8. Valentina

Chapter 8

Valentina

The one thing I want more than anything stays hidden in Liam's pants.

I stare at it whenever he isn't looking—imagining the weight of it in my palm, how smooth the sheath is, how sharp the blade. He fiddles with it absentmindedly, taking it out to swing it between his fingertips every half hour, but even with such a small gesture as that, I can tell he isn't familiar with holding one in his hands.

When Mikhail taught me how to handle a knife, he told me that the blade is an extension of yourself—that it's your willpower coming out to play. If you curve your palm around the handle and hold it like it's only ever been yours, then it becomes precious . . . and something like that, you'll never drop.

Or so he claims. During our practice, despite my attempts at making the knife feel like mine , he still disarmed me four out of five times. But watching Liam with a knife makes it clear that there's a distinction between a man like Mikhail and a man like Liam: my boyfriend holds the knife like a lover, while my ex holds the knife like a tool.

I'm sure they view me in much the same way.

Cold hands grasp my shoulders from behind, and Liam steps into view of my vanity mirror. He rubs tight circles at the tension in my muscles, humming disapprovingly. "Whatever you're frowning about, zhena , I'm sure I can fix." He presses a gentle kiss to my cheek before gazing at our reflection. We look just as good as we did at our last public outing together, back in the before. His gaze lingers on my lips, taking in the matte burgundy blush that I know he likes.

If tonight is about manipulation, I'm striking first.

His mouth lingers against my skin. "Tell me what you want, and it's yours."

A million girls would swoon at such a declaration, but I can see it for what it is: another thinly veiled manipulation tactic. Behind Liam's tender gaze lies a calculating cold that matches the frigidity of his fingers. He's trying to figure out how to win me over.

I've already told him what I need. I think he's stalling on pulling the trigger.

"Is tonight really necessary?" I fiddle with a garnet earring that won't close. "I've already met your parents, and your brother Anton seems a little—" too fond of me —"abrasive."

"Tonight isn't only about my family." Liam hooks a finger into a ringlet curl dangling over the back of my neck. "It's about ours. A proper union." The curl snags as he wraps his finger around it and tugs. "Much like how we'll be united tonight. Were you going to tell me that your cycle ended, Valentina?" There's a sharp edge to his voice, proving his ire, but I'd feel it even without his words. His fingers burrow into my hair, pulling at each and every strand tucked inside the tight, criss-crossed row of bobby pins at the back.

My scalp stings even as my blood runs cold. My period ended this morning, way earlier than usual— damned stress fucking with my cycle —but I tried my best to fake it. I used a tampon despite not needing one, and I even dug my nails into my thigh to draw enough blood to leave a paper trail in the bathroom trash. Maybe he's been digging through the trash or staring at my crotch while I sleep. I wouldn't put either past him.

Either way, he knows.

I meet Liam's gaze in the mirror. "No." I have no intention of giving this man any more motivation to get me naked. Informing him of my shortly lived period would add fuel to the fire that I sorely want to avoid. But, to save face, I quickly add—"I wanted to surprise you after the party."

Liam's expression softens on a dime. He unwinds his fingers from my hair and massages my scalp. "And I've ruined the surprise. I'm sorry, darling." He runs a hand through his blonde locks and takes a deep breath. "I'm under a lot of pressure, as you undoubtedly know."

I try not to roll my eyes. It wouldn't be stressful if he were equipped for the job.

His voice rumbles across my skin. "A little love from my wife tonight will ease a lot of tension . . . and I've been very patient." Sliding his hand from my head to my shoulders, he resumes massaging my muscles, pressing tender kisses across my skin everywhere he touches.

I hold my breath as I apply the finishing touches to my makeup, careful to play the part of dutiful wife. To hide the way my skin crawls and my stomach churns every time he touches me.

Tonight. If I'm getting the fuck out of here, it has to be tonight.

"It's been seven days," Liam murmurs against the back of my neck, "and they haven't come for you."

I keep my expression as neutral as possible as his eyes flicker to mine. I've been counting so many things lately, but the days have been the hardest, each one signifying something I'm scared to admit?—

Either my men have failed to find me, or they decided I wasn't worth the effort, after all.

"Was it worth it, Valentina?"

I snap my blush case shut. "Was what worth it?"

"Giving yourself to them."

A rush of emotion swirls in my chest—all the longing and hope for a future with Andrei, Ezra, and Mikhail mixing with sorrow at their absence. Silence speaks louder than words, and the three of them have been nothing but silent for days. Their inaction proves that they don't want me, after all, even when I was going to give them everything.

I picture myself in my wedding dress, and fresh heartache wraps its tendrils tight around my ribs. A blush blooms across my cheeks as embarrassment floods my system. I was going to let them use my body as they wanted, take my name as theirs, keep my throne, run my Bratva, run my life .

All because I thought I was in love . Pain lances through me, and I have to grit my teeth to keep tears at bay.

In the end, was it worth it?

I see Ezra wrapped up in tousled sheets, an inked arm thrown over his eyes as he sleeps through the afternoon. Andrei sitting beside me at dinner, a possessive palm on my thigh as he traces promises of our future into my skin. Mikhail's wicked smile as he follows me across the estate, his footfalls echoing behind me as we play a game of cat and mouse, wherein the predator always tastes its prey.

I don't regret a second of it, but I wish I did. My heart aches at how seven—not one or two—but seven days have come and gone, and I'm still here. A small, na?ve part of me still believes they're coming to rescue me, while the other, louder part believes I made the entire love affair up. It was, after all, only a week or two that we were all together.

As if that could become forever.

I look into Liam's crystal blue eyes and miss Andrei's ocean—all-consuming, unapologetically strong, possessive as it washes over me again and again, claiming me as his.

Liam could never compare to any of them, much as he tries.

"Even if I lived a thousand lifetimes," I finally admit, "I wouldn't change a thing."

Except, maybe, what comes next.

Liam's mouth curls into a scowl so deep that I wouldn't be surprised if it hurt. "You belong to me. You always have. You'd be giving them something you have no right to."

I rise from my seat slowly, pulling myself to my full height. A mafia princess doesn't own a single part of herself. Not her name. Or her personality. Least of all, her body. All of it belongs to whichever man happens to be in power at the time, whether that be her father, her brother or her husband.

But unlike a princess, a queen owns every part of herself. She can give pieces away as she pleases in little glimpses as gifts to those she trusts, or in their entirety as she overwhelms those she loves with nothing but her .

Liam deserves neither the pieces of me nor the whole, and I'm tired of wasting my time with a lesser man than me.

I turn to face him, delicately cupping his jaw in my palm, and truly look at him. All of him—every single line of frustration and desire rippling across his face—and savor the taste of it. Let his frustration fuel my own anger and resentment.

I'm going to need every last drop to break free tonight.

I press my manicured nails into the soft skin of Liam's cheek, admiring the scarlet polish against his skin. The knife is in his pocket, just like it always is, and if I can grab it, I could sink it into the flesh right here.

I glance down to check for it, satisfied to catch its outline in his front left pocket, and take note of the growing bulge beneath Liam's belt. If I'm going to strike, it'll need to be while he's distracted.

Tonight's my first chance. My only chance. If I fuck this up, he'll lock me up in that concrete prison downstairs, for good this time, and only take me out when he wants to play.

Turning my grip into a softer caress, I force a smile on my lips. "Tonight, I'm yours."

A flicker of uncertainty in Liam's eyes shoots a bolt of nerves through my system. Although his performance as pakhan begs otherwise, he's not stupid. I'll need to be careful with how I play this and only strike when he's truly, one thousand percent unguarded. Go straight for the jugular. Or that artery in the thigh. Something irreparable. Something accessible.

I bite my lip, knowing that I could go for a very specific piece of him that I can get between my teeth later tonight, but grow nauseous at the thought.

Liam kisses me, smudging my lipstick as he forces his tongue past the seam, and presses me against the vanity, knocking over perfume bottles and skin products in his pursuit to claim my mouth. I cling to his shoulders as my heart kicks into overdrive, panicking that he wants to do this— to fuck me —right fucking now. I grab his thigh, my palm skirting the edge of the knife, and he groans deep in his chest.

He mistakes my fumble for the knife as encouragement, my skittering pulse for excitement instead of nerves.

"Later, love, I promise. " There's an ache in his voice that I can feel in the hard press of his cock against my stomach. "I'll give you everything, everything , Valentina, and finally put a baby inside you, make you mine again—" He pulls away, and the liquid fire in his eyes is a promise of pain. He'll take me hard enough to bruise, to ache, to ruin.

To break my heart when my men, the ones I'd choose a thousand times, don't come to my rescue.

I gave my three men every power card I had in my hand. Everything I've learned over the past seven days. Coordinates. A fucking map not only to this place but to every single location Liam plans to hit on his crusade to overtake the city. I gave them Riot, the one man actually sticking up for me in this fucking nightmare house. I'm more vulnerable than ever, and they haven't fucking rescued me . They haven't even tried.

I slip off the vanity and straighten my dress as Liam tries to remove the smudge of lipstick from his lips. The knife is hard to see around the bulge in Liam's pants, but I know it's there. I know I can grab it when the time comes to use it. If Andrei, Ezra, and Mikhail don't arrive in time to save me tonight, I'll have to make good on my word and save myself.

I've counted ninety-nine tears since I woke up in the basement. I won't count any more—even if I have to shove a knife down Liam's throat as the last one falls.

By the time Liam escorts me downstairs and seats me at the dining room table, Riot has returned to his post, hovering near the back of my chair as the remaining dinner guests file into the room. I'd say his timing was planned, but I had absolutely nothing to do with it. I have no clue where he went today, or if he succeeded in finding Andrei and the others. He seemed confident that he could—I didn't bother asking why—so I took him at his word.

I stare into the face shields of every other guard in the room, trying to picture the men hidden behind them. Is the stockier one behind my grandmother Ezra in disguise? The tall, lean one hovering near the door, Mikhail?

Will Andrei walk intothe room pretending to be an invited guest, or will he come rushing in, guns blazing?

An icy shiver runs down my spine.

Are they even coming at all?

I clutch my skirts in my hands and stare at my grandmother sitting across the table from me. She's staring, with the tiniest of frowns etched across her lips. I haven't spoken to her in days. There isn't anything to say to her that won't turn vile.

I can taste the poison of what's left unspoken hanging on my tongue, and I swallow the words down with a hearty gulp of wine. Liam catches my eye then, and I give a clumsy smile as he takes his seat.

"Nervous?" His palm finds my knee. "These are our people, Valentina. Our family." He brushes his thumb across my skin. "They'll love you because I do."

The dinner begins with business talk between the men and an appetizer that melts in my mouth. I don't have to speak since no one calls upon me, and I take the time to continue scanning the room for any disturbances.

Nothing is amiss. It appears as if we're having a normal dinner party.

Disappointment weighs heavy on my heart. I want to turn around and look at Riot, put my hands on his shoulders and shake him. Did he find my men, or did he give up and come back empty-handed?

"Tell me, Valentina, what are your plans for the orphanage?"

My knife scrapes loudly across my dinner plate. I wasn't expecting to engage in polite conversation. I've been hoping to fall under the radar until it became time to slip away and stab Liam to death in a back room.

Clearing my throat, I set my utensils down. Despite the unexpected call-out, I've prepped for this. When I'm not sitting like a doll in Liam's lap during his war meetings, I'm scouring the reports on Baranova assets—the ones my grandmother poached from Andrei, anyway. I haven't been around for five years, so without asking her or Liam about them directly, I can only guess about their total volume and value, but from my rough estimates, she must have stolen about thirty percent of Bratva assets from under Andrei's nose. It's mostly random patches of vulnerable real estate. The Baranovas have always owned most of the city, so it's no surprise that some of the less valuable pieces went under the radar. Either someone hasn't been paying attention, or Katya snagged some of Andrei's staff, too.

I return the stares of everyone waiting for my response—which happens to be the entire fucking table. Great. Anton's stare is the most direct, unwavering and unapologetic, and I find myself missing Mikhail. He used to stare at me like that, too.

"From my estimates, there are over a dozen or more unclaimed children housed there. It would be within our best interests to find them suitable homes until we can renovate the property. There are a few upgrades I'd like to see, and a larger staff for additional supervision and management. Idleness can benefit an individual's creativity, but I'd like to keep them engaged in activities throughout the year to promote socialization and bonding. It's my understanding that my mother used to handle the foster program, and before that, my grandmother would host movie nights. I'd like not only to continue both programs, but to expand upon them. Pair students with families invested in their futures—teach them life skills, like cooking and cleaning and maintaining a budget. Things they'll need once they age out, assuming it comes to that."

For the first time in days, my grandmother clicks her tongue against her teeth. In the relative quiet of people enjoying their dinner, the sound might as well be a gunshot for how loud it sounds.

"Those children do not need additional education, Valentina. Your efforts would best be spent elsewhere. Perhaps on raising your own instead of coddling another's forgotten child, hm?"

It's the first mention of an heir that anyone's given since my return, but I'm expecting it. What is a pakhan 's wife if not an incubator for more mafia spawn?

But what my grandmother is forgetting is that both Andrei and Ezra come from those abandoned children. Although they'd never complain about their upbringing, they had to learn how to survive on their own once they were officially inducted into the Bratva. It's a hard enough life as it is; we shouldn't make it even harder, or we'll lose more people than the orphanage saves. It's a miracle that Andrei and Ezra rose the ranks on their own, to begin with.

"Those children," I begin, borrowing my grandmother's turn of phrase, "become the very foundation that supports our organization, do they not? They deserve more of an education than we give them. They're as much a part of this family as anyone directly born into it."

"They'll work the streets, as they all do once they age out. They won't need more socialization when it comes to collecting protection fees or handling disturbances at our clubs—we use other means than words here, ditya ." That gains a few chuckles from the peanut gallery, yet my grandmother remains unmoved as she beckons a server over to refill her wine glass. "They'll become part of this Bratva, and that will be honor enough for the likes of them." The glug-glug of the wine bottle emptying fills the air, the perfume of her newly filled glass wafting across the table. I crinkle my nose, although it's more from her words than the bitterness of the drink.

She hates the orphans. Children that we have a duty to protect, to claim as our own, because their birth families either can't or won't. That doesn't make them lesser ; it makes them need us even more.

"Are you forgetting that our pakhan and his right hand man come from that very home you scorn, babushka? What would they say if they heard you?—"

My grandmother's eyes sharpen as she holds the glass over her lips. "Your pakhan is a Dolohov, Valentina, not trash blown in from the gutter. We are one of the oldest bloodlines, worthy of the throne because we were born for it, not because we stole it."

I realize my mistake as the room falls into tense silence. Everyone here sees Liam— Donovan Dolohov —as our pakhan , not Andrei Leonov, the orphan who somehow impressed my father well enough to be named heir. They're forgetting who Tolkotsky himself chose to succeed him, or they're turning a blind eye to it. And for what? To say they have a legitimate claim over the Bratva?

"The only reason the Dolohovs have any claim over this Bratva is because I'm sitting at this table, and no one else's." I stare down every person in the room brave enough to meet my gaze. I'm so sick of these veiled political moves. Let's call it as it is, shall we? "Have we shared the story of how I came to be here, yet? Hm? Has anyone heard that one?" I glare at my grandmother as she chokes on her drink, then at my silent husband .

Liam's turned to stone at the head of the table, his gaze fixed not on me, but on Katya , like he expects her to save him. Like I'm sure she's done a thousand times by now.

The real puppeteer has never been Liam, no matter if he calls himself Donovan Dolohov or not. It's always been Katya— not Katya Baranova , but Katya Dolohov. The woman trying to strong-arm her family line back into power.

"Valentina—"

I cut my grandmother off. She's said enough. It's my turn. "I'm sure it's no surprise that the Dolohovs have dipped their fingers into the drug trade, but you may not have heard that they use them on each other . I know, I was shocked too at first, but that was only after the drugs started to wear off my system." I shake my head, a bitter laugh catching in my throat. "By then, I was already stumbling down the fucking aisle—the wrong aisle, mind you—to marry our beloved pakhan. Isn't that right, darling?" I kick Liam's foot under the table. "Why don't you tell them how you jabbed a needle into my neck? Or about the assault —I know they'll especially love that part."

My grandmother clears her throat and coughs loudly to cover up what I'm saying, and I roll my eyes as she fakes a coughing fit. Her face reddens, then she quickly downs half of her wine. Must have choked on some anger at my outburst.

Serves the bitch right.

I smile broadly at our guests. "So to be clear, the only reason any of the Dolohovs have any shred of power in this city is because my grandmother still bears the Baranova name by marriage, and I happen to have the Baranova name by blood. I'll let you guess which holds more weight in the eyes of the Bratva."

" Enough , Valenti—" My grandmother suddenly wheezes, her eyes bulging from their sockets. Her mouth opens and closes mutely, while we wait for her to finish her sentence.

An unexpected rush of fear freezes me in place. "Grandma? What's wrong?"

Her bony fingers scratch at her throat as her face continues to darken, shifting from red to damn near purple. She stands, knocking her chair to the ground, and takes shallow, rattling breaths. Her eyes drift from me to Liam, her expression shifting from panicked surprise to rage in a heartbeat.

The man is smirking at her.

"I chose this wine especially for you, Katya, as a thank you for everything you've done for me." He taps the edge of his glass. "I know how much you love a vintage red. Has a bitter note at the end, doesn't it?" He swirls his glass, but puts it down without taking a sip. "It's like you said, zhena . We Dolohovs have a fondness for testing our product, and we've been working on some of our most potent batches for years. This one, I'm particularly fond of."

I unwrap my hand from my own wine glass and swallow on instinct.

Liam rubs my thigh under the table. "Not to worry, love, she's been given a special bottle for the evening. It won't spoil your appetite."

My grandmother continues to cough, a dry, harsh sound that sends goosebumps down my arms and winds knots of dread in my stomach. No one at the table says anything. None of the guards move a muscle, either—not even as my grandmother slams her fists on the table, knocking her wine glass over. The chosen vintage sloshes towards me, bleeding into the white satin tablecloth. It spreads quickly, a burgundy stain that matches the color painted across my lips.

Liam's favorite.

Katya Dolohov-Baranova sways. Time slows to a crawl as her eyes meet mine, and for the briefest moment, all the animosity between us fades away. I see the woman who helped raise me, who sheltered me five years ago when I ran out of that chapel with a broken heart, who helped me get back up on my feet again.

For that one, small moment, my heart breaks.

She takes a final breath, and with it, she claims what little love remains between us. It's as bitter as the poisoned wine spreading across the tablecloth towards me, tainted and harsh and cruel.

When her body slumps onto the table, all that's left in the hollow silence is a vow between witness and sinner.

A vow of silence. A vow of loyalty.

Liam squeezes my thigh tenderly, reminding me of one other promise now sealed in blood.

A vow of love.