69. Chapter 69

69

Leonid

T he Bentley Continental GT motorcycle roars beneath us an hour later, and I’m questioning every life choice that led to this moment. Miles on Louisiana backroads in November, watching the last of the fall colors blur past us. Suka. The things I do for this woman.

Clara’s arms tighten around my waist as I tilt us to a forty-degree angle, swerving past some mudak in a pickup who slammed his brakes without warning.

“ Pizda !” I curse, the bike growling beneath me as we swerve past its bulk with inches to spare. But I can’t help loving the feeling—her body molded against my back like she belongs there. Which isn’t helping my concentration. At all . Blayt. The leather of my jacket creaks as she presses closer, seeking warmth, and my internal temperature spikes despite the bitter wind hitting my face.

“You could have taken the Range Rover,” I mutter, knowing she can’t hear me over the engine. But she’d insisted on the bike.

“It’s faster,” she’d said, those ice-blue eyes challenging me to argue. “And harder to follow.” As if anyone would dare tail the Pakhan of the Kuznetsov Bratva.

The sun beats down on the empty road ahead. Blyat . No security detail, no shadows watching our backs—just us.

My phone vibrates. Ludis, probably.

Still can’t believe we’re actually working together now. That crazy mudak’s proving useful—his web of informants running deeper than anyone suspected. Three of Stephan’s old contacts were found this week alone. Suka. Hate to admit it, but my brother’s sick methods get the job done.

The wind tears past us, loud and relentless, like the road itself is trying to peel everything unnecessary away. At this speed, there’s no noise but the engine’s growl and the howl of the wind. The handlebars vibrate under my grip as the motorbike surges forward, and for a moment, I let myself enjoy it. The freedom. The raw, unrestrained power. The way the open road stretches out ahead, nothing but asphalt and possibility.

In the side mirror, Clara’s helmet catches the sun—a stark black curve resting against my shoulder. I can’t see her eyes through the visor, but the way her fingers tighten in my jacket tells me enough. She’s not just holding on—she’s leaning in. Trusting me. It’s a weight and a privilege, both too heavy and too light all at once. My gaze shifts to the small GPS screen on the dashboard.

The glowing line cuts through the map, the destination marked with a pin that feels more like a reminder than a waypoint.

Two more hours to Cypress Haven, the private cemetery nestled in the heart of Vermilion Parish. Old money land, where Louisiana’s finest rest beneath ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss. Jake Caldwell’s final resting place, far from the tourist-packed graveyards of New Orleans.

A sign for Abbeville passes in a blur. Small towns give way to sprawling sugarcane fields, dormant for winter. The morning fog lifts to reveal a sky so blue it burns. The November sun beats down, but at this speed, the wind still carries a bite that reminds me winter’s coming. Not Siberian cold—I almost laugh at what my grandmother would say about Americans calling this “cold”—but enough to make me grateful for every place Clara’s body presses against mine.

Blyat. Something’s happening in my stomach. It’s weird and unsettling, like I’ve just eaten bad caviar. Except this doesn’t feel like poison—it feels … light? Fluttery? Chyert. If this is what people mean by butterflies, I’m throwing my masculinity into the nearest ditch.

The sun hangs low over Cypress Haven, spilling amber light across the still water. The lake stretches out before us, smooth as glass, broken only by the occasional ripple where a fish breaches.

The air smells of pine and wet earth, with a faint metallic tang that comes from the iron-rich soil. The trees around us are ancient, their gnarled branches twisting toward the evening sky like they’ve witnessed a thousand secrets.

I kill the bike's engine.

The sudden silence feels like a physical weight, broken only by the whisper of wind through ancient oaks. Clara's arms loosen from my waist, but she doesn't move away immediately. I feel her exhale against my back, a sound so fragile it makes my chest ache.

The gravel crunches beneath our boots as we dismount. I take a step toward the wrought-iron gate that marks the entrance to the cemetery, but Clara hesitates, standing beside the bike.

She's wearing a simple black turtleneck underneath, fitted enough for the ride but warm against the November chill. Her riding pants and boots complete the sleek silhouette as she stands frozen, eyes fixed on the family plot ahead.

“It’s peaceful,” I say, though the words feel inadequate. I don’t expect a response, her gaze slipping past me to the headstones hidden among the trees.

The Caldwell family has money, but there’s no ostentatious display here—just a simple plot of land edged by cedar trees and sloping gently down to the lake. I glance at her again, and when she finally starts moving, I fall into step beside her.

The tomb is near the water, a modest white stone set into the earth. Jake Caldwell. His name is etched in clean, bold letters, with his birth and death dates beneath. No flowery epitaph. A bronze photo frame embedded into the stone, holding an image of a man with a sharp jawline and an easy smile. His resemblance to Clara is undeniable. Same eyes. Same fire.

Clara drops to her knees before the stone.Her fingers trace each letter of his name with reverence, shoulders hunched against some invisible weight. I stay back, giving her this moment. Leaves scatter around the base of the tomb, a layer of earth dulling the white marble.

"It's dirty," she whispers, voice cracking.

Without a word, I kneel beside her.We work in silence, clearing away nature's attempts to reclaim the stone. The lake laps quietly behind us, marking time with each gentle wave.

“Thank you,” she murmurs eventually, her voice so quiet I almost miss it.

I nod, still crouched, my fingers scraping against the rough edges of the stone. “It’s nothing.”

She stops, her hands resting on her thighs, and stares at the photo. Her lips press into a thin line, but her eyes betray her. The grief, the guilt—it’s all there, simmering just beneath the surface.

“I hated the wrong person,” she whispers, so faint I have to lean closer to catch it. “For so long… I blamed you. I blamed all of you.” Her fingers clench into fists. “I thought… I thought if I hated you enough, I could stop missing him.”

I swallow hard, the weight of her words settling like a stone in my chest. “Clara…”

She shakes her head, cutting me off. “I was wrong. I know that now. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jake.” Her voice cracks, and she presses a hand to her mouth as the tears come. “It wasn’t him. Leonid didn’t do it. It was Stephan. It was always Stephan.”

Her sobs are soft at first, but they build, and I can’t take it anymore.

I move beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She stiffens for a moment, then crumbles, turning into me as the dam breaks. Her hands clutch at my jacket, and I hold her, my chin resting on top of her head.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into her hair. “For hurting you. For not stopping it sooner. For all of it.” I pull her closer. “

“Shhh… moya dorogaya ,” I murmur softly, My dear. My everything.

Her fingers tighten on me, but she doesn’t pull away. Her tears soak through my jacket, and I don’t care. I’ll take it all—her grief, her anger, her pain—if it means I can give her even a fraction of peace."He's not your killer. He's the father of your nephew.”

Clara shifts slightly, pulling away just enough to face the grave again. Her voice cracks as she speaks, her words trembling in the still air. “Elijah has your smile, Jake,” she says, her fingers brushing the edge of the stone. “Did you know that? The same deep dimple you had. The one that made everyone think you weren’t carrying the weight of the world.”

She laughs bitterly, her breath hitching. “But you were, weren’t you? You always were. And I didn’t see it. I didn’t see any of it. I hated all the wrong people.” Her voice wavers, and she presses her palm flat against the marble. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jake.”

My heart constricts at the mention of our son. At everything we lost to Stephan's lies. Everything we might still have.

I reach for her, my hands gentle as I turn her to face me fully. My thumb brushes a stray tear from her cheek, and for a moment, the world shrinks to just this—just us.

Clara pulls back slightly, tear-streaked face lifting to mine. The last light paints her skin gold, catches in her eyes like fire. The words escape before I can cage them:

"I love you, Clara Caldwell. Marry me."