Page 123 of Inked Athena

Then Myles is there, too, pulling us both into a bear hug that smells like vodka and friendship and loyalty. I thump his back, harder than necessary, trying to convey everything I can’t say out loud.

Thank you for staying. Thank you for saving me. Thank you for being the brother I should have had.

When we break apart, his eyes are wet but his jaw is set. “The chopper’s waiting.”

I nod, already reaching for my coat. Time to face whatever comes next.

With my brother-in-arms and my woman at my side.

42

NOVA

The Chicago skyline looms over me like a dark, jagged wound against the November sky. I used to find comfort in these familiar buildings. I knew these shadows, these hot dog vendors, the smell of this air and these cars and these people.

Now, it all feels like strangers wearing masks of my memories.

Samuil’s hand rests on my lower back as we exit the private jet and step straight into the car waiting on the tarmac. The trip has made me more aware than ever of his protective instincts—they radiate from him like heat.

“You okay,zaychik?”

I nod, but we both know it’s a lie. Everything about being back feels wrong. The air smells different. The sounds grate differently. Even the wind whips around us with an edge I don’t remember.

Our driver weaves through traffic toward downtown, and I lean my cheek against the bulletproof glass. The city slides past, oneblock at a time. My fingertips trace circles over my barely-there bump. They haven’t stopped since we left Scotland.

It’s like my body longs to be back there. Back in the castle that has become home in a way Chicago never was. There, surrounded by rolling hills and bleating sheep, I discovered pieces of myself I never knew existed.

Here, the concrete and steel feel like a cage closing in.

I can tell I’m not the only one wondering if the jet has enough gas to take us back over the Atlantic. During the flight here, I watched Samuil fold his massive frame into the leather seat across from me. From takeoff to touchdown, his jaw stayed locked so tight I could see the muscle spasming. For seven airborne hours, he alternated between staring out the window and reviewing reports on his tablet, barely touching the spread of caviar and champagne the flight attendant kept refreshing.

The death of Leonid has carved new lines into his face. Hard, bitter ones that make him look more like his father than ever.

But unlike Leonid, whose cruelty lived in his eyes, Samuil’s gray gaze holds something else entirely when he looks at me. Something that makes my chest ache.

He hasn’t cried. Hasn’t raged. Just… retreated into himself, speaking only when necessary. Even now, as we drive through Chicago’s crowded streets, his fingers drum an agitated rhythm against his thigh—the only outward sign of his inner turmoil.

I want to reach across the space between us and smooth away the tension in his shoulders. Want to pull him close and remind him that he’s nothing like Leonid. That our baby will know a different kind of father.

But the weight of what awaits us at the cathedral sits heavy in my throat.

He’s told me a bit of what to expect. The whispers will be vicious. The stares calculating. And somewhere in that crowd of mourners will be Ilya, undoubtedly waiting to twist the knife of grief deeper into his brother’s heart.

Samuil swears that Bratva law will keep us safe.No blood shall be spilled at a funeral.I have my doubts. But I trust him. I trust him to the ends of the earth.

The car slows as we approach our destination, and I slip my hand into Samuil’s. His fingers close around mine.

And then we’re there. Parking. Emerging. The cathedral’s stone facade is huge before us, dark and twisted and impossibly old in a way that looks so wrong in this buzzing, bustling city I once knew.

My stomach lurches as we step from the car, but I swallow hard and squeeze Samuil’s hand tighter. He has enough weighing on those broad shoulders without my morning sickness making an unwelcome appearance. I thought I left that back in the first trimester. Apparently, violently inclined mafia funerals can bring it back.

A fine drizzle mists my face as we climb the steps, but sweat still prickles beneath my black dress. My skin feels too tight, like it belongs to someone else.

“Samuil.” A silver-haired man in an impeccable suit steps forward, speaking rapid-fire Russian.

Samuil listens patiently without ever letting go of me. He nods when the man is done. Offers a single, clipped word in response. The man bows and departs.

And then another man comes to take the place of the first.

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