s memory, for my child.”

Silence gripped the room, capos shifting, Luca nodding, his eyes steady. Marco’s jaw tightened, but he held his tongue, his gaze dark. Matteo’s eyes burned into me, his voice a hiss. “You’re his pawn, but you’ll crawl back to me, Emilia.”

“I’m not,” I said, my voice hard as steel, my hand on my stomach, meeting his glare. “I’m a Romano. I’ll hate him every breath, and I’ll win.”

Papa stared, face unreadable, then spoke, voice ice, gun lowering. “One year, Emilia. You have one year to crush Volkov. Fail, and you’re dead. Don’t you dare love that bastard. You’re still Matteo’s.”

“I won’t,” I vowed, trembling but firm, my voice steady despite the fear. “I’ll never love that monster. I’ll end him, and I’ll return.”

Matteo spat on the floor, his voice low, vicious. “You’ll fall for him. You’re weak, Emilia, always were.”

“F*ck you,” I snapped, stepping into his face, my hands shaking. “I’m stronger than you’ll ever be. Watch me prove it.”

Luca’s hand gripped my shoulder, voice low, steady. “You’re brave, sorella. We’ll stand by you. Make him suffer, Em. Don’t go easy.”

Papa nodded, eyes hard, his voice final. “One year to make that bastard pay for our blood. You leave tomorrow. Prepare.”

My heart pounded, body trembling as I left the study, hand on my stomach, my resolve like iron. Volkov thought he could own me, but I’d turn his strength against him. I’d enter his world, play his game, and burn his empire to the ground. For my child, for Mama, per la famiglia.

But as I stepped into the dark, Volkov’s cold voice echoed in my mind, fear whispering that I might not survive his shadow.

Into the wolf's den

“Move,” a guard snapped, his accent thick, shoving me toward towering steel doors, his hand rough on my back.

My pulse thundered as the Bratva SUV screeched into Viktor Volkov’s Moscow compound, a fortress swallowing the morning light, cold and unyielding.

My hand pressed my stomach, my unborn child my only anchor, as I braced for my mission: marry Volkov, infiltrate his Bratva, destroy him in a year, or my family would bleed. My coat pocket hid tiny listening bugs, my only edge, but fear gnawed at my bones, my heart racing. I stepped onto the frozen ground, heels sharp, the wind biting my face.

The marriage contract was signed, no ceremony, just a chain around my neck.

“Back off,” I hissed, voice steady despite my trembling fingers, glaring until the guard retreated, his eyes narrowing.

A voice—cold, commanding, lethal—cut the air. “Touch her again, and I’ll send you back in pieces.”

My breath hitched, eyes snapping to Volkov, framed in the doorway, his tailored black suit tight on his muscled frame, ice-blue eyes pinning me like prey. His chiseled face was stone, but his presence was a storm, every guard tensing in his shadow. My skin flushed, a traitor to my burning hatred, his gaze reigniting a spark I loathed with every fiber of my being.

“Volkov,” I said, venom in my voice, chin high, hands clenched. “Your cage is as charming as you are.”

He closed the distance, his scent—leather, smoke—hitting me hard, voice a low growl. “Watch your tongue, Emilia. This is my domain. You’re a pawn, not a player.”

“I’m here because you forced me,” I shot back, fists clenched, stepping into his space, defiance blazing. “Don’t expect me to grovel at your feet.”

“I expect obedience.” His fingers grazed my arm, firm, electric, sending a jolt through me that I hated. “Defy me, and your family bleeds.”

I yanked free, hissing, “Lay a hand on me again, and I’ll make you regret it.”

Volkov’s laugh was dark, his body looming, the air crackling with tension. “I like your claws, krasavitsa. Let’s see if they cut.” He barked, “Inside, now.”

I followed, heart pounding, guards at my back, into a grand hall of black marble and iron chandeliers, menace and luxury bleeding together. My mind raced—plant the bugs, uncover his secrets, survive. Every second was a gamble, my family’s lives hanging by a thread.

Volkov led me into his study, walls lined with maps and knives, a massive desk strewn with files. “Sit,” he ordered, pointing to a leather chair, his voice a whip.

“I’ll stand,” I spat, crossing my arms, scanning for a bug’s hiding spot, my pulse hammering like a drum.

“Sit,” he growled, stepping close, his breath hot, eyes locking onto mine. “Or I make you.”

I narrowed my eyes but sank into the chair, slipping a bug under the armrest, my fingers swift, heart in my throat. “Happy now, tyrant?” I taunted, voice sharp, defiance masking my fear.

He leaned on the desk, arms crossed, his gaze stripping me bare, intense and unyielding. “You’re here, but not safe. My daughter, Anya, six years old, lives in this compound. You don’t go near her. Ever.”

My eyes narrowed, catching the steel in his tone, his hand twitching, betraying a father’s fear—a weakness I could use.

“Your daughter? Afraid I’ll expose what a monster you are?”

Volkov’s jaw clenched, his voice a snarl, eyes blazing.

“Anya’s untouchable. You cross that line, and I’ll bury you, Emilia.” His hand twitched again, betraying more than he meant.

I flinched but held his gaze, voice low, venomous. “You’re no father. You’re a killer. I’ll outlast you, Volkov.”

His eyes flickered—lust, rage?—his voice dropping, dangerous. “Keep dreaming, krasavitsa. You feel this.” His fingers brushed my wrist, deliberately, sparking a fire I despised. “You can’t fight it.”

I slapped his hand away, his face burning, his voice shaking with rage. “I feel nothing but hate for you. You’ll pay for dragging me here.”

He straightened, smirked coldly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Prove it. Dinner is at eight. Don’t test me.” He stormed out, the door slamming, leaving me trembling, my body traitorously alive from his touch, a betrayal I’d never forgive myself for.

I’d bring him down, no matter the cost, his empire in ashes. I exhaled, slipping another bug under the desk’s edge, fingers quick, heart racing.

The meeting room was next, but the compound was a labyrinth, guards everywhere, their eyes like hawks. I slipped into the hall, heels muffled, dodging patrols, my breath shallow, every step a risk. One wrong move, and I was dead.

A soft gasp stopped me, my eyes darting to a shadowed alcove. A six-year-old girl stood there, blonde hair tangled, green eyes wide with fear, clutching a worn sketchbook, her face pale, haunted, her posture rigid like a cornered animal. Volkov’s warning rang—stay away from Anya—but my heart ached, seeing her pain.

“Who are you?” her tiny voice demanded, sharp but trembling, stepping back, sketchbook a shield against me.

My heart sank, her grief palpable, screaming loss. “I’m… Emilia,” I said softly, hands raised, voice gentle, my pregnancy making me ache for her. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you Anya?”

Anya’s eyes narrowed, her voice cold, cutting. “I don’t want to know who you are. Leave me alone.”

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I said, voice low, desperate to reach her. “I just… got lost, that’s all.”

“Lost?” Anya scoffed, clutching her sketchbook tighter, her voice bitter, too old for her years.

“You’re his new wife, aren’t you? I heard the guards. Stay away from me.” She backed away, eyes flashing with anger. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”

My heart twisted, seeing the wall she’d built, forged by loss—her twin, Katya, gone, killed by my family’s revenge for Mama. “I understand,” I said, my voice soft, tears pricking. “I’ve lost people too. I’m not your enemy, Anya.”

Anya’s lips trembled, but her voice was ice, shutting me out. “You’re nothing to me. I need to go now.” She darted down the hall, her footsteps fading, leaving me shaken, guilt heavy in my chest.

I pressed a hand to my stomach, whispering, “She’s hurting.” Anya’s pain mirrored mine, but Volkov’s warning loomed like a blade. I couldn’t push her, not yet, not without risking everything. I moved on, heart heavy, slipping deeper into the compound, the need to plant the final bug driving me forward.

Voices—gruff, urgent—halted me near a steel door, cracked open just enough to hear. I pressed against the wall, breath hitching, straining to listen, my heart pounding. A man, voice like gravel, spoke, his words chilling. “Vincenzo’s open, Dimitri. We hit him now, he’s done. The mole’s got his next meeting pinned.”

My blood ran cold, hand gripping the wall, nails digging in. A mole? In Papa’s mafia? My mind reeled—Luca? Matteo? No, it couldn’t be. The mole must’ve leaked my pregnancy to Volkov, betraying us all. Another voice, colder, replied, sharp as a blade.

“Volkov wants it clean,” Dimitri said, voice sharp, no mercy.

“One shot to the don, and the Romanos folded. Emilia’s just a toy, nothing more.”

“Next week, then,” the first man said, a dark chuckle escaping. “The mole’s handing us everything, just like we expected.”

My legs shook, rage and fear colliding, my breath coming in gasps. They were plotting to kill Papa, and a traitor in my family was feeding them, selling us out.

I had to warn him, but exposing myself could end my mission—and my child’s life. My fingers slipped a final bug near the door’s hinge, hands trembling, and I backed away, heart pounding, as boots echoed closer, heavy and deliberate.

I dove into an alcove, breath held, a guard’s flashlight sweeping past, inches from my face. My mind screamed—get a message out, save Papa—but Volkov’s control, Anya’s pain, the traitor’s shadow, caged me. One year to destroy him, and now this betrayal.

My hand pressed my stomach, voice a fierce whisper. “I’ll stop them. I swear.” But the guard’s steps paused, his radio crackling, and my heart stopped cold—had he seen me?