18. Valentina

Chapter 18

Valentina

When Andrei tells me that Anton survived the dinner party, at first I'm relieved. One less body to count. One less life on our hands, ratcheting up our tally of victims. Mikhail's the one who tells me about what happened in the wedding chapel—a dozen dead, he says, killed in a sacred space, cowering like trapped animals who know they're about to die.

None of them died with dignity, Ezra tells me. When they were caught, they turned belly-up and begged for their lives.

None were granted mercy.

All the other guests at the wedding lay witness to their screams, their cries, the sounds they made right before they died. I can't imagine the heartbreak. The trauma. But my men see it differently.

"It is Bratva life," Ezra grunts noncommittally, like this is just another day at the office. "They understand this is part of life."

"And business." Andrei straightens his cuffs as he gets ready to leave. We have a meeting with the team who captured Anton after he started raising hell and threatening more lives.

My stomach churns. I don't want to see a reminder of Liam, and Anton looks strikingly similar to his older brother. But I can't ignore him or let my men handle him for me—I'm part of this Bratva too, even the darkest parts I'm still coming to know.

This is one of those things I'm going to have to get used to.

Mikhail hands me the dress an armed guard delivered to our door. The tag bears Celia's boutique's logo, and the silk flows through my hands like water. It's divine—likely expensive as hell—and definitely hand-picked for me. The deep burgundy pops against my skin, and my mind flashes back to the dinner table.

The poisoned wine staining the tablecloth.

The blood seeping from Liam's body.

The Baranova blood running through my veins. Perhaps the Bratva is bathed in blood, both our own and that of our enemies. Maybe that's where the power comes from—what the blood represents. Within these city walls, we have dominion over life itself. We decide who lives and who dies, who is remembered and who is forgotten.

It's a heavy burden for one person to bear. It's no wonder my father became ill and my mother tried to run.

Mikhail zips the back of my dress with a kiss on my shoulder. "You look beautiful, love."

I spin to check the mirror and fix my hair and makeup. I'm not the picture of my mother—all golden and white and pristine. Instead, I am blood and darkness and shadow. The things this Bratva thrives on. The weapons I wield as its queen.

It takes twenty minutes for the four of us to get ready, then another thirty to load into the armored SUV and drive back into the city. I'm nervous about what comes next.

Am I ready to lead this Bratva into its future?

Andrei leans into my side and places a warm hand on my thigh, kissing my cheek. "Breathe, zhena. You were born for this."

We arrive not at the Baranova estate, but at the orphanage. Our car rolls to a stop and my men clamber out of the vehicle double-time, restless for action. We never discussed what to do with Anton. My heart jumps to my throat. Will more blood be shed here, at a place of refuge for displaced children?

I steel my spine as Andrei takes my hand and leads me up the stone walkway. The dark curtains in the window rustle, tiny hands and tiny eyes peering out at us as we approach.

No, this is not a place for bloodshed and manipulation. I need to make sure there are no doubts about this property and these children being off-limits to power plays and violence.

Our children deserve better than that.

The foyer is empty. Francesca is nowhere to be found. I assume if she's one of the seventy-five turncoats, she's already dead. I have little love for the woman, but I know a change in staff will be hard on the kids. Unless, they're used to a revolving door around here as people come and go, in and out of their lives just as quickly as they arrived.

Another grievance against my family for not doing better for these children. Against me for abandoning them five years ago.

I won't make that mistake again.

Andrei takes all three of us out back, to a patchwork yard of brown grass and dirt. There are five armored guards, covered head to toe in matching gear, unrecognizable behind their helmets. Then, there's Anton Dolohov.

I'm not used to seeing powerful men on their knees.

One of the guards has his hand on the back of his head, forcing his gaze to the ground. His hands are cuffed behind his back. Two guns are trained on him, while the others scan the perimeter.

It's not a scene a child should witness.

I glance behind us and catch the curtains whooshing as children hide from sight. "Who's watching the children?" I frown. If Francesca is missing or dead, did anyone think to assign someone to their care?

Ezra is a master of hiding his emotions, but I'm starting to recognize his tells. His jaw clenches just slightly.

That would be a no one.

The men may try to reign in their emotions, but I'm not a man, and I'm not about to pretend that this is okay. "Well then. We'll need to make this brief." I drop Andrei's hand and approach Anton on my own. None of my men try to intervene, but Andrei pulls out a handgun from the holster at his hip. I expect him to aim it at Anton in case he tries anything, but instead, he offers it to me.

I stare at the gun for a beat too long.

Andrei places the gun in my hand. "Anton Dolohov needs sentencing." Which translates to, he needs to die.

Do they really expect me to kill this man in cold blood, here ?

I glare at Andrei. He might be okay with shooting Anton in the head and calling it a day, but that's not how I want to run things. "You want him to die." I glance back and Ezra and Mikhail, knowing they expect the same. "You all do."

Mikhail steps up beside me, grabs Anton's blonde head of hair, and wrenches the man's head back. He's been beaten black and blue, his left cheek purpling, his right eye swollen shut. Blood trickles down his nose and from a split lip.

It seems the guards have a few opinions of their own, as well.

"Tell her why you're here, Anton." Mikhail plants his heel on Anton's thigh and digs in, twisting. "Why come to a house full of lonely, desperate kids?"

Anton ignores Mikhail and stares directly at me. "Looks like the pretty girl turned into a beautiful woman overnight. Tell me, was my brother's cock not enough for you? You had to stuff three cocks in one hole to feel something?"

Mikhail snarls, punching Anton hard in the jaw. The crack of knuckles to bone settles in my chest like a heavy stone. I don't feel pity for his pain, but it's the same cycle repeating. We beat someone up. They come back for revenge. We beat someone else up. They return with a gun and a grudge. Over and over and over again.

I'm beginning to understand how the bodies pile up.

Gently, I place my hand on Anton's swollen cheek. He really does look like Liam, even now. "Your brother wanted to own something pretty he could fuck into submission. Do not mistake me for that woman." I tighten my grip, his hot flesh filling my palm as I squeeze. "Answer the question. Why are you here?"

He should have run the first chance he got. It doesn't make sense for him to stay in the city at all. The Dolohovs will be black-listed from ever doing business with the Baranovas again, much less from entering the city.

Anton tries not to react, but a stray tear slips free. It brushes against my finger on its descent to the ground. "The old bitch promised an army. I'm here to collect what we're owed."

My gut twists. Liam and his men had discussed numbers, and Kravinsky even said something about Francesca and the orphanage—the boys not being trained in weaponry. It clicks into place so quickly that I don't notice I'm digging into Anton's face until he screams. Slowly, I pull my nails free, grimacing at the pluck from his skin. His blood tips my fingers. I wipe them on his shirt. "What you'll collect is your death."

I draw a breath and let it out slowly. I don't want a man who's willing to abuse children allowed to live. I understand the guards' anger now; anyone who dares touch a child deserves the worst level of hell.

But I am not a dispenser of justice. I will leave that to my men.

Turning to Mikhail, I press a kiss to his cheek. "Make it hurt, moya muzh. " I give Andrei his gun back. "Just don't do it here." Finally, I step up to my final husband and place my hand on his chest. "We'll stay here to look after the children for a while." And find Francesca's replacement, and hire a full staff, and make sure all the kids are fed and happy before the day ends. I'd much rather handle these kinds of tasks than the bloody ones.

Leave those to the professionals.

I walk away from Anton and close the door to that part of my life, grateful that it's finally over.

Ezra wrangles the kids and the one remaining staff member into one room while I clean Anton's blood and sweat from my hands. I meant what I said before; these children are under our care, and they deserve better than we've given them. I'm going to make sure they're well taken care of, no matter if they officially join the Bratva or not. That shouldn't be a precursor to their worth.

There are more children and teenagers than I thought. Ezra has a handful of the older ones sitting on two beds as he speaks to them in Russian. A few of them glance in my direction, and I catch the gauntness of their cheeks from across the room. The markings on their necks and arms—brands of the hard life they've been born into. A few of them match Ezra's tattoos.

There's no one better to guide them than him.

A little girl runs over to me and grabs my hand. "Come sit with us!" She pulls me over to a wobbly table and sits with the only two other girls in the room. Plastic cups and mismatched plates sit out in front of all four seats. "We're having tea," the girl explains, "and I've invited the queen!"

I take my seat and smile at each of the girls. I learn their names as Rebecca, their ringleader, fills our cups with water. "My name is Valentina. It's a pleasure to meet you." They ask all kinds of questions about my dress, my hair, the tall man over there, when Miss Francesca will be back, what I'm doing here, when will I be back, and more. It's an endless barrage until we've run out of tea , and Rebecca runs off to get more from the sink.

While Ezra and I meet every one of our wards, the staff member pulls all of their records, including all records of employment over the past decade. We'll pour over everything once we're home to determine the best course of action and whether that means fostering children in trusted homes or reworking our current system. Ezra calls in for more staff, and before the sun has set, all children have been fed pork chops and potatoes, watched a movie or played outside, and given new blankets for the night.

It's not perfect, but it's a start.

As Ezra and I make to leave, Rebecca jumps up from her bed and runs out into the hallway. "Queen Valentina!" She rushes into me and hugs my legs tight. "Please come again soon!"

I smooth my hand over Rebecca's hair and crouch to give her a hug. "Of course. I'll bring tea for our party." I lead Rebecca back to bed and tuck her in for the night, then I do the same for the other two girls sharing the room. On our way out, Ezra gives parting words to the older boys in the other rooms.

I take his hand in mine as we walk to the car. "Will you teach me Russian? Real Russian, not the little bits and pieces I already know. I want to be able to have full conversations."

"I will do anything for you, lisichka. " Kissing the back of my hand, he tugs me against his chest. "You look good as mother to them. You have kind heart. They need good influence."

"You seem to be taking to those boys," I point out, lifting an eyebrow. "Maybe fatherhood suits you."

The faintest blush colors Ezra's cheeks, and my heart melts. I push myself onto my tiptoes and kiss him. What begins as a sweet press of lips quickly heats, and he's lifting me into the car and laying me down across the seat within seconds. Our driver closes the door just in time for Ezra to kiss me again, harder, stronger, sighing against my lips as he crawls on top of me.

I look up at my mountain, overwhelmed with emotion. I'm so glad that he's here with me. That he's healing. That he's mine.

We don't speak, but we don't have to. We say what we need with gentle caresses and not-so-gentle kisses, coming together in the language we both know works for us. I run my fingers through Ezra's short-cropped hair and sigh as he lifts up my dress to feel me deeper, to claim me as his.

My husband. My guardian. My love.