Chapter 160 160

Chapter 160 160
“Look at us,” I say aloud, scratching behind their ears. “The dogs and their walker, living in a fairy tale.”

Rufus tilts his head, studying our reflection with an aristocratic air that makes me snort-laugh. It’s like he knows he looks good. The sound bounces off the marble floors and crystal chandeliers of our dressing suite. Ruby whines like she’s telling him not to be a pompous ass.

“At least we all clean up nice.” I smooth my hands over the silk stretched across my belly. “You, too, little one,” I add, just so my baby doesn’t feel left out.

Rufus bumps his cold nose against my palm, then sits regally beside me again. Always on guard, always watching. Just like his master taught him. On the other side, Ruby is just as alert.

“You’re right,” I tell them, squaring my shoulders. “Time to own this.”

The diamond at my throat catches the light, throwing rainbow prisms across the walls. Not a collar marking ownership, but a crown declaring partnership. Samuil didn’t just give me safety or luxury—he gave me purpose. A chance to protect others the way I once needed protection.

Two tails thump against the floor in approval.

The yacht club’s grand staircase feels like a stage, and for a heartbeat, I freeze. Hundreds of faces turn toward me—craggy faces that have seen more darkness than light, more death than life.

But then I see him.

Samuil commands the front of the room like he was born to it—which, I suppose, he was. His tux fits him like sin, and the way he holds himself—shoulders back, chin lifted—screams of brutal, unchecked power.

But I know better. I see the way his throat works when our eyes meet. The barely-there softening of his expression that tells me exactly where his heart lives.

My Bratva king isn’t made of ice anymore. He’s flesh and blood and mine.

Rufus gives a quiet “woof” of greeting, and I swear Samuil’s lips twitch. The gathered men and women—Chicago’s elite mixing with Moscow’s most dangerous—collectively hold their breath. They’re waiting to see how the new boss handles his queen’s entrance.

I lift my chin and descend. One hand on the rail, one held gently over my belly. Rufus and Ruby move in perfect sync beside me, more bodyguards than pets.

When I reach Samuil, he takes my hand and brings it to his lips. “Moya koroleva,” he murmurs. My queen.

The room relaxes fractionally. This is what they needed to see—their leader claiming his woman, his heir, his future. But I know what they don’t: that behind closed doors, this man kneels for me. That the most feared boss in Chicago whispers poetry against my skin and melts when he feels our baby kick.

That the most powerful thing you can do is let love change you.

Samuil’s fingers tighten around mine as he steps up to the microphone to address the crowd. I expect him to let go—to assume the stance of power these people recognize. Instead, he keeps me anchored to his side.

“Many of you knew my father,” he begins, voice carrying to every corner of the yacht club’s grand ballroom. “Leonid Litvinov was respected. Feared. Obeyed.” His thumb traces circles on my knuckles. “But he forgot the most important lesson about power: it means nothing if you’re alone at the top.”

The crowd shifts, uncertain where this is going. I am, too, if we’re being honest.

“My father taught me that love makes you pathetic.” Samuil’s jaw tightens. “That trust is for fools, and mercy is for cowards.” His eyes find mine. “But I stand before you today because a woman who had every reason to hate me chose to save me instead.”

My throat closes up. This isn’t the speech anyone expected—least of all me.

“Nova Pierce walked into my life and showed me that real strength comes from having something worth protecting. Worth dying for.” He places his free hand on my belly. “Worth living for.”

Rufus and Ruby press against my leg as tears threaten.

“So yes, I am your new leader,” Samuil continues, addressing the room again. “And I will be stronger, more ruthless, more successful than my father ever was. Because unlike him, I understand where true power comes from.” He raises our joined hands. “From this.”

Then, lifting a champagne flute to the sky, he adds, “To the future of the Litvinov empire—and to the queen who makes it worth building.”

The room erupts in cheers and raised glasses, but I barely notice.

I’m too busy falling in love with Samuil all over again.