Page 99 of Obsessive Vows

"Sofia will never know you," I say, the words emerging with clarity that surprises even me. "Your granddaughter will grow up without the shadow of your methods or the weight of your legacy. She'll be stronger than I ever was, because she'll be free of you."

Something shifts in his expression—genuine pain breaking through the predator's mask. His hands flex against the polished desk, knuckles white with tension.

"You think he'll give her freedom?" He nods toward Viktor, desperation edging into his voice. "You think the son of a destroyed family, obsessed with vengeance for years, will simply forget who she is? What blood runs in her veins? He'll use her against me, against everything we've built. Just as he used you."

I feel Viktor tense behind me, but he remains silent, allowing this to be my battle.

"He didn't use me." The truth emerges unbidden, surprising in its simplicity. "He found me. The real me, beneath everything you built to control me. And together, we found something worth protecting beyond empires or vengeance or power."

"Love?" My father almost laughs, genuine amusement breaking through tension. "How disappointingly ordinary, Nastya. I expected better from you."

"Not love." The word feels insufficient for what binds me to Viktor, to Sofia. "Family. Something you twisted into control, into ownership. Something we're reclaiming."

The facility shudders violently, concrete dust filtering from the ceiling as support structures continue failing beneath sequential detonations. Yet none of us move, locked in this final confrontation that transcends physical danger.

"Still such a child," my father says, genuine sadness coloring his words. "Believing in fairy tales of family rather than the reality of power. When did I fail to teach you properly, Nastya? When did you become so blind to how our world functions?"

"When I became a mother," I answer with sudden clarity. "When I held my daughter and realized what real protection means. Not control disguised as safety. Not terror disguised as education. Just love, without condition. Without agenda."

He shakes his head, disappointment evident. "Then I've truly failed you. And you will lose everything I built."

"No." I step closer to his desk, feeling Viktor's tension behind me but proceeding anyway. "I'll build something better from its ashes. Something Sofia can inherit without shame."

"Together with your Baranov?" His smile holds no warmth, only cruelty. "Tell me, Anastasia, has he shared what happens after my elimination? The complete destruction planned for Markov operations? The arrests already coordinated? The assets already seized? You and the child are merely convenient complications in his vengeance."

I don't look at Viktor, don't need to. "I know exactly what he planned. I've seen the evidence, the network, the years of preparation. I also know what we've built since—the alternative to mindless destruction."

His eyes narrow. "So, not just lovers but true partners. Planning my replacement rather than my demise." His laugh holds genuine appreciation. "Perhaps I didn't fail you entirely."

His hand moves beneath the desk—the gesture I've been anticipating since entering the room. Combat readiness surges as Viktor responds automatically beside me, weapon appearing out of nowhere.

"Stop," I command, hand raising toward Viktor without looking away from the man I once called “father.”

"This isn't your burden to carry," I say.

The small blade—concealed within my clothing throughout capture and interrogation—feels cool against my palm as I extract it with practiced movement my father taught years ago. The irony doesn't escape me as I step forward, positioning myself between Viktor and the man who shaped me through terror and controlled exposure to violence.

"You wouldn't," my father says, genuine surprise breaking through arrogance. "Your own blood, Nastya. The only family you have."

"Not anymore." I move with speed that confirms the strength of my resolve. The blade finds its target with precision that would make my father proud in other circumstances—the carotid artery that pumps blood to brain.

"This isn't for Viktor," I whisper as the blade penetrates flesh with disturbing ease, warm blood spilling over my fingers. "This is for my mother. For my daughter. For myself."

His eyes widen with genuine shock, disbelief transcending pain as his once perfectly manipulated daughter delivers his execution with a coldness that mirrors his own methodical violence. The weapon falls from his suddenly nerveless fingers, bullet never leaving chamber.

"You taught me well,Father," I hiss. My voice stays steady despite the tears tracking silently down my cheeks as blood pulses between my fingers. "Always eliminate threats completely. No hesitation. No mercy. Family business above personal sentiment."

He tries to speak, but blood fills his throat, words dying unformed on his lips. His hand reaches for mine—whether in anger or forgiveness, I'll never know. I hold his gaze as the light fades from his eyes, the only father I've ever known dying by my hand.

When it's over, Viktor moves forward, his hand gentle on my shoulder. "It's done," he says simply, no triumph in his voice despite the vengeance years in the making. Just understanding of the weight I now carry.

"It's just beginning," I reply, stepping away from my father's body, from the desk where he ruled for decades. "The Bratva will be in chaos. We need to move quickly."

As if summoned by my words, the door opens to reveal Nikolai Sokolov, Viktor's cousin and our unexpected ally in tonight's operation. "The captains are assembled," he announces, careful not to look directly at my father's body. "As tradition requires for transfer of power."

Three hours later, I stand beside Viktor in the grand hall of the Markov estate, my father's blood still under my fingernails despite attempts to wash it away. Before us kneels Yuri Petrov, my father's most loyal captain, head bowed in the traditional gesture of fealty.

"The Petrov family recognizes Anastasia Markova and Viktor Baranov as rightful heirs to the Markov empire," he intones, the words bitter on his tongue but necessary for survival. "Our loyalty is pledged until death."

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