"Oh God—"
She was supposed to be too young to remember, but she does. The nightmares prove it. Something imprinted on her mind while she sat there waiting for someone to come. Now, she looks at the world as if it's full of monsters.
"Because it is," Valerie whispers.
"Yes." I stroke her hair, the motion more possessive than gentle. "That's why I protect what's mine. That's why threats don't get second chances. That's why anyone who comes after the people I care about ends up in pieces."
I don't mention the seven men I found. Don't mention the warehouse where I kept them chained for days. Don't mention the recordings I made, or the boxes I sent to their families afterward containing parts of them.
Don't mention that I still have trophies in a safe. Reminders.
She doesn't need to know those details.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly.
We lie there in silence. Her fingers trace patterns on my chest—nervous energy, processing what I told her.
After a while, her breathing evens out. Sleep pulling her under.
I stay awake longer, staring at the ceiling, replaying the memory of finding them. Of Mila's screams. Of the moment I realized I'd failed to protect what was mine.
It won't happen again.
Chapter eleven
Valerie
The next place Lev takes me is a nightclub is called Apex.
We pull up in the black Mercedes—bulletproof glass, Mikhail driving, two more cars full of armed men flanking us—and my stomach drops at the line of people wrapped around the building. Waiting. Hoping to get inside.
We don't wait.
The doors open for us like Moses parting the Red Sea.
"What is this place?" I ask as Lev helps me out, his hand immediately claiming my waist.
"Mine." He guides me past the velvet ropes, past the angry looks from people who've been waiting for hours. "Neutral territory for business. And somewhere I want people to see you."
That last part makes my chest tighten.
He keeps wanting to be seen with me. Keeps parading me in front of his family, his associates, his world. Is this some kindof game? A power play I don't understand? Or does he actually want me around?
The thought terrifies me either way.
Inside, the club is a fever dream of wealth and violence barely contained.
The main floor is packed—bodies grinding against each other under lights that pulse like a heartbeat. The bass is so deep I feel it in my bones. But it's not the dancing that catches my attention.
It's everything else.
In the corners, men in suits that cost more than houses conduct business like they're at a boardroom table instead of a nightclub. Money exchanges hands openly. Drugs flow freely at certain tables—not hidden, just... accepted.
Violence simmers under the surface like heat shimmer off asphalt. I see it in how certain men move—predators in expensive clothing. See it in the scars some of them carry openly. See it in a flash of something in one man's jacket that's definitely a gun.
This isn't just a club.
This is the Bratva world, stripped of pretense.
