Chapter 152 152

Chapter 152 152
This world is still mostly foreign to me, but it’s beginning to take on a fuzzy, indistinct shape. I get the gist, if not the details.

And the gist is that we are seated on a precarious throne. Leonid built his empire on broken bones and stolen dreams. Now, all his enemies will be circling Samuil like sharks scenting blood in the water. Wondering if he’s fit to take up his father’s place.

And that’s on top of Ilya and Katerina and the Andropovs still gunning for him. God only knows which pocket of shadow they’re lurking in.

My free hand drifts to my stomach. The baby kicks. It’s okay, little one, I think to it, trying to send telepathic messages of soothing. Sam is going to take care of us.

But even as I say it, I can’t help but feel that pang of hot anger low in my gut. Listening to him turn down that FBI agent’s offer… It felt like a slap in the face. From where I stood, it seemed like he had the key to a happy ending being handed to him on a silver platter. And he said no.

I want to understand why. I trust him, I do, I swear I do.

But trust is a hard thing to cling to when everyone around us has murder in their stare.

A flash of familiar blonde hair catches my eye, and my heart stutters. But when I look again, it’s gone—swallowed by the sea of black suits and somber dresses filing into the church.

I must have imagined it.

“Could we find somewhere to sit, Samuil?” I whisper to him during a break in the tide of well-wishers. “I’m feeling a little dizzy.”

Sam’s gaze darts to me in concern. Then he snaps his fingers and the crowd parts. His arm is tight around my waist as he guides me to the pew in the front of the cathedral. I sink onto it gratefully. My hands shake slightly as I smooth my dress over my thighs.

“Water’s coming,” Samuil murmurs, his thumb brushing my cheek. “And Myles will stay with you during the service.”

Myles materializes beside us. “I’ve got your six, Nova. Not leaving your side until the boss says otherwise.”

I manage a weak smile. Grams, Hope, and the dogs are back in Scotland for their own safety, but having Myles here helps—he’s become like a brother to me these past months. A brother who could probably snap a man’s neck with his pinky finger, but isn’t that what brothers are supposed to be for?

The water arrives a moment later. I take small sips, willing my stomach to settle and my head to stop spinning.

But as more people file into the cathedral, the air grows thick with incense and whispered Russian. My nausea rises again, and this time, it’s not just morning sickness. It’s the weight of a hundred calculating sneers boring into my skull from every angle.

It’s almost funny how trite and standard the service is. Who picked this? Who approved this? Myself and most of the people in here have met Leonid Litvinov, and cliched eulogies about his “generosity” are outright laughable. I’d sooner have expected Satan himself to come conduct proceedings. Not this stooped, graying Russian Orthodox priest with a voice that barely rises above a dull mumble.

A slow, dull mumble, at that.

The service drags like a funeral dirge played at quarter-speed. The priest’s voice rises and falls in waves of Russian I don’t understand. The incense keeps burning. A pot too close to me spews smoke, making my nostrils sting and my eyes water.

Or maybe those are real tears. It’s hard to tell anymore.

I shift on the hard, wooden pew for the thousandth time, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my lower back scream in protest. The baby is equally uncomfortable. He or she does somersaults, stomping against my bladder with determined little feet.

Beside me, Samuil sits like a statue carved from granite. His shoulders are squared, his chin lifted. Only the muscle thrumming in his jaw betrays any emotion at all.

I want to reach for his hand again, but something in his rigid posture warns me away.

The endless stream of prayers and hymns finally peters out. As the last notes of the choir fade away, a collective exhale seems to ripple through the crowd. No one wanted to be here—not really. This was obligation, not grief.

I struggle to my feet, my pregnant body protesting every movement. The pressure on my bladder has reached critical mass.

“Myles.” I catch his eye and make a desperate gesture.

He nods, already moving to escort me. We hustle down the aisle, dodging condolences and curious stares. When we reach the bathroom, Myles does a quick sweep of the inside before positioning himself outside like a sentinel.

“All clear,” he says. “I’ll keep watch.”

I duck inside, grateful for a moment alone. The black-marbled bathroom is freezing cold, but right now, all I care about is blessed relief.

I pee, finish up, and head to the sink. My mind is already wandering to what fresh hell might await us at the reception. The counter is ice-cold under my palms as I lean forward to check my makeup in the mirror.

That’s when I hear it—a dull thump outside the door, like a sack of meat hitting tile.

My throat closes. “Myles?”

Silence is the only thing that answers. Not even the shuffle of feet or murmur of voices from the hallway.

I grip the edge of the counter, willing my racing heart to slow. It’s nothing. Just paranoia. Pregnancy hormones making me jumpy.

But Myles would answer. He always answers.

I edge toward the door, my heels clicking against marble in a staccato rhythm that matches my pulse. Three steps away, I freeze.

Dark red seeps under the door, spreading across the black tile like spilled wine.

Blood.

The metallic scent hits my nose at the same time as the recognition. My stomach heaves. I clamp a hand over my mouth, stumbling backward until I hit the wall. My other hand curves protectively over my belly.

The door handle starts to turn.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Think, Nova. Think. What would Samuil do?

My phone is in my purse—which Myles was holding for me.

I scan the bathroom desperately. No windows. No other exits. Just me, my unborn child, and whatever horror waits on the other side of that door.

The handle keeps turning with excruciating precision, like whoever’s out there wants me to feel every microsecond of terror.

I kick off my heels. If I’m about to die, it won’t be tripping over four-inch Louboutins.

The door creaks open.

And a familiar head of platinum blonde hair sneaks in.

“Your watchdog is taking a little nap.” Katerina’s whisper slithers down my spine. She shuts the door behind her, then looks down in distaste when she realizes she’s stepped in Myles’s blood. Her nose wrinkles.

I try to speak and fail, so I swallow, lick my lips, and try again. “Did you kill him?”

Kat laughs. “I’d worry more about yourself, sweetheart.” She saunters toward me. “I must say, you’ve been a delightful pest. Leading us on such a merry chase across Europe. Or was it me who was leading you? Impossible to tell, really.”