Chapter 176 177

Chapter 176 177
Instead, I find myself drawn to the soft glow spilling from Sofiya’s room.

I pause in the doorway, tucked just out of sight. Rowan sits in the rocking chair by the window with our daughter curled against her chest as she reads from a book of fairy tales. Her voice is soft, melodic, conjuring worlds of princes and dragons and happy endings that have never existed in our reality.

Sofiya spots me first. “Papa!” she squeals, wiggling to get down from Rowan’s lap.

The sound of her voice—so innocent, so full of unquestioning love— pierces straight through the armor I’ve worn all day. I drop to one knee as she crawls across the room, catching her small body against mine as she crashes into my arms.

“Hello, little warrior,” I murmur against her dark curls. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

She points back at her mother by way of explanation.

“I see that.” I glance up at Rowan, who watches us with an expression I can’t quite read—part tenderness, part wariness. “One more story, then bed, okay?”

Sofiya reaches for the book in her mom’s hands. Rowan surrenders it, then Sofi passes it over to me.

I look to Rowan for permission. After a moment’s hesitation, she nods.

Ten minutes later, Sofiya’s eyes are drooping as I finish the tale of a princess who spurns an arrogant knight’s help and saves herself from a tower. Not the traditional ending, but this is Rowan’s choice of bedtime stories, and I must admit: I’m starting to see the appeal.

When we step into the hallway, closing Sofi’s door behind us, awkward silence descends.

“I’m still angry with you,” she says.

“I know.” My thumb traces the delicate bones of her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my touch.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” she whispers as she steps closer, erasing the space between us until I can feel the heat emanating from her body.

Our lips meet in a hesitant kiss. It’s light and teasing and over far too soon. I have to restrain myself from throwing her over my shoulder like a caveman as she separates.

Instead, I stand still as a statue and watch her saunter away down the hall. I’m preparing myself for another long, lonely night—until, at the last second, she turns and looks back.

“Coming?”

Yes, moya zhena. Yes, I am.

What follows isn’t what our fucking has always been. It’s far too tentative for that. Each touch is a question—Are you still mine? Each response is an incomplete answer—I don’t know, but I want to be.

Her body opens for me with familiar ease, but her eyes remain guarded. When I push inside her, she gasps my name, then clamps down on her bottom lip like she doesn’t want to say it. I move slowly, savoring each sensation, memorizing the way she feels beneath me in case this is the last time.

When it’s done and we’re both spent, we lie staring upwards with inches of carefully maintained space between us.

“Arkady might not make it,” I whisper into the shadows.

Her hand finds mine in the tangled sheets. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I break my promise to you.” I turn to face her, though I can barely make out her features in the dimness. “I hunt my father down and I kill him, FBI deal be damned.”

She sighs and breathes for a while. “If it comes to that,” she says finally, “I won’t try to stop you.”

Her fingers tighten around mine, and for the first time since Arkady took that bullet, I feel something other than rage.

“But you won’t help me, either,” I say, testing the boundaries of this fragile truce.

“Won’t I?” Her voice holds a darkness that matches my own. “You don’t know what I’m capable of anymore, Vince. I’m not the woman you married.”

57

ROWAN

The morning after our tentative truce, while Vince goes back to the hospital to sit vigil at Arkady’s bedside, I slip out of the compound with nothing but my phone and a backpack. The guards let me pass with minimal questions. They’ve learned that questioning the boss’s wife too thoroughly is a careerlimiting move.

Besides, where would I go? My daughter is inside. My heart, despite my best efforts to protect it, remains with a man who breaks everything he touches.

The café I’ve chosen sits in a forgotten corner of Brooklyn—far enough from our usual haunts to avoid Vince’s surveillance, close enough to escape quickly if needed.

I arrive twenty minutes early, selecting a table with clear sightlines to all exits. Another habit I’ve picked up from my husband. You can take the girl out of the Bratva, but you can’t take the Bratva out of the girl.

Anastasia arrives first, elegant as always despite the early hour. She slides into the seat across from me without ordering.

“This is dangerous,” she says in lieu of greeting. “Vince would lose his mind if he knew we were meeting. I’m supposed to be in hiding and you’re supposed to be locked away in the highest room of the tallest tower.”

“Vince is about to lose his mind anyway,” I reply, stirring my untouched coffee. “His father just tried to have him killed. Used his best friend as the weapon, then shot that same friend when the plan failed. The FBI is squeezing him for information. And I’m done watching from the sidelines while everything falls apart.”

Anastasia’s eyes bug out. “Well, shit.”

Daniil joins us a minute later, his eyes scanning the room anxiously before settling on me. “You look like shit, Rowan.”

“Thanks. You’re a poet.”

“I mean you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Sleep is a luxury I can’t afford right now.” I lean forward, dropping my voice. “I need your help. Both of you.”

Anastasia’s perfectly manicured fingers tap against the table. “What kind of help?”

“The kind that involves your father.” I lock eyes with Daniil. “And your loyalty to my husband.”

Daniil’s jaw tightens. “My loyalty is to Anastasia. Not to Vincent.”

“But it’s his protection keeping you both alive.” I take a sip of my bitter coffee. “How long do you think you’d last without his guards, his connections, his resources?”

“Is that a threat?” Anastasia asks.

“No. It’s reality.” I set down my cup. “Vince is on the brink. If we don’t act now, he’ll go after his father without a plan, without backup, and he’ll either end up dead or in federal prison.”

Daniil exchanges a glance with Anastasia. Some silent communication passes between them—the kind that only exists between people who have survived hell together.

“What exactly are you asking us to do?” he finally asks.