**Chapter 7: Blood Oaths**
Monica's voice slithered through the phone, saccharine and venomous. *"I've always admired your loyalty, Viktor. Pity it's so easily weaponized."*
Viktor's grip on the phone turned bone-white. "Where did you get this number?"
*"Lena gave it to me. Right before the fire."*
A guttural snarl tore from Viktor's throat. He hurled the phone against the chapel wall, shattering it—and what remained of his composure.
"She's lying," I said, but the doubt lingered. *Had Monica been the one to betray Lena?*
Viktor paced like a caged animal, his scars gleaming in the fractured moonlight. "We need to move. Now."
"Where?"
"To the heart of hell," he said, tossing me a bulletproof vest. "The Bratva's compound."
The drive was a blur of snow and silence. Viktor chain-smoked, his eyes hollow. I memorized the lines of his profile, wondering if this was the last time I'd see him alive.
"Dmitri," I ventured, clutching my mother's letter. "What was he like?"
Viktor's cigarette trembled. "Brilliant. Ruthless. He saved me from the gutter, taught me how to kill, how to lead." A bitter laugh. "And how to love. He adored your mother—risked everything to be with her."
"But Monica…"
"Monica was his fiancée first. Political alliance, not love. When he left her for Margaret, she vowed to destroy them both."
The truth clicked into place. "She killed him. And my mother."
"Yes."
"And you?" I whispered. "Did you help her?"
His silence was answer enough.
The Bratva compound loomed—a fortress of concrete and barbed wire. Viktor killed the engine, turning to me with a look that seared. "Stay behind me. Speak only Russian. And *do not* let them see you hesitate."
"I don't *know* Russian!"
He cupped my face, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "*Ya lyublyu tebya.*"
"What does that mean?"
"It means 'stick close.'"
Inside, the air reeked of vodka and blood. Men with soulless eyes leered as Viktor led me to a throne room, where a skeletal man in a silk robe held court. *The Pakhan.*
"*Viktor Andreyevich*," the Pakhan crooned. "You bring us a gift?"
Viktor shoved me forward. "Ashley Volkov. Dmitri's daughter."
Gasps rippled through the room. *Volkov.* The name was a grenade.
The Pakhan rose, circling me. "She has his eyes. And his recklessness, it seems." His bony finger traced my jaw. "Why shouldn't I slit her throat for her mother's betrayal?"
Viktor stepped between us, his voice steel. "Because she's carrying my child."
The lie detonated.
I choked on air. The Bratva erupted in jeers and cheers. Viktor didn't flinch, his hand splayed over my stomach in a pantomime of possession.
The Pakhan laughed, delighted. "A Volkov heir, born of Bratva blood! You've outdone yourself, Viktor."
"Let us leave," Viktor demanded. "Or the child dies with me."
A gun cocked. "Or," Monica purred, stepping from the shadows, "we cut it from her womb and raise it proper."
Chaos erupted. Viktor threw me to the floor as bullets peppered the ceiling. I crawled toward the exit, but Monica's stiletto pinned my hand.
"You think he *loves* you?" she hissed, pressing a blade to my throat. "You're a pawn. Just like your mother."
"And you're a ghost," I spat. "Dmitri never wanted you. Viktor doesn't fear you. You're *nothing*."
Her blade bit deeper—until a shot rang out.
Monica crumpled, scarlet blooming across her chest. Viktor stood behind her, smoke curling from his pistol.
"For Lena," he said coldly.
We fled into the frozen woods, the Bratva's howls fading behind us. Viktor's arm bled freely where a bullet had grazed him, but he refused to stop.
"You lied to them," I panted. "About the baby."
He spun, backing me against a tree. "Would you prefer I'd let them kill you?"
"I'd prefer the truth!"
"The truth?" His laugh was broken. "I'd burn cities for you. Tear the stars from the sky. But love?" He pressed his forehead to mine. "Love is a luxury men like me can't afford."
I kissed him—slow, aching, final. "Then let me be your sin."
We reached a train yard at dawn. Viktor bandaged my wounds with shaking hands, his walls crumbling.
"There's a safehouse in Alaska," he murmured. "Enough money to disappear."
"Together?"
He hesitated. "You'll be safer without me."
"I don't want safe. I want *you*."
The train whistle drowned his reply. As he helped me aboard, a single shot echoed.
Viktor staggered, crimson spreading across his chest.
"*Run*," he gasped, shoving me into the moving train.
Through the closing doors, I saw him—a silhouette against the rising sun, guns blazing, as Bratva shadows swallowed him whole.