Chapter Sixy Seven.

Chapter Sixy Seven.
Xena sat quietly in the passenger seat, her body curled slightly into herself, her eyes empty—completely devoid of life.

Her face was pale, her lips cracked, and her once vibrant spirit had dimmed like a candle fighting against the wind.

The rampage memories still clung to her skin even though she'd wiped them away. Every breath she took sounded like a battle between pain and survival.

Viktor glanced at her. Once. Then again.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened each time he looked at her hollowed expression.

She wasn't saying a word… she hadn’t since they left.

And that silence? It was louder than any scream. He could feel her soul trembling—like it was still stuck in that penthouse with that bastard.

Just then, Mikhail’s voice cut through the heavy silence, echoing from the car’s speaker system.

“Viktor, we can’t find Marco.”

Viktor’s jaw clenched, his eyes turned colder than winter in Moscow. “I want him dead or alive. Don’t let that fucker disappear,” he growled.

“Understood,” Mikhail replied, and the line cut off.

Viktor didn’t say anything else. He just stepped harder on the gas and sped straight into the estate.

The black car rolled past the iron gates and curved into the driveway of the mansion. As soon as it came to a stop, Viktor killed the engine, stepped out, and slammed the door shut.

From the stairs leading into the mansion, Alina and Zoya rushed out.

The look on their faces shifted the second they saw her—Xena still sitting in the car, unmoving.

She looked like she hadn’t just escaped a man, but an entire nightmare. Her hair wild and tangled, her hands shaking even though she tried to still them.

Viktor circled to her side. Without a word, he opened the door and gently helped her out.

She didn’t even fight it—didn’t say a word, didn’t flinch. She just let him pull her into the house like a porcelain doll with cracks no one could fix.

Zoya and Alina exchanged glances and followed behind, their hearts sinking with every step.

\~~~

Viktor brought her straight into his room—his sanctuary.

Without asking, without hesitating, he led her to the edge of his massive bed and guided her to sit.

Xena obeyed like a ghost of herself, sinking down into the mattress. She didn't even blink.

“You need to rest,” Viktor finally said, his voice low. Rough. But laced with something else too—guilt. “You don’t look like yourself, little fire.”

He was about to walk away when her fingers wrapped around his wrist.

He froze.

She didn’t look at him, but her voice broke him apart.

“Please… don’t go.”

He turned slowly and stared down at her. Her eyes… God, her eyes.

They weren’t just sad—they were broken. They were begging for someone to hold the pieces together just for a second longer.

Without a word, Viktor sat down beside her, and Xena leaned her head on his shoulder.

Her breath was warm, but unsteady. Her body was trembling lightly against him.

“Why is this happening to me…?” she whispered.

And he heard it.

He shut his eyes for a second and inhaled, trying to contain the volcano erupting inside his chest.

“Little fire…” he said softly, his voice no longer sharp but tender. “We’ll talk… after you rest, alright?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

He brushed her hair gently off her face, then stood.

“I’ll call the maids. They’ll help you clean up. I’ll be back.”

Xena didn’t move. She just sat there, her eyes locked on something distant—like she was watching a memory replay on the wall.

Viktor watched her for a long moment, fists clenched, jaw locked.

Then he turned and opened the door.

Zoya and Alina were already standing outside, quiet but ready. As if they knew she’d need them.

“Take care of her,” he said firmly.

They nodded and slipped inside, closing the door gently behind them.

Viktor stood there, breathing heavily, his knuckles white with rage.

“She trusted me,” he muttered under his breath. “And he dared to touch her?”

His voice dropped into something darker… deeper… almost demonic.

“I’m going to kill that bastard for this. I’ll make him beg before I blow his brains out.”

And with that, he walked away—his eyes dark with revenge, his soul already bleeding war.

♠︎♠︎♠︎

Meanwhile..

The amber whiskey swirled in Marco’s glass like a storm—one he wished he could drown in.

He sat slouched on the blood-red velvet couch in the dimly lit penthouse, a stark contrast to the chaos that had unraveled just an hour ago. The gunfight had ended. And Viktor… had taken her.

Stolen her.

The moment replayed in his head like a curse. Xena, breathless and terrified, running into Viktor’s arms like he was her savior.

And the way Viktor held her—as if she was his to protect. As if Marco hadn’t claimed her first. As if she hadn’t once been his entire damn world.

He downed the rest of the whiskey in one furious gulp and hurled the glass at the wall.

It shattered instantly, fragments raining down like the last thread of his control.

“Figlio di puttana!" Marco growled, his voice hoarse with rage. “You think you’ve won, Viktor? You think taking her from me makes you a king?”

He paced the room, his hand brushing through his hair roughly as his breath came in uneven bursts.

His shoulder still throbbed faintly from where the bullet had grazed him—but it wasn’t the pain that made his jaw tighten.

It was her face.

That fucking look in her eyes when she saw Viktor.

Not fear. Not dread.

But relief.

As if Marco was the villain in this story. As if everything he had done, all the years he spent trying to get her back, didn’t matter. As if Viktor hadn’t ruined everything.

“She was mine,” he whispered to the silence, eyes narrowing as he stared at the broken shards on the floor. “She is mine.”

He picked up his phone, knuckles white as he gripped it. He didn’t call anyone. Not yet.

No, he just stood there, seething in the thick air, his reflection in the glass door cracked by rage.

“She ran to you now, Viktor,” Marco muttered darkly, “but that won’t last. You think you saved her? No… You’ve only borrowed her.”

He leaned closer to the glass, his lips curling into a sinister smirk.

“And when I come back for her… I’m not leaving without her heart in my hands.”