: Chapter 32

“Son of a bitch,” Cillian growls, slamming his phone down hard.

I flinch. I need that phone. It’s the only thing keeping his leverage alive, the one threat he’s still clutching to use against the Kopolovs. And if he touches that fucking detonate button…

His jaw tightens, teeth grinding like he’s chewing through bone. Hands strangle the steering wheel.

I wonder if Matvei’s noticed I’m gone yet. I saw the guards’ bodies—slumped and still at the gates—and I wondered how long it would take before someone realized they were dead. Until they realize I’m not where I’m supposed to be.

As I stare at Cillian, I can’t help but wonder… What would’ve happened if I’d stayed with the Irish?

There was a time I would’ve gladly become his. Molded myself into his perfect weapon. But back then, I didn’t know what I needed. Didn’t know who I was. Back then, I just wanted someone to care… to choose me.

My heart aches.

Cillian doesn’t care about me. He never did. He just wants what he was denied.

But I’m going to play along. The more he thinks I’m his soft, compliant little puppet, the easier it’ll be to make him drop his guard.

“What’s the matter?” I ask lightly, all sweet curiosity.

He eyes me sideways, suspicious, and doesn’t answer. But I know exactly what that call was. One of his men inside the Irish ranks. Something went wrong. I just need to guess the right pressure point and twist.

“Something go sideways?” I ask casually. “Wasn’t this supposed to be seamless?”

“You don’t know fuck all about my plan.”

I shrug, feigning indifference. “I knew it had something to do with fucking over the Kopolovs. And I figure you’re trying to find a place where you can stash me without anyone finding us.”

Still nothing, but the silence is telling.

I look out the window, trying to track landmarks. I don’t know this area well, but some of it is vaguely familiar. We haven’t driven far. We’re still within Bratva reach.

That means I have time. That means I have hope.

“Give me a weapon,” I lie smoothly. “I know how to use one.”

He snorts, eyes still on the road, and doesn’t respond.

“This rope’s tight,” I add, wriggling my wrists a little. “Starting to cut circulation.”

His jaw twitches, but still—nothing. Just that brooding silence.

“If you let me⁠—”

“I’ll fucking gag you if you don’t shut up.”

I blink at him, all mock-hurt and wounded pride. “Cillian.” I pout. “I thought you liked me. Wanted me.”

“Watch your fucking tongue, woman.”

He pulls into a dark parking lot. Industrial. Quiet. No cameras that I can see.

“We’re staying here for now,” he says, throwing the car into park. “Don’t do anything fucking stupid. You know what I’ll do.”

I drop my eyes and lower my voice. Soften everything about myself.

Then I look up through my lashes and say in a slow, husky purr, “Yes, sir. I understand.”

His eyes flare, just for a split second.

Bingo.

If he tries to kiss me, I’ll bite him.

His hand grips the back of my neck, not possessive like Matvei, not grounding. No. It’s rough. Cold. Controlling. It doesn’t make me feel wanted. It makes me feel used.

He hauls me out of the car and shoves open a side door.

The place smells like aged wood and old whiskey. Voices murmur beyond a closed door. A bar. It’s crowded, familiar, but not enough for me to know where we are.

My eyes lock on Cillian’s phone tucked tight in his back pocket.

I need him to pull it out, just for a second. And then I need to take it. Everything depends on that.

He mutters something under his breath, then yanks open a back room and pushes me inside.

His movements are tighter now, jittery and desperate.

This didn’t go the way he planned. Good.

He faces me, his voice low and clipped. “This is what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna act like everything is fine. Like you’re with me willingly. You understand?”

I nod slowly. “Of course. I want to go with you. I’ve always wanted to be with you, Cillian.”

There’s just enough truth in that—just enough of the past—to make me nauseous. I’m disgusted with the girl I used to be, the one who wanted someone like him.

“Good,” he says, his mouth twisting into something like a smile as he unbinds my wrists. “That’s a good girl.”

When Matvei says that, it burns through me in a way that makes me ache. When Cillian says it? I feel like I’m going to throw up.

But I keep my expression soft. Keep the lie alive.

He pulls out his phone.

My heart starts to pound. Not yet, but close.

So fucking close.

“If my suspicions are right,” he says, “he won’t even notice you’re gone.”

Snort.

That’s where he’s wrong. So, so wrong.

“We’re going to have to go out there,” he says, eyes narrowing. “No funny business. I’ll press that fucking button—you know I will.”

Something about the way he talks—he’s unraveling. Like he’s losing his mind, losing his footing. Unsteady. Dangerous.

He’s always had a temper, a vicious one. And when his plans don’t work out exactly the way he envisioned? He doesn’t pivot but explodes. I need to use that against him, need to needle him, make him slip, then take control.

“What’s the matter?” I ask softly, feigning innocence. “Something go wrong?”

He growls, “You don’t need to know the details.”

“Of course not,” I say sweetly. “I trust you.”

I’m definitely going to throw up.

He brushes his hand over the back of my head in this awkward, almost-too-familiar way. “That’s a good lass. Sit at the bar and have a drink. Behave yourself.”

I have to stroke his ego. The narcissist’s poison.

“You’re so strong-willed. It’s what I’ve always loved about you. Especially when you’re in charge like this.”

He gives me a half smile and winks. My stomach flips. Fucking asshole.

He leads us to the furthest corner of the bar.

“Keep your head down. Look at no one,” he murmurs. “I have to take care of this.”

“I know. Of course. Yes, sir.”

So fucking gross.

From where I sit, I take in every detail I can. He’s on his phone again—ten feet away—muttering into the mic like a dumbass. As if Matvei and his entire bloodline aren’t coming for me. As if I’d ever go with this asshole willingly.

Fucking idiot.

Someone catches my eye. A woman at the bar. She sees me, and at first, there’s recognition in her eyes. She raises a hand, then freezes when she sees who I’m with.

Does she think I’m Polina?

But then something shifts, and her eyes sharpen. She looks at him, then back at me.

Slowly, she turns her palm up in a silent gesture of… help?

Her brows rise in the universal question: Is this your choice? Are you here willingly?

I glance at him. Then back at her.

I shake my head.

Her back straightens, and her expression turns ice cold.

She leans in to whisper to another woman at the bar—someone vaguely familiar, though I can’t place her.

They murmur. Point discreetly.

The bartender takes out a phone. Her fingers move fast.

My heart turns in my chest.

Does she know who he is? Does she know what he is?

Cillian drops back into the seat next to me just as the waitress arrives.

“Two Guinness,” he barks.

I hate beer.

The tray comes, and with it, a sweet smile from the waitress and a napkin she slides across to me.

Cillian’s distracted, back on his phone again.

I glance down. “Are you here against your will?”

One side reads YES, the other NO.

I tear off the NO, smile, and push it back to her. She returns to the bar, where the three women huddle again, whispering.

Cillian’s a big man—brutal, tattooed, and armed.

I can’t take him on alone.

What’s their plan?

What’s next?

I fake a sip of the drink—definitely not touching it. It’s probably drugged. Wouldn’t put it past him.

Another fake sip. Another glance.

The bartender tilts her head toward the bathroom and raises an eyebrow.

Yes. That’s the out.

“I need the ladies’ room,” I say, my voice soft, submissive again.

“Hold it,” he snaps through gritted teeth.

“I can’t,” I say, weaving desperation into every syllable. “Please, Cillian. Just come with me.”

I know damn well he won’t step foot in a women’s restroom.

“For fuck’s sake,” he growls, firing off another text, making another call.

“I have to go. Just let me out.”

I don’t sip the drink. Just pretend again.

When he finally rises, the woman from the bar is shadowing us.

I walk. He flanks me.

“No fucking funny business,” he growls. “I’ll press this fucking button.” His phone screen still shows the app, ready to detonate.

“Of course,” I say dryly. “Just need to piss.”

He growls again, his grip like a vise around my wrist. I wince.

“You’re hurting me,” I whisper, not loud enough to cause a scene, just enough to bait him.

“Thought you liked pain,” he says, his eyes locked on mine.

“I’ve been dying to have a fucking woman I could hurt. You’re the perfect bitch for the job.”

I want to fucking kill him.

“Is that your plan? Beat me into obedience?”

“Now, now. Jesus, woman. You’re such a fucking liar.”

We reach the bathroom.

And then—chaos.

The door slams open.

The entire fucking Kopolov family storms in.

Time stops.

The bartender lunges. She’s closer to him than I am.

“Get his phone!” I scream.

She kicks his wrist—his phone flies, skittering across the bathroom tiles.

He roars and grabs her. She slams into the wall.

“Let her go!” someone screams.

It’s not Rafail. It’s not Rodion.

It’s Matvei.

His gun is drawn. His eyes are lethal.

And he’s charging…

For me.

It’s chaos.

I wish I had a weapon.

Then something drops out of Cillian’s pocket. A thumb drive?

I snatch it and shove it into my pocket just as he slams me into the wall. My skull cracks against concrete, and stars bloom in my vision.

Matvei’s gun is pointed straight at Cillian. His eyes are wild, glass shattering around us, people screaming as they scatter.

“You broke the fucking alliance when you took my woman!” he roars.

Then he pulls the trigger.

The shot jerks Cillian’s arm, but he doesn’t stop. He whips his arm around again, aims, and fires. Another shot cracks through the air—this one hits him square in the chest.

Cillian’s shot goes wide.

I scream as the woman who came to see me crumples to the floor. Another scream tears through the bar, and then there’s no more waiting. Just bullets, one after the other. Matvei empties the entire cartridge into Cillian, a single-minded execution.

I hit the floor, crawling toward the fallen woman, trying to lift her, when someone slams into me. My vision skews, colors warping, noise fading. My head… Did I get hit?

Matvei keeps firing. His body is trembling with fury, and his mouth is twisted with something feral. An avenging angel in black emptying hell into Cillian’s chest until the man’s eyes go vacant, bleeding out onto the floor.

Then Vadka is beside me, gasping, his hands trembling as he lifts the woman’s limp body into his arms. And then he breaks. Sobs rip out of him, uncontrollable. Seeing a big, scary, grown man on his knees weeping like a child breaks my heart.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

The bartender kneels beside them, hands shaking, whispering prayers or curses or both. Tears stream down her cheeks.

But me? I’m stuck. Frozen.

What just happened?

“Come with me,” Matvei says, pulling me to my feet, his voice a low growl. “You’re safe now. Come with me. I’m not ever letting you go.”

I don’t even know the woman. But she’s dead. She’s gone. Just like Cillian. The bartender lets out a keening wail, voice rising over the carnage. I’m crying freely now, barely aware of what he’s saying.

Matvei pulls me through the back door fast.

“My brothers will handle it,” he says, quieter now. Controlled. “We’re going home.”

My voice trembles. “His phone… he had an app. It would’ve triggered a bomb.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “You got the phone. You did good. You did so good.”

No. I didn’t.

“Because of me, people are dead. Maybe more than I know.”

“It wasn’t because of you,” he whispers into my ear, arms wrapped around me like steel. “This is war, baby.”

Hours later, we’re all back at the estate. The air is heavy, the grief thick, and we’ve gathered.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Matvei meets my gaze.

“You have nothing to apologize for. Name one thing you could’ve done differently?” His jaw clenches. “If anything, I’m the one who opened fire.”

Rafail stands, eyes burning. “The one to blame is dead,” he snaps. “Cillian O’Rourke broke the alliance. He was the one who pulled the trigger.”

Her. The woman. Vadka’s wife.

The bartender’s sister.

Vadka isn’t here.

Silence swallows us. Zoya sniffles softly, wiping at her eyes.

“You want someone to blame?” Yana speaks up, voice razor-sharp. No tears, just fire. “Blame his parents. They started this.”

She turns to me. “I combed through that drive you gave us, Anissa. I know everything now.”

Matvei shakes his head, but Rafail cuts him off with a raised hand.

“I swear to god, if you apologize, I’ll deck you myself,” he growls. “Your parents are the assholes. Not you. Was it your fault they put your brother up to this? No. We know the truth now.”

Matvei sinks onto the couch, his head in his hands.

I slide beside him and rest my head on his shoulder. “Rafail is right. It wasn’t you,” I say softly. “It was your parents. It’s time that you let all that go now.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. His breath shudders out of him like he’s exhaling years of guilt. And maybe he is.

“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m done carrying that shit. They don’t get to own me anymore.”

He tightens his grip around my shoulder.

It feels right. I need this. I need him.

Semyon sits across the room, nursing a drink. His white shirt’s unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“I went through the thumb drive,” he says, voice calm but weighted. “Thank you, Anissa, for having the presence of mind to grab it. It has everything—the Irish’s plans, every plot. There never was an alliance.”

Yana places a steady hand on his shoulder.

Rafail steps forward, his voice like thunder.

“I want to be clear. No one in this house is to carry guilt.” He jabs a finger toward me. “Anissa, you did what you had to do. He would’ve pulled that trigger. My men confirmed it—there were bombs, and they were wired to his phone. He was not bluffing.”

Why me? Why start a war over me?

Matvei speaks quietly, bitterly. “Turns out it wasn’t just Cillian. My parents were working with him. They’ve been playing us. Playing me.”

My stomach sinks. I still feel responsible.

Rafail clears his throat. “The Irish will retaliate,” he says. “Tonight, we killed one of their own. The Undertaker is going to come for us.”

His words land like stones.

“I’m not sure we can stop a war.”

Zoya pales. “A war?” she whispers.

Rafail nods, grim.

“This is how it works. We killed one of theirs. Doesn’t matter the reason. To them, there is no good reason.”

“And they killed one of us,” she says, her voice shaking. “Mariah…”

She breaks into a fresh sob. I wrap my arms around her. I’m crying, too, and I didn’t even know her. But I saw Vadka kneeling on the floor, holding her shattered body. I heard the sound that left his throat. That kind of grief doesn’t need translation. My heart broke right along with his.

“What can stop absolute bloodshed?” Zoya asks. Her eyes are shining, furious and lost.

Rafail shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll call McCarthy myself. They’ll know he’s gone within the hour.”

A throat clears in the corner of the room.

Every head turns toward the shadowed edge of the space where an old hand rests on the cane’s handle, gnarled and steady.

“I have a few things to say,” Grandfather rasps. His voice is frayed with age, but it carries. “Just a few things.”

Rafail stiffens, arms crossed over his chest. Zoya lifts her chin, staring her grandfather down. Matvei’s arm wraps around my shoulders.

“Tonight,” Grandfather says softly, “we grieve the loss of one of our own. I did not know Mariah, but as the wife of one of my boys, I grieve her with the rest of you.”

He pauses and lets the silence settle before continuing.

“And yes, Cillian taking Anissa was an act of war. No one can deny that. The alliance is broken. Or maybe it was never formed to begin with.”

He glances at us, eyes sharper than they should be for a man his age. “But there’s something you young ones don’t understand yet.”

He smiles, not unkindly, and taps his temple. “In the old days, before technology did all our thinking for us, we studied the old ways.”

He looks to Rafail. “You’d be wise to get on the phone with The Undertaker. Immediately. Calm the storm before it hits. And you’d be wise to recall the ancient rule carved into the McCarthy family tree.”

“What rule?” Rafail asks, his voice hoarse.

Grandfather looks at him like he’s already disappointed. “Your family took one of theirs. They killed an innocent. With no provocation. Under Irish law, that triggers a six-month moratorium on open war.”

He looks at me next, eyes impossibly clear. “If The Undertaker is the man I think he is, he’s his father’s son. That boy would slit his own wrist before defying Irish law.”

Then his eyes flick back to Matvei. “You have six months, son. You know exactly what to do.”

And to Rafail: “You do too.”

Matvei nods. A six-month truce.

Grandfather looks to Zoya. Something passes between them, silent but heavy. Something I don’t understand yet.

Then Matvei turns to me and takes my hands in his.

“In front of my family,” he says, voice low but certain. “In front of all of us—while we’re grieving, while we’re broken—I want to take the first step in something right. You promised me, Anissa, that we’d break the chain. Start fresh.”

He swallows. “So I’m asking now. Will you marry me? Help me rebuild my family?”

Truth. Alliance. Hope.

“Atta boy,” Grandfather whispers, pumping his fist.

I nod, whispering, I won’t give this a second thought. I know my answer. “Of course I will.”

Matvei lifts my hand to his lips, his gaze locked on mine, and brushes his lips over my knuckles. Possession disguised as chivalry, and I fucking adore it.

“Oh my god.” Yana chokes up, dabbing at her eyes. “You two are killing me.”

Matvei pulls me to him and kisses my forehead so fiercely that I feel it in my chest. My eyes flutter closed, and tears fall.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so damn much.”

Six months.

Maybe Rafail can buy us six months of peace. But what happens after that?

Matvei catches my hand and laces his fingers through mine. His mouth finds my ear.

“A ring’s not enough for you, is it, my little witch?” he murmurs.

“No?” I tease. “What do you have in mind? You can’t cage me for life.”

“But I can,” he growls softly. “And I will. Any other motherfucker touches you, I’ll skin them alive.”

“And if I run?”

Sometimes I like to say shit just to hear him growl.