22. RADOMIR

Chapter 22

RADOMIR

Fifteen minutes later, we’re driving through the desert in my SUV. Sabrina directs me to a secluded area I never knew existed. A handful of houses, a gas station, and a few small shops are scattered along the route, but we drive past them to a dead-end road. It terminates at a weathered log cabin, dark and silent under the night sky.

The place stirs a strange sense of unease in me. “What is this place?”

“It belonged to my father,” Sabrina says shortly.

She steps out of the car, her oversized bag slung over her shoulder, and climbs the steps to the porch. Dropping her bag, she drags a heavy chair toward the door.

“I can help,” I offer.

“I’ve got it,” she snaps. Balancing precariously, she retrieves a small box from the doorframe and pulls out a key.

“You could’ve just asked me to get it.”

“I’ve done this a million times,” she retorts, unlocking the door.

The cabin smells of neglect, the air thick with dust and stale wood. Every creak of the floorboards echoes, the weight of long-buried memories pressing down on the space.

“My father brought me here all the time when I was little,” Sabrina says, her voice distant. “He taught me how to hunt, how to survive. It was our special place.” She hesitates. “Until it wasn’t.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press. Instead, I follow her into the kitchen, where she sets her bag on a table and moves to an old stove.

“Did Leigh and her family ever come here?” I ask, feigning casual curiosity.

“Leigh came here a lot,” she says, crouching by the stove. “Mark did sometimes. Her mother? Not so much. Vivienne Dalton wasn’t exactly the nurturing type.”

“You didn’t like her?”

Sabrina snorts. “Vivienne cared about herself. That’s all. She barely noticed Leigh was alive."

“What happened to her?”

“Vivienne was killed,” Sabrina says flatly, pulling the stove loose from its casing.

“Need help?”

This time she nods, and together we slide the oven free. Sabrina reaches into a hidden compartment behind it, extracting three leather-bound books wrapped in protective covers.

She carries them to the table, sitting down and unwrapping them carefully. The worn leather matches the book I found in Leigh’s apartment.

“You’ve read them?” I ask.

Her lips twitch into a humorless smile. “Yes. And let me tell you, I’m not the one who ever wanted to give you that kind of information.”

She raises a brow, her meaning clear—whatever’s inside, she’d rather not be the one to deal with a Bratva boss’s reaction. Excitement and dread lace together as I realize what this must mean.

I sit beside her, staring at the journals. “What do they say?”

“Read them yourself,” she replies. “But there’s one thing you need to promise me before you do.”

“What?”

“You can’t tell Leigh anything about what’s in them.”

Her intensity gives me pause. “Why not?”

“Leigh has dissociative amnesia,” she says flatly. “She doesn’t remember anything from before she was twelve. If you try to force those memories back, it could break her.”

The words hit me harder than I expect. I think back to her guarded answers, the flickers of confusion when I mentioned her grandmother or Nikolas. Guilt gnaws at me—I thought she was hiding something instead I’d triggered a ghost of a memory.

“She doesn’t remember anything? Not even her family? Her mother?”

“No.” Sabrina hesitates, her expression shifting. “She has fragments—flashes of images she thinks are of Vivienne. But they don’t make sense. Honestly? I don’t think they’re real.”

“Then who does she remember?”

“Me, Mark, Tara, and Carla. That’s it.” Sabrina’s gaze hardens. “Vivienne wasn’t the mother Leigh remembers. That’s what makes it worse—Leigh’s clinging to scraps of something that doesn’t exist. She knows there’s a hole in her mind, but she doesn’t know how to fill it.” Her eyes drop to the books. “If anything it was Mark that was always there for her and… um… well it wasn’t Vivienne.”

I run a hand through my hair, the weight of this revelation settling heavily on me. I remember something about Vivienne Dalton being killed in an accident. “Was Leigh in the same accident that killed her mother?”

Before Sabrina can answer, a voice cuts through the room, smooth and low. “Something like that.”

We both turn sharply. A man steps out of the shadows, his movements deliberate, his gun steady in his hand. His face is familiar—No fucking way—Michael, my stable manager? Only now, the cold calculation in his green eyes tells me he’s not the man I thought I knew.

Before I can say anything the front door creaks, and a second figure appears—a woman with a vintage elegance, her demeanor icy and predatory. She levels a gun at us.

“Olive?” Sabrina’s voice cracks with shock. “What the fuck?”

“Hello, darling,” Olive purrs. “We got tired of waiting for you to bring Leigh to us.”

“So I take it you’re not with Matriarch Records,” Sabrina notes.

“Oh, I am, and soon, I’ll be running it.” Olive dismisses Sabrina as she addresses the man, “Nikolas, love, I’ve checked the perimeter they’re here on their own.”

Nikolas? Realization dawns on me. Nikolas Vasilikis! He’s the Greek Monarch and he’s been hiding out in my stables!

“You’re the Greek Monarch!” My eyes narrow on the man.

“Took you long enough!” He snorts.

Olive turns and her gaze flicks to the table, her eyes narrowing. “Are those all the journals?”

“Journals?” Sabrina utters, a frown deepening on her forehead. “These aren’t journals they’re my songbooks.”

“Stop fucking around and start wrapping them up,” Nikolas barks at Sabrina.

Sabrina holds her ground. “I told you. These are my songbooks. And unless you have the password, you need to leave my cabin right now.”

“Are you twelve or special needs?” Nikolas sneers. “This isn’t a clubhouse or playground.”

“No password, no entry,” Sabrina states and I’m sure she’s gone mad.

Olive’s composure cracks. “Stop playing games, you little bitch. Finish wrapping those journals and then you’re taking us to Leigh.” She turns to Nikolas and says something in Greek looking at me.

A cold chill runs down my spine. My hand inches toward my gun under the table.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Sabrina tells them and rattles off something in Greek—impressive she speaks Greek too. She turns to me. “Olive just told Nikolas that they must kill you.”

“Goo to know!” My hand grips my gun a little tighter. "To cowardly to tell me in English?"

“Don’t worry. I told them if they killed you they’d die because there’s poison on the door handle that they both just touched,” Sabrina explains. “And only I, have the antidote which is hidden.”

I look at her in amazement. Crafty!

“You’re lying!” Nikolas says, his eyes narrowing as he looks at his hands.

“I believe it was your late wives favorite way of getting rid of everyone in her way.” Sabrina gives them a smug smile. “The moment you touched that door handle, you were exposed to a poison. You’ve got about twenty minutes before your organs start shutting down.”

“You fucking little whore!” Olive raises her gun at Sabrina.

“No!” Nikolas barks. “Don’t. We need the antidote in case she’s not lying.”

"Oh! I'm not lying!" Sabrina assures them.

“Yes, but I can still punch her.” Olive lunges at Sabrina, and I seize the moment. My hand whips up, and I fire. The shot echoes through the cabin, and Nikolas staggers, his gun has been knocked from his hand and he’s clutching his shoulder.

Sabrina moves like a viper, slamming a chair into Olive’s head. The woman crumples to the floor, unconscious.

Nikolas leans against the wall, blood staining his shirt. His gaze locks with mine, furious and defiant. “This isn’t over, Molchanov.” He turns and heads down the hallway of the cabin looking for another way out.

“No,” I growl. “It’s not.”

I’m about to rush after the fucker but Sabrina stops me.

“No don’t.” She grabs her bag and shoves the journals inside. “We need to go,” she hisses. “Leave him.” The venom in her voice jolts me along with the spark of malice in her eyes. “He’s not getting out of here alive this time!”

I hesitate, torn between finishing Nikolas and getting Sabrina out safely

“Bring her.” She nods towards Olive. “She probably knows just as much as has that coward.” Sabrina glances to where Nikolas ran.

I holster my gun and scoop Olive’s limp body over my shoulder. Sabrina follows me outside, locking the cabin door behind her.

“What about the poison?” I give her a worried look.

“What poison?” She gives me a cheeky smile. “I was just testing to see who these two really are and now I know.”

I make a mental note to ask what she means later. We rush to my SUV. I dump Olive in the backseat and slide behind the wheel. Sabrina hops in the front passenger seat.

As we drive away, she fidgets with something in her lap. I glance over, noticing the small remote in her hand.

“What’s that?” I demand.

She presses a button without answering.

The explosion rocks the night, a fireball consuming the cabin. Flames reach for the sky as the structure collapses in on itself.

“Jesus Christ,” I hiss.

Sabrina smirks faintly. “Fail-safe. In case anyone found the journals.”

“C4?”

“My dad’s idea,” she says, her tone sharp with accusation.

I stare at her, shaking my head. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

Her smile widens. “Thanks.”

LEIGH

My eyes lock with the man in front of me, my heart hammering wildly. All I have to do is scream, and an army will burst into this room within seconds. But as I open my mouth, the sound catches in my throat. It’s not just the threat he made about killing Dolph—it’s something deeper, a pull I can’t explain, as though something inside me is holding me back.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” My voice is strained, barely above a whisper.

“Because deep down, you already know,” Nikolas says softly, his eyes glinting with an emotion I can’t name. He glances toward the door, his movements tense. “We don’t have much time, Lulu-Petal.”

The nickname stirs something in me, an ache that I don’t fully understand. My hand instinctively moves to the door handle, ready to bolt, as he starts to reach behind his back, but he raises his hands quickly.

“No! I just have something to give you. I left it for you once before, hoping you’d find it when you got to Los Angeles. But Radomir must’ve found it when he put your boxes from your apartment in storage.”

My brow furrows. “How do you even know about Los Angeles?”

His lips quirk into a faint, almost sad smile. “I’ve been looking out for you for far longer than you realize, my little duchess.” His voice softens, and the love in his eyes twists something deep in my chest, making it hard to breathe. My heart pounds, and a part of me—one I can’t seem to quiet—wants to trust him. Wants to lean into him.

He reaches behind his back, and I flinch, my body tensing as my fingers grip the door handle.

“No sudden moves,” I snap, my voice tight.

He freezes, his movements deliberate as he slowly retrieves something from the back of his waistband—a pair of books. My breath hitches. It’s my songbook. My mother’s songbook. Relief floods me, mingling with confusion as he hands them over.

“You need to hide your mother’s book,” he says urgently. “And be careful with your phone—they’ve cloned it.”

“What?” My voice rises slightly, then falters. “You’re fucking shitting me.” My fingers tighten around the books.

His eyebrows lift at my words, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “I’m not used to hearing you talk like that. I guess in my mind you’re still a little girl.”

“Well, I grew up living with a grifter.” The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. “ You left me to be raised like that.”

He flinches, guilt flashing across his face. “I’m sorry, Lulu-Petal. It had to be that way. Mark raised you the only way he could—to keep you safe. To teach you how to survive if you ever needed to disappear.”

“By stealing and conning people?” I snap, the heat rising in my chest.

“Not everything is what it seems,” he says quietly. “Mark loved you more than life itself. He did what he thought was best to protect you. If he comes out of his coma you should talk to him.”

His words chip away at my anger, leaving a hollow ache in its place. “What happened to my father?” The question bursts out before I can stop it. “Did Radomir try to have him killed?”

“No,” Nikolas says firmly. “A very dangerous man is after your mother’s book—and other things she left behind. It was one of his men who stabbed Mark. He’s in the hospital now.”

The floor feels like it tilts beneath me. “Is he going to die?” My voice cracks, tears pooling in my eyes. My last words to him rush back to me, sharp and cutting. “I was so awful to him. I didn’t mean it.”

Nikolas steps closer, his expression softening. “He knows that, sweetheart. He knew you were angry. He made a difficult choice to protect you, even if it meant you’d hate him for it.”

“What choice?” My brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

“We don’t have time to get into that,” he says quickly, his eyes darting to the door. “But you need to hide that book.” He gestures toward my mother’s book in my hands.

“This?” I hold it up. “Why? Are they going to steal her songs or something?” The disbelief in my voice is edged with frustration.

“It’s not just a songbook,” he says gravely.

I open my mouth to argue, flipping the cover open, but he grabs my wrist, stopping me. His gaze bores into mine, his tone deadly serious. “Don’t. Not yet. That book could be a trigger.”

“A trigger?” My stomach twists with unease. “A trigger for what?”

“For your memories,” Nikolas says, his voice dropping. “Lulu-Petal, you need to know the truth—we all do.”

The words slam into me like a physical blow. My pulse quickens, and a sharp pain stabs through my temple. “No,” I whisper hoarsely, shaking my head. Terror grips me by the throat like it’s trying to strangle me, and my breathing becomes labored. “No, I don’t want to remember.” I try and shove the book back at him.

“You have to,” he says gently, almost pleading. “You need to remember because you’re in danger. And you’re the only one who can identify the people who were in the room that day.”

“What day?” The pain in my head intensifies, pounding against my skull. My vision blurs slightly, the room spinning. “What day?”

“The day you almost died.” His voice feels distant, echoing. “The day you witnessed the deaths of Gunther Mirochin, Vladimir Molchanov, and your mother.”

The names hit me like a freight train, and the blinding pain in my head sears through me, pulling me under. My legs buckle, the weight of his words crushing me. Everything around me dissolves into cold, swirling gray. Somewhere in the fog, I feel strong arms catch me, holding me tightly, warmly.

“Don’t leave me again, Papa,” a distant voice—mine, but not mine—floats through the haze. “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to do it.”

Darkness claims me.