Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Deep voices echo from the hallway—male, low, familiar.
Zoya sighs and leans back in her chair. “Here we go.”
Chapter 28
VADKA
“You saw her at the house?” I ask, locking eyes with Ruthie.
“Yep,” she says, but there’s something in her tone—something tight and stubborn. Her gaze is flinty. Wild horses couldn’t drag the full truth out of her right now. But she’s trusted me this far, followed me into darkness, taken my hand and leaped without asking where we’d land.
So I take her answer. And I nod.
“Ruthie saw her last night,” I say to Rafail. “She’s an eyewitness.”
“Good thing I updated the biometrics,” Matvei says with a dry smile.
“Yeah,” Rafail replies softly. “Good thing.”
Luka isn’t paying attention—swinging his feet at the table like he hasn’t a care in the world. He’s drinking milk and eating cereal, completely oblivious to the war zone we’re crawling out of. I ruffle his hair as Semyon walks in.
“We’ll salvage what we can from the warehouse. Back to business as usual in a couple of weeks,” Semyon says, practical and always five steps ahead.
“And we got word about the bar,” he adds, his voice low. “Fucking battle scene.”
We’re all gathered now, coffee and tea in hand, trying to feel normal. Ruthie looks pale, her edges frayed. She’s nibbling on crackers, sipping peppermint tea—says it helps.
“The Irish. Inner circle. McCarthy clan. Six of them. Gone.”
Zoya’s at the sink, scrubbing a dish like it holds the secrets to the universe. Her back’s turned, but her silence is louder than words. If there’s ever a poker face, she’s wearing it now.
She insists she was home last night. Finally admitted there was gunfire at the bar, she heard shots, a friend of hers was there, and she knew we’d go. That she knew the Irish were gunning for us. So she steered us away—toward the warehouse. Called everyone out.
It’s a flimsy story. But Rafail accepts it.
Matvei steps forward, drops a USB onto the table, and opens up files—photos and surveillance footage.
“Do I wanna know how you got these?” Rafail asks him.
Matvei just grins. “Nope.”
We lean over the table, eyes glued to the images.
“The Irish are gone,” Semyon mutters. “Can’t imagine even The Undertaker—”
“These men were older,” Matvei adds. “All branded. McCarthy loyalists. They didn’t come to negotiate. They came to end us.”
He taps the screen. “They had a plan. A full-on attack. On this house. But something—someone—derailed it.”
Rafail speaks, his voice low and measured. “So what you’re saying is… the ones who were supposed to kill us—are dead?”
There’s a beat of stillness. Zoya rinses a pan, her expression unreadable.
“Yes,” Matvei replies, sliding the last image across the table. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Ruthie glances down at her phone and exhales sharply the moment it starts ringing, and her breath catches. “Oh no,” she mutters, shaking her head, fingers trembling just slightly. “Not now. She’s home…”
“I have to take this,” she says, voice tight, eyes already flicking toward the hallway like she’s looking for an escape. “But I swear to god, I feel like I’m gonna be sick.”
I glance at the screen. It’s her mother. Of all the shit timing…
“Give it to me,” I say, already reaching. She doesn’t argue—just places the phone in my hand with a kind of frantic relief before rushing off to the bathroom, one hand clutched over her mouth. Looks like morning sickness has come with a vengeance. Poor girl.
I answer, my voice low, cautious. “Hello?”
A woman’s voice, professional but somber. “Looking for Ruthie?”
“She’s…indisposed. Can I help you?”
“Yes, sir, her mother’s taken a turn, and she’s very sick. Asking for her daughter.”
Christ.
That’s the last thing Ruthie needs to hear right now. I swallow the thickness in my throat and try to keep my voice even. “We’re coming.”
She returns a few minutes later, pale and shaky, the edge of a napkin still clutched in one fist. “I don’t want to go there,” she says softly, shaking her head. “We’ve been through so much, Vadka.”
I nod. “Luka’s back at the house with Rafail. Polina called in something for you—anti-nausea. You’re already looking steadier.”
She leans into me, just enough that her shoulder brushes mine. Her voice is soft but sure. “But at least this time… I’m not alone.”
“You’re not,” I say, threading my fingers through hers, grounding her. “We’re gonna get through this, baby. Yeah, it’s been hell. But at least we’re not looking over our shoulders every five seconds. If Zoya is telling the truth, the Irish are done. That threat is gone. For now, at least.”
I watch her eyes close for a beat. “Death’s always brutal,” I murmur. “But it could’ve been so much worse.”
She nods, slow, silent.
“We’re going to see your mother,” I say. “Whatever happens in there—whatever she says, whatever she remembers or doesn’t—it’s not just you anymore. It’s us. The two of us. Together.”
She turns to me, her expression softening, some small piece of light returning to her face. “Of course.”