Chapter 150 150

Chapter 150 150
I shake my head. “Don’t talk to me about Nova. Nova needs me to end this. Now. Before our child is born into a world where Ilya can reach them.”

“Copy that.” Myles pulls out his phone. “I’ll tell Vlad to bring down the⁠—”

My phone vibrates against the mahogany desktop. The screen lights up with an incoming call.

From, of all people…

Ilya.

Myles follows my eyes, sees what I see, and blanches pale white. “Don’t answer.” He takes a step forward. “Let me trace⁠—”

I hit accept and put it on speaker. “Calling to surrender, brother?”

I expect laughter. I expect taunting.

All I hear is an animalistic sob.

The sound coming through my phone’s speaker isn’t human. It’s the wail of a wounded beast, and even out here in the wilds of Scotland, as violent and untamed a place as exists, it sounds like something that doesn’t belong on this earth.

“Father—” Ilya chokes. “Otets, he’s—” More Russian expletives follow, each more broken than the last.

I grip the edge of my desk, knuckles white. Waiting. Is he actually saying that Leonid is⁠—

“Dead.” The word explodes from him in another wail. “You killed him. You and your fucking stubbornness killed him.”

“What happened?” I grit out.

“His heart. Fucking blew up on him.” Ilya’s voice cracks. “Right the fuck in front of me. One minute, we were talking about—about you—and the next…” A harsh, grating laugh. “The great Leonid Litvinov, taken down by his own fucking body.”

My legs won’t hold me. I sink into my chair, phone clutched to my ear.

“The doctors say it was quick.” Ilya’s tone shifts from grief to venom. “But you weren’t here. You weren’t here to hold his hand or call for help or⁠—”

“Shut up.” The words come out barely above a whisper.

“You were too busy playing house with your whore and your bastard to⁠—”

I end the call.

The silence that follows is an anvil on my chest.

Myles hasn’t moved. His face is a mask of shock and sympathy I can’t bear to look at.

“Get the helicopter.” My voice sounds distant, foreign. “And tell Nova…”

What? That the man who terrorized my childhood is dead? That we’re free of him?

“Tell her I need her.”

Myles runs off.

I slump back in my seat.

Dead.

The word sears through my skull like a bullet searching for an exit. It’s suddenly burning hot in here, but when I wrench open the closest window, bitter cold comes pouring in. My breath is a plume in the frigid room.

Dead.

Dead men can’t make amends. Dead men can’t earn forgiveness. Dead men can’t suffer for their sins or beg for mercy as you choke the life from them.

The burn behind my eyes intensifies. I squeeze them shut, willing away memories of hockey games and vodka shots and bruising backslaps that felt like approval until I learned better.

When I open them again, Nova’s reflection appears in the glass beside mine. My chest constricts at the sight of her—belly swollen with our child, face drawn with worry. She’s wearing one of my sweaters, the sleeves rolled up four times to free her hands.

I brace for her lecture about the FBI’s offer. About how we could be free of all this, if I’d just take their deal.

But she doesn’t speak. Instead, her small hand slides into mine, fingers threading through my own. Her other palm presses against my back, right between my shoulder blades, and starts moving in slow circles.

The gesture is so tender, so Nova, that something inside me cracks. I turn and pull her close, burying my face in her hair. She smells like lavender and safety and home.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers against my chest. “About your father. About earlier. About all of it.”

I tighten my grip. Probably too hard, but she doesn’t complain. Just keeps rubbing my back. Keeps holding on.

Maybe dead men can’t give closure. But living women—the right ones—can give something better.

They can give grace.

It’s a while before anyone speaks. Nova is the one to break the silence.

“What happens now?”

I stroke her hair. “There will be a funeral in Chicago. Three days from now.”

She stiffens. “Chicago? But that’s⁠—”

“Neutral ground. Sacred ground, by Bratva law.” My jaw clenches. “No blood can be spilled at a patriarch’s funeral. Even Ilya will honor that.”

Nova pulls back, searching my face with those gold-flecked eyes that see too much. “And after the funeral?”

“What comes after doesn’t matter yet,” I whisper. “All that matters is paying proper respects. Making the right moves. Showing strength.”

“It sounds like another game.” Her voice carries an edge of frustration. “More chess pieces for you to position.”

“Because it is a game.” Myles steps into the room, phone pressed to his ear. He covers the mic. “And if we fuck up the opening moves, we lose before we start.”

Nova’s shoulders slump. I can see the fight drain from her posture, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion.

“You should rest,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Doctor’s orders.”

She nods, but her fingers clutch my shirt. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Promise you won’t let this funeral turn into your grave.”

I meet her gaze, seeing all the fear she’s trying to hide. “I promise.”

But when I glance over her shoulder, Myles’s expression reflects what we both know—some promises are harder to keep than others.

He clears his throat. “A toast before you go. To the dead old bastard.”

Myles crosses to the bar cart, his footsteps echoing in the war room’s suffocating silence. The crystal decanter he selects—Russian Imperial, because Father would accept nothing less—catches the light from my screens. A hundred broken beams of blue and red glow dance across Nova’s face.

He pours three shots with practiced precision. Water for my pregnant queen, vodka for us.