Page 38 of Unforgiving Saint (Starukhin Bratva)

“Others will,” he scoffs. “Others already are. You were with me at Sorokin’s. Do you realize what those men must think now?”

The moment separates us with uncertainty. We both know there’s no other solution, and the consequences will worsen if we don’t act severely. I can’t imagine what will happen if those men are involved, and I don’t want to.

I reach for Nikolai as if to shake sense into him. “If there’s even the slightest chance that I can convince him to stop, don’t you think it’s worth trying?”

“He won’t believe you, Eden.” The intensity of Nikolai’s green gaze freezes me. “Zakhar thinks I’ve brainwashed you. He’s not seeing his daughter when he looks at you. He’s seeing a shell of what you used to be.”

“If I spoke to him in person and he physically saw me and saw that I’m not under duress, then maybe I could convince him.”

The rage in Nikolai rises too quickly to the surface for me to stop it. “Zakhar wants to take you away from me!” he shouts. “What will he do when he finds out you’re pregnant?” Nikolai shuts his eyes. “I’ve lost many people, but losing you … losing our child. I won’t! I refuse!”

I can’t answer and slowly back away.

“To do that would admit defeat to the other Bratvas,” he continues. “Eden, my authority has been infringed upon enough. I’m skidding across thin ice, and that’s dangerous for both of us. Dmitri Chuikov already saw one pakhan murdered at a wedding. And after promising him that there won’t be another … Do you know what happens to deposed pakhans?”

I stand motionless, staring at Nikolai, not daring to move. I’m equally curious and terrified of what I might hear.

“A puff of air and the candle goes out,” he says knowingly. “They disappear from existence and are replaced. Their names are scrubbed from history, like the enemies of a pharaoh, chiseled off stone walls. The deal with the other Bratvas hinges on me containing this situation, or else they will step in.

“This is no longer a vendetta, Eden. It’s survival. It’s about keeping you, me, and our child alive.” His anger recedes as he inhales deeply, and it’s back under his control. “I have no intention of losing, and there will be no more second chances for anyone.”

I can only nod, and no words come to my mouth. Nikolai has made his point clear: I will never ask to speak to my father again, and there will be no truce between them.

From the beginning, Nikolai has stated he will protect me, and he has. I know no matter what I want or say, Nikolai will continue to do so. My emotions overwhelm me as I realize how much he loves me. And that love has nothing to do with our baby.

Everything could end, and he’d still love me.

“If that is what is at stake, then I won’t ask again.” I step close and kiss his cheek tenderly. With a raised brow, Nikolai stares at me. Maybe he doesn’t understand, but that kiss is the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

As I leave the office, the weight of our conversation bears down on me. The unresolved tension in the air leaves me with a lingering sense of unease. But there’s no turning back. I must believe in myself and trust Nikolai’s judgment. Someday, mybelief in peace will overcome even the most treacherous obstacle—my father, Zakhar.

I enter our bedroom and pull out my sketchbook. I flip through the pages, stopping on a sketch I made of Anton while we sat in the kitchen sharing lunch. Smiling, he looks so alive with joy that nothing could kill. But he’s dead now. And if I don’t harden my heart and let Nikolai do what he has to do, others will end up dead too.

17

EDEN

Dominika descends the spiral staircase,holding a silver tray filled with breakfast food—French toast, strawberries, yogurt parfait, scrambled eggs, and bacon. But nothing is touched.

“She’s not eating?” I ask, staring at the heavy tray.

Dominika’s expression betrays not a single emotion. “She says she doesn’t want it.”

I pick up the bowl of strawberries and yogurt parfait and make my way up the stairs. “She has to eat something.”

A corner of Dominika’s lips twitches ever so slightly as she calls out after me, “Wielding authority may seem easy at first,koshka, but using it is hard—especially when you realize there are consequences for every action you take.”

The Kuzma Fedorov painting, stacks of art books, and plush high-end furniture clash in a conflicting environment—one with tension and luxury intertwined as I enter my old room. Dressed in my jeans, Mercy sits in a chair by the window, her face set inan expression of anger and hurt. Her hostile glare overpowers the room’s lavish wealth.

“Mercy,” I speak cautiously. “You didn’t eat anything?”

She waves her hand impatiently as if to swat away my annoying concern. “Stop it, Edie.”

My newfound courage is cut short by a dirty look as I place the food on the small table near her chair. “Mercy, it’s dangerous,” I try to reason with her. “The other Bratvas may blame?—”

“Save it,” she says coldly. “You made your choice, and now I’m paying the price.”

A little frustration turns into spiteful anger. “You know what we are, Mercy. You’ve known longer than me. Did you really expect none of it would touch you? Look at me. My father did everything to keep me in the dark, and I’ve been shoved right into the spotlight.” I take a deep breath. “Mercy, I’m sorry, but it could’ve been much worse.”

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