Chapter 159 159

Chapter 159 159
The medical team works quickly, their practiced movements a stark contrast to my trembling hands. As they load Sam onto a stretcher, his fingers find mine, squeezing with surprising strength.

“Krasavitsa,” he murmurs when he sees my shell-shocked face, “didn’t I tell you to trust me?”

I laugh through my tears, following as they wheel him out. “Next time, maybe fill me in before taking a bullet.”

His answering smile is weak but genuine. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He catches my hand and brings it to his lips as his smile fades into something more serious. “It had to be done like this. I hope you know that. Your reactions had to be genuine for her and Ilya to believe.”

“You orchestrated all of this?” My other hand finds his face, fingers threading through his sweat-damp beard. “The raids, the FBI, everything?”

He manages a shadow of his usual smirk. “I had a hand in things here and there.”

The paramedics start to guide Samuil’s stretcher down the hall. But as we emerge into the belly of the church, an anguished bellow stops us. We all turn in unison.

Ilya bucks against his zip-ties and cuffs as agents march him toward an armored vehicle. His suit is torn and bloody, his once-perfect hair wild.

But it’s his eyes that make my skin crawl. They burn with the kind of hatred that could set the world on fire.

“Brattan,” he spits in Russian, zeroing in on Sam. “Always the chess master. Always three moves ahead, eh?”

Sam’s fingers interlace with mine. His wound is bleeding through the pressure bandage, but his face remains impassive. Like his brother’s venom simply can’t touch him anymore.

Behind Ilya, Katerina stumbles as agents drag her toward a rear exit. Her black-and-red-stained face crumples when she catches Ilya’s eye. Some strange, almost tangible kind of ripple passes between them—a current of betrayal and broken dreams that makes my chest ache despite everything.

I can’t help pitying them. They’re violent, yes, and broken, most definitely.

But no dog is unredeemable.

Give them time. Maybe they’ll find a way back to the light.

Then Ilya’s gaze finds mine. His lips curl into a sneer. “Shlyukha,” he hisses.

On second thought, maybe not.

I open my mouth to say something, but Sam catches me with one hand looped around the back of my neck. “He’s not worth the breath of telling him to go to hell,” he rasps to me. “Let him go.”

I look at him. Not at Ilya, not at Katerina, but at him.

He’s right.

The only people left who matter are us.

The paramedics rush Sam through the church doors, but his hand never leaves mine. Even with blood soaking his shirt and pain etching lines around his eyes, he refuses to let go.

Outside, a sea of flashing lights bathes everything in red and blue. FBI agents herd handcuffed mercenaries into armored vehicles. Katerina’s sobs fade into the distance. Ilya’s curses turn to echoes, then to nothing.

But all I can focus on is the steady beep of Sam’s heart monitor as the EMTs hook him up. The way his chest rises and falls. The warmth of his fingers threaded through mine.

“Your blood pressure’s dropping, sir,” one paramedic warns. “We need to move.”

Sam’s eyes find mine through the chaos. “Come with me?”

As if he needs to ask. As if I’d be anywhere else.

They help me into the ambulance beside him. The doors slam shut, muffling the circus outside. In this metal cocoon, it’s just us and the rhythm of his heart on the monitor.

His hand slides from mine to rest on my belly. Our child kicks against his palm—strong and alive and real. Despite everything, a smile tugs at his lips.

“Worth it,” he mumbles, fighting to keep his eyes open as the morphine takes hold. “All of it. For this.”

I lean down to press my forehead against his. “Rest now. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

His other hand finds my cheek, thumb brushing away tears I didn’t know I’d shed. Even half-conscious, his touch is gentle. Reverent.

The last thing I hear before the sirens start is his whispered “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

I love you.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, I know we’re going to be okay.

EPILOGUE: NOVA

FIVE MONTHS LATER

I feel like an overstuffed crow.

It’s Samuil’s fault. I’m eight months pregnant, but he swore black would be “slimming.” But a slim whale is still a whale, no matter how much silk you drape her in.

Sighing, I look up. The woman in the mirror is both familiar and strange. Gold-brown eyes lined with kohl, dark hair swept up in an intricate twist. Who is this girl, this Cinderella who stumbled and bumbled her way from the dog park to the throne?

But my fairy godmother came packing heat, and my glass slippers left bloody footprints. Love didn’t find me in a ballroom—it found me in the crosshairs, when I chose to dance with the devil instead of running from him.

“You’re overthinking again, krasavitsa.” Samuil appears behind me, his gray eyes meeting mine in the mirror. The fresh scar above his collarbone peeks from his crisp white shirt—a badge of survival from that day at his father’s funeral.

“I’m not built for this.” I gesture at the formal attire, at the weight of expectations pressing down harder than my swollen belly. “Your people want a queen. I still trip over my own feet.”

His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady. “My people want what I want: someone real. Someone who brings light into dark places.” He presses a kiss to my neck. “Someone who tamed the beast.”

I lean back against his chest, letting his strength shore up my wobbling confidence. Tonight, dozens of powerful men and women will pledge their loyalty to Samuil Litvinov, the new king of Chicago’s underworld. And I’ll stand beside him, their unlikely queen, carrying his heir.

He kisses me on the temple once more, then starts to leave. “I’ll meet you downstairs. Five minutes,” he warns, “or else I’m coming back to fetch you—and if that happens, we might never make it out of this bedroom.”

I laugh and pinch his ass as he saunters out of the room.

But when he’s gone, the nerves creep back in again. It’s one thing to feel confident when Sam is with me. Unfortunately, I can’t stay plastered to his side all the time.

A soft whine breaks through my anxiety spiral. Ruby and Rufus sit at attention beside me. He’s wearing a custom, midnight-black bowtie that matches my dress perfectly, as does the onyx bow tied around Ruby’s head.