Chapter 139: 139

Everything okay down there?

I type back: Never better, krasavitsa. Never better.

35

SAMUIL

Red bleeds into my vision as I stalk the castle corridors. My father’s words ricochet through my skull.

Your mother was weak. Your woman is weak. You, my son, are weak. And your child will be the weakest parts of each of you.

Each syllable drips with the same venom he used to poison my childhood, his voice still able to find those deep, raw places inside me where the scared little boy lives. The one who watched that video of his mother choosing drugs over him, over and over, until the truth was branded onto his bones.

I want to tear these stone walls down with my bare hands.

Fuck him.

Fuck every cold, calculating lesson he ever taught me about power and control.

Fuck the part of me that still desperately wants to prove him wrong.

Outside, the Scottish night wraps around me like a cold compress. The rage in my blood cools little by little with each breath of Highland air. Stars pierce the darkness overhead, countless pinpricks of light that remind me of winters in Moscow, of everything I’ve fought to leave behind.

Everything except the duty. The burden.

Protect what’s mine. Always.

When Leonid says it, it’s with that greedy, vengeful sickness that runs through his veins. Dirty fuel. Black, clotted, rotten fuel. And for the longest, whenever I said it, I meant it in the same way.

Because that’s how he raised me. That’s how he molded me.

But things have changed now. Protect what’s mine—not so that no one else can have it, and not so that I can keep adding to my hoard, my empire, my wealth, my reach. It’s protect what’s mine—so that my strength guards the purity of the ones I love. It’s protect what’s mine—use my darkness to safeguard the light.

There’s no denying one truth: I’m a beast. From tips to tail, inside and out, I am a monster.

But I can be a monster for the right reasons. I can be the thin black line between the nastiness of this world and the goodness of it. Nova, my child, the dogs—that is my empire now. That is what matters.

That’s what I’ll protect with my dying fucking breath.

And with that resolution, I can finally unclench. With them, I have purpose. I have clarity. I have calm⁠—

Until movement near the barns snaps me back to high alert. My body knows what to do long before my mind does, muscle memory from years of looking over my shoulder, of expecting Katerina’s claws or Ilya’s knife in my back.

A lantern bobs through the darkness. Voices drift on the wind. My hand finds the Glock at my hip.

I ghost across the grounds at a silent sprint, keeping to the shadows. The barn looms higher as I approach, a block of black against the indigo night sky. The voices from within grow clearer—one definitely female. Nova? My finger curls around the trigger guard.

The barn door is cracked open, spilling warm light onto the grass. I sneak up to it. Crouch. Peer within.

I’m ready for fucking anything—whether it’s Andropovs or my father’s men or Leonid himself, I’ll slaughter them all if they’ve dared to lay a hand on⁠—

But no. It’s not that. It’s not anything like that at all.

The scene inside the barn steals my breath away.

Nova kneels in the straw, still decked out in her finest. Her emerald evening gown pools around her, diamonds glinting at her throat as she gently wipes a squirming newborn pup with a soft cloth. Her movements are precise, tender.

Infinitely caring. Endlessly loving.

“There you go, sweet girl. You’re doing so well.” Her voice carries that special tone she uses with animals, all warmth and encouragement. The mother collie pants, exhausted but trusting as Nova helps deliver another squirming puppy into Mrs. Morris’s waiting blanket.

Something cracks open in my chest. A fissure in the granite walls I’ve spent decades building. Because this—this raw, pure moment of creation and nurturing—this is what I’ve been fighting for without even knowing it.

Not the endless power plays. Not the brutal chess matches with my father. Not the blood feuds or territory wars or offshore accounts with so many zeroes that it makes me sick just to look at them.

But this.

This woman. This fierce, beautiful soul who refuses to let this world’s darkness dim her light. Who faces down crime lords without flinching, then turns around and delivers puppies in a drafty barn.

Mr. Morris, kneeling at the collie’s head, spots me in the doorway and opens his mouth, but I shake my head slightly. Not yet, I mouth. I want to enjoy this for just one moment longer.

Nova’s hands move with surgeon-like precision as she guides the last pup into the world. Even from here, I can see the tiny thing is struggling more than its siblings. Her fingers work quickly but gently, clearing its airways, rubbing life into its body.

“Come on, sweet one.” She cradles the newborn close to her chest, uncaring that its wet fur is ruining her designer gown. “Fight for it. That’s right.”

The pup lets out a weak cry. Then a stronger one. Nova’s shoulders sag with relief as she places it near its mother’s belly with its littermates. It starts to suckle and only then do I realize that I’ve been holding my breath, too.

Something fierce and tender unfurls in my chest watching her. The way she gives herself over completely to caring for these creatures. The absolute focus. The boundless compassion.

My father would call it weakness. Would sneer at the very idea of the future Mrs. Litvinov playing midwife to farm dogs, kneeling in shit and hay, dripping jewels.

But I see the steel in her spine. The quiet strength it takes to remain soft in a hard world. To choose kindness over cruelty, time and time again.

She wipes her brow with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of something I don’t want to think about on her forehead. Her smile could light up the whole damn countryside as she counts the puppies one final time.

“Seven healthy babies.” She beams at the Morrises. “Mama did beautifully.”

I step fully into the barn then, unable to stay hidden any longer. Nova’s eyes find mine, and despite everything—my father’s poison, the weight of the Bratva, the constant danger—I know with bone-deep certainty that I will spend the rest of my life making sure that smile never dims.

I clear my throat softly. “Mr. and Mrs. Morris. Thank you for helping Nova. I’ll take it from here.”

They gather their things with knowing smiles, leaving us alone in the lantern-lit sanctuary. The mother collie whines softly in her nest of blankets, her newborns mewling as they find their way to milk.