Page 130 of Inked Athena

The seconds crawl by like years.

A muffled sound echoes from somewhere deep in the building. Could be nothing. Could be everything.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to check. One word from Viktor:

Hurry.

I’m moving before I finish reading, shouldering past the crowd without bothering to apologize. If they think I’m grieving or growling or just plain fucking losing it, I don’t care. They can believe whatever they like.

All that matters is getting to Nova.

But I don’t get close enough.

Before I can even reach the mouth of the hallway, the cathedral doors slam open with enough force to make the hinges scream.

I know who it is. I’ve been waiting.

Ilya’s footsteps echo off marble and stone, each strike a countdown to violence. The crowd parts around him. The murmurs intensify.

I pivot slowly, letting my brother see exactly how little I care about his dramatic entrance. But the sight of his “honor guard” freezes my blood. Those aren’t our people flanking him. Those aren’t even Andropov thugs.

Those are a motley collection of fifty or more of the city’s foulest, nastiest mercenaries. I recognize their dead-eyed stares, the snaking tattoos, the guns with the serial numbers filed off.

What has Ilya done? What deal has he struck, and with what devil? What price did he promise to pay?

“Such a beautiful eulogy, brother.” Ilya’s lips curl into that familiar sneer. “You always did have a way with words. But actions speak louder, don’t they?”

He gestures, and more mercenaries materialize from the shadows. They’re carrying assault rifles under their suit jackets. The kind of hardware that says they’re ready for war, not a funeral.

My phone vibrates again in my grasp. I don’t need to look to know it’s Viktor, probably telling me Nova’s in trouble. Ilya’s timing is too perfect for this to be coincidence.

He’s played his hand well. I’m trapped between my pregnant fiancée and an army of killers, with a church full of witnesses as collateral damage.

“What do you want, Ilya?” I call out.

His smile widens. “Everything you have. Starting with that pretty little bitch you knocked up.”

Another vibration. A voice memo begins to play automatically. Viktor, panting, panicked in a way I’ve never heard himbefore: “Blood by the women’s bathroom. Myles down. Signs of struggle.”

My brother watches me, savoring my reaction. I keep my face blank, but inside, I’m drowning in memories of Nova this morning—adjusting my tie, touching my chest, whispering, “I love you.”

I should have seen this coming. Should have kept her closer.

The mercenaries spread through the church like a virus. They cluster around every exit—thick, clotted, dying to unleash violence.

“You always were slow, Samuil,” Ilya mocks. “While you played house, I built an army. The Andropovs were just the start. Every rival you’ve angered or neglected—they’re all mine now. And brother… they wantblood.”

I meet his gaze. “Touch her and I’ll tear you apart.”

He laughs. “Oh,Iwon’t touch her. Katerina will. Fair is fair, after all. Nova stole what was rightfully Katerina’s. You stole what was rightfully mine. Surely you both knew the bill would come due eventually, right?”

I just gave a speech about leaving my father as what he is now: ashes. Worm food.

But Ilya is here to prove that Leonid isn’t dead. Everything the man tried to make me—selfish, callous, violent, cruel—lives on in the second son.

Ilya is what Leonid wanted.

But me? I’m not.

---