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?

Shadows of betrayal

My boots echoed in the dim corridor of Volkov’s Moscow compound, my heart racing as I clutched the encrypted burner phone.

I’d smuggled in, my fingers slick with sweat. I’d nearly been caught planting bugs, a guard’s radio crackling as he paused, his flashlight grazing my hiding spot until he turned away, distracted by a call. The mole plot I’d overheard yesterday—Bratva planning to assassinate Papa, with a traitor in my family—burned in my mind, a fire I couldn’t extinguish.

I had to warn him, but every move risked my mission: infiltrate the Bratva, destroy Volkov, save my family in a year.

Anya’s cold, six-year-old eyes from our accidental meeting haunted me, her rude “Go away” cutting deep, a reminder of the walls she’d built. I whispered to my stomach, “I’ll reach you, somehow,” but the compound’s steel walls were a noose, tightening with every step.

A soft shuffle froze me, my eyes darting to a shadowed nook. Anya stood there, clutching her tattered stuffed bear, red hair messy, green eyes wary but curious, her small frame dwarfed by the corridor’s gloom.

My breath caught—Volkov’s warning to stay away from his daughter screamed in my head, but Anya’s presence wasn’t hostile, just guarded, her gaze piercing.

“Anya?” I whispered, kneeling, voice gentle, my pregnancy softening my tone, aching for her pain. “What are you doing here, sweetheart?”

Anya’s eyes narrowed, silence heavy, her bear pressed tight to her chest. She stared, unresponsive, then muttered, voice small but sharp, “You’re not supposed to be here.” Her tone was rude, gaze flicking away, shutting me out.

My heart ached, seeing her grief—her twin, Katya, gone, killed by my family’s revenge. “I know you don’t trust me,” I said softly, hands open, desperate to reach her. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Anya’s lip curled, her voice a hiss, cold and final. “I don’t need you. Leave me alone.” She hugged her bear, turning slightly, her small body a wall against me.

I nodded, standing, voice low, tears pricking. “Alright, I’ll go. But if you need me, I’m here, Anya.” I backed away, her pain a weight crushing my chest, knowing pushing would shatter the fragile thread between us.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Volkov’s voice roared, his boots storming down the hall, ice-blue eyes blazing, black coat swirling like a predator’s shadow. I spun, heart slamming, as he grabbed my arm, yanking me close, his grip bruising, pain shooting through me.

“Let go!” I cried, wrenching free, my voice trembling but fierce, pulse racing. “I didn’t seek her out! She was just here, Volkov!”

Volkov’s gaze flicked to Anya, softening for a split second, then hardened, his voice a snarl. “I told you to stay away from my daughter, krasavitsa. You think you can disobey me?”

“I didn’t disobey!” I shot back, stepping into his space, defiance burning, my hands shaking. “She found me! You can’t control every damn thing I do!”

“Papa?” Anya’s voice was tiny, trembling, her eyes wide, bear clutched tight. “Why’s she here?”

Volkov knelt, his voice softer but firm, his hand gentle on her shoulder. “Go to your room, malyshka. Now.” Anya hesitated, glancing at me, her eyes unreadable, then scurried off, footsteps fading.

“You haven’t introduced me to her as your wife. Why is that?” I asked, glaring, my voice sharp, probing for cracks.

“What I tell my daughter is none of your business,” he spat, his voice icy, eyes narrowing. “You’re a means to an end, nothing more, Emilia.”

His words cut like a blade, but I masked the sting, my jaw tight. “Threaten me all you want,” I hissed, fists clenched, face inches from his, the air electric with tension. “I’m not your prisoner, Volkov.”

His smirk was cold, his hand brushing my jaw, deliberately, sparking heat I hated, my body betraying me. “You’re mine until I say otherwise. Keep testing me, and you’ll see how tight this cage gets.” His touch lingered, eyes burning, then he turned, barking, “Stay put.”

My skin prickled, my body traitorously yearning, but I shoved it down, heart pounding as I slipped into a service room, the door creaking shut. I powered on the burner phone, fingers shaking, typing a coded message to Luca: Mole in family.

Vincenzo targeted. Trust no one. I hit send, praying it reached him, but a faint buzz in my coat stopped me—a stolen Bratva comms unit, its voices crackling, urgent, chilling.

“Ivan’s moving,” a man said, his voice low, secretive. “DeSantis is in. He’s feeding us the Italians’ routes.”

My eyes widened, the phone nearly slipping from my grip, my breath catching. DeSantis? Matteo? My ex-fiancé, allied with Ivan, a Bratva rival? My mind reeled—Matteo, the mole? His betrayal, calling me a traitor, flashed back, but this was a knife to the heart. I listened, my heart thundering, my hands trembling.

“Volkov doesn’t know,” another voice said, smug, laughing softly. “DeSantis wants Vincenzo dead, Ivan wants the Bratva cut. We play both sides, clean and easy.”

My legs shook, betrayal cutting deep, rage boiling. Matteo, working against my family, maybe even me? The comms buzzed again, a new voice, older, colder, calculated.

“Calabrese is on board,” the voice said, sharp, precise. “Volkov’s deal is set—use the Romano girl as bait, lure Vincenzo to the docks, take him out. Calabrese gets the Italian turf, we split the profits.”

My breath stopped, hand clutching my stomach, fear spiking. Volkov, working with the Calabrese, a rival Italian family, to betray Papa? Using me as bait to lure him to his death? His demands, his obsession with my child, were a trap to destroy my family, a chess move I hadn’t seen.

I powered off the comms, heart racing, slipping the device into my pocket, my mind screaming. I had to stop this, protect Anya, expose Matteo, but the compound was a cage, time slipping like sand.

A creak snapped me back, the service room door inching open, my heart leaping to my throat. A man stepped in, tall, scarred—Salvatore, a Romano capo, or so I’d thought. His eyes were cold, a silenced pistol in his hand, aimed at my chest, his face twisted with contempt.

“Salvatore?” My voice trembled, stepping back, hands raised, pulse hammering. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You’re a liability, Emilia,” he said, his voice low, venomous, stepping closer, gun steady. “Matteo’s right—you’re selling us out. I saw you with that phone, sneaking around.”

“I’m not the traitor!” I snapped, my voice fierce, returning to the wall, my hand brushing a metal pipe on the floor, my only chance. “Matteo’s working with Ivan! He’s betraying Vincenzo, not me!”

“Lies,” Salvatore hissed, his mouth stretching into an evil smirk, cocking the gun, his eyes gleaming. “You’re Volkov’s whore now. Vincenzo’s better off without you.”

My heart roared, no escape, my body trapped. My fingers closed on the pipe, voice shaking but defiant. “You’re wrong, Salvatore. Shoot me, and you doom the family.”

Salvatore’s finger tightened on the trigger, his eyes narrowing, his voice a growl. “Goodbye, Emilia.”

I swung the pipe hard, catching his wrist, the gun clattering to the floor, but he lunged, slamming me against the wall, his hand choking my throat, cutting off-air. I gasped, vision blurring, clawing at his arm, kicking, my stomach twisting with fear for my child. “Get… off!” I rasped, driving my knee into his groin, breaking free, scrambling for the gun, my hands shaking.

Salvatore roared, tackling me down, his fist grazing my jaw, pain exploding, stars bursting in my eyes. I screamed, grabbing the pipe again, swinging wildly, cracking his shoulder, blood spraying.

He staggered, cursing, but charged, his knife flashing, slicing my arm, hot pain searing through me. I stumbled, blood soaking my sleeve, the gun just out of reach, my body shaking, legs weak.

“Die, traitor!” Salvatore bellowed, raising the knife, his eyes wild, bloodlust in his glare.

A gunshot cracked, deafening, and Salvatore froze, blood blooming on his chest, his body collapsing like a broken doll. My breath hitched, eyes darting to the door, my heart stopping. Volkov stood there, pistol smoking, ice-blue eyes locked on me, unreadable—fury, or something else, something I couldn’t trust?

“Viktor…” I gasped, clutching my bleeding arm, legs buckling, the room spinning, pain throbbing. “Thank God you came… I could’ve died.”

His boots thudded closer, his voice a low growl, eyes flicking to my wound, then my stomach, his face a mask. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, krasavitsa.”

My vision blurred, body swaying, fear choking me as blood poured from my arm, a deeper ache gripping my womb, crimson staining my dress, the smell hitting me like a punch.