Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)
Inked Athena: Chapter 40

The trail cuts through dense pines, their branches swaying in the wind like dark sentinels. My feet know this path—every rock, every dip, every spot where a sniper could perch. I’ve mapped these grounds obsessively since bringing Nova here.

And now, there’s a new guest joining us.

Angelo fucking Boyko. Of all the poor bastards to stumble onto my land, it had to be the one who’s been tracking my family for a decade.

Last time I saw him, he was trying to flip me against the Andropovs in a Chicago steakhouse. “Your father’s methods are outdated,” he’d said, sliding onto the barstool next to mine at Gibson’s. “The world is changing. The old ways of doing business won’t protect you forever. I can offer you a way out.”

Now, he shows up here, beaten half to death, right after Kat and Ilya’s latest attack decimated my holdings.

The timing’s too perfect. Ilya’s recent strike, Katerina’s disappearance, and now, a battered FBI operative materializing on my doorstep? The universe doesn’t hand out coincidences like party favors.

There’s a bloody line connecting these dots.

Boyko was wrong about one thing, though: the old ways are the only thing that will protect what matters. Nova, our unborn child, Myles and Hope and Serena and the dogs—all those lives depend on me reverting into what my father raised me to be.

Cold. Fucking. Blooded.

My phone buzzes. Myles confirms they’ve got Boyko settled in the east wing’s secure room. A doctor’s en route.

Nova’s with them, too, which simultaneously relieves and irritates me. She shouldn’t be anywhere near this mess. But trying to keep her away is fucking impossible. It’s a miracle she agreed to go back to the castle at all.

I pause at the edge of the tree line, scanning the rocky hills beyond the castle. Someone chased Boyko here. Had to. The question is whether they wanted me to replace him—and why.

The Andropovs could be using him as bait, or maybe the feds are finally ready to make their big move against the Russian mob families in Chicago.

Either way, I need to hear what Boyko has to say. But first, I need to secure the perimeter.

It doesn’t take me long to pick up the trail. And when I follow it long enough, I come to the source of the broken glass and twisted metal strewn across the forest floor.

The rental car sits half-buried in bracken, its front end crumpled in a ditch. Even from twenty yards away, I can tell it’s one of those cheap European compacts tourists love—perfect for blending in on narrow Scottish roads.

Not so perfect for outrunning whoever fucked up Boyko.

I circle the vehicle twice, checking sight lines and possible ambush points. The steep embankment above the crash site would make a decent sniper position, but the thick evening mist provides decent cover. Still, I keep my movements precise and unpredictable as I approach.

The driver’s side door hangs open. Dark arterial spray paints the windshield and dashboard in an arc consistent with someone taking a blow to the face. More blood soaks into the upholstery of both front seats. The position and pattern suggest Boyko was driving when he got hit, managed to stay conscious long enough to crash, then dragged himself out and down the hill toward the castle.

A Glock 19—standard FBI issue—lies on the floorboard under the steering wheel. I retrieve it using my handkerchief, check the magazine. Full except for one round. If Boyko fired, he missed.

The rest of the car is clean. Too clean. No phone, no badge, no wallet, no briefcase. Either Boyko ditched everything before he ran, his attacker took it all, or he came here more incognito than he should have.

I pocket the gun and start back toward the castle, taking a different route than before. The fog’s getting denser, making it hard to see, but I know these grounds by heart now. Every hollow, every rise, every spot where someone could be waiting.

Boyko may have come alone, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t followed. And I’ve got too much to protect to take unnecessary risks.

By the time I get back, my clothes are soaked through with mud, dew, and fog. Myles meets me at the side entrance. His usual easy smile is nowhere in sight.

“Doc’s twenty minutes out. My guys found tire tracks near the south gate but nothing else suspicious. No chatter about any ops gone sideways, either.” He falls into step beside me. “Think he came solo?”

“For now.” I scan the security feeds on my phone. “Double the patrols anyway. And get eyes on the village. See if anyone heard or saw anything out of place.”

The kitchen’s warmth hits me as soon as I push through the door. Nova sits at the worn wooden table with Serena and Mrs. Morris, their hands wrapped around steaming mugs. The air smells like fresh-baked bread and worry.

Mrs. Morris jumps up. “Here now, you must be starving.” She slides a plate of shepherd’s pie in front of me. “Eat while it’s hot.”

I force myself to take a bite, but the rich flavors turn bland on my tongue. Nova’s eyes track my every movement, reading between the lines of what I’m not saying.

“The perimeter’s secure,” I tell them, trying to project calm authority. “Our guest came alone, and he’ll get the medical attention he needs. My team’s investigating how he ended up here.”

Serena and Mrs. Morris exchange relieved glances. Nova’s jaw tightens—she sees right through my carefully constructed reassurance.

“I should check on him,” she announces, pushing back from the table.

“Stay.” The word comes out sharper than intended. I soften my tone. “Please. Let the doctor handle it.”

She settles back, but her eyes promise this conversation isn’t over.

The kitchen door swings open and Myles’s expression tells me everything I need to know before he opens his mouth. “Doc’s here. Wants a word.”

Nova pushes her chair back, but I rest my hand on her shoulder. “Stay. I’ll fill you in soon.”

Her eyes narrow. She hates being left out, but right now, ignorance might save her life. Serena—bless her heart—asks Nova to help her brew more tea.

Nova’s shoulders slump in resignation. “Alright, Grams. Lead the way.”

With her occupied—for now—I follow Myles down the stone corridor to where the doctor waits, his lined face grim in the lamplight.

His Scottish brogue is thick as he outlines Boyko’s condition: “Concussion. Heavy bruising. No broken bones, but we’ll need to monitor for internal injuries.” He pauses. “He should be in hospital.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Myles will see you out.” I slip him an envelope thick with cash. Sometimes, the old ways are still the best ways.

The sitting room is dim when I enter, lit only by a brass lamp that casts long shadows across Boyko’s battered face. His eyes flutter open as I approach—sharp and alert despite the beating he’s taken.

Good. I need him coherent.

I pour water from a crystal decanter and hold it out. “Drink.”

He takes the glass with trembling hands but manages not to spill. His body may be battered, but the steady way he watches me over the rim tells me his mind’s clear enough for what comes next.

“Talk.” I settle into the leather armchair across from him. “Why are you really here?”

His split lip curves into something between a grimace and a smile. “Because your brother just made a deal with the devil, and I’m the only one who can help you stop him.”

I wave a hand. “Say more.”

Boyko leans forward, wincing with the motion. “Ilya brokered a formal deal with the Andropovs last week. Not just a friendly chat—we’re talking full alliance. Military-grade weapons. Black market tech. The works.” He takes another sip of water. “Chicago is imploding in your absence, and your brother’s positioning himself to fill the power vacuum.”

I keep my face blank, but my mind races. Katerina and Ilya have been flirting with the Andropovs for years. If they finally signed on the dotted line, does that mean my father approved? Does that mean they’re coming for the whole Bratva…

… or just for me?

“We’ve been building a case against the Chicago syndicates for damn near a decade now.” Boyko’s voice drops lower. “Your brother just handed us almost everything we need. But you—” He jabs a finger at me. “You’ve got the final key to bringing it all down. Those surveillance records you keep? The data you’ve collected on every rival family? That’s our smoking gun.”

“And in return for my cooperation?”

“Full immunity. Witness protection for you and your family. A clean slate.” He leans back, studying me. “Your father’s on his way out and you know it. The old alliances are crumbling. You really want to raise your kid in this world, Samuil?”

Nova’s face flashes through my mind—the way she looked at our ultrasound, full of hope and fear. The way she touches her growing belly when she thinks I’m not watching.

The way she looked at me when I lashed out at her earlier today.

Which Nova do I want?

Which future can I have?

“Think about it,” Boyko continues. “One decision. That’s all it takes to give your family a different life. A safe life.”

A different life.

A safe life.

If only it were that simple.

But there’s no such fucking thing, is there? Every time I delude myself into thinking there might be, my father or my brother or my ex-wife come barreling in to fuck it all up again. And now, here is a federal goddamn agent, bleeding on my sofa and telling me he’s the one who can fix it for me.

Yeah fucking right.

I didn’t believe him the first time he offered me this bullshit deal, either. The Chicago steakhouse’s mahogany walls blur in my memory, replaced by sand and surf and an unruly Great Dane. Boyko’s words now are a precise echo of the ones he spoke to me that day—right before Rufus knocked me into Lake Michigan.

I’d been so furious then. At the dog, at the situation, at this fed’s presumption. But mostly at myself, for feeling that flicker of temptation.

A different life. A safe life. Right there for the taking.

A clean slate had seemed possible back then, before I truly understood what I was protecting.

Now?

Now, I know better.

A laugh escapes me now, harsh in the dim room. “The devil you know beats the devil you don’t.” I pour myself two fingers of scotch, not offering any to my guest. “Your agency can’t protect my family from what would come after. The moment you dismantle the current power structure, every ambitious piece of shit with a gun and a grudge will start a war. And they’d come for mine first.”

Boyko’s shoulders slump. “We can hide you⁠—”

“Like you hid the Gambinos? The Gottis?” I knock back the scotch. “Don’t let your mouth write checks that neither your badge nor your team nor your whole fucking agency has the balls to cash. You can’t do a single thing you’re promising me, Agent Boyko. So don’t waste your breath lying and saying that you can.” I set the empty glass down. “Stay here and recover. You’ll be treated as a guest, given medical care, good food. But don’t mistake my hospitality for weakness. And don’t insult me by voicing that offer ever again.”

He nods slowly. The fire illuminates his cheeks but casts the pits of his hollow eyes in shadow. “Your father would be proud.”

“My father was an idiot who created the mess I’m cleaning up.” I head for the door, then pause. “But he was right about one thing: this is the life I was born into. I was a fool for ever thinking there was a way out.”

As I stride away, I feel sick and hollow and light-headed all at once.

I need to replace Nova. Need to hold her. Need to remind myself why I’m choosing this path.

Need to make her understand that sometimes, the monster is exactly what she needs.

And as I emerge, there she is.

But one look at her face tells me it’s not how I wanted this moment to be.

She stands frozen in the hallway, one hand pressed to her mouth, the other curled protectively over her belly. Her tears glisten in the lamplight, and for a moment, all I can think is how fucking beautiful she is, even when she’s breaking.

I understand in an instant. What she overheard. What she must have understood. The deal she thinks I turned down.

“You could have gotten out.” Her voice wobbles, wavers, shatters like glass. “You… you could have saved us.”

I reach for her, but she jerks away, bumping against the stone wall. The tapestry behind her shifts. Dust motes go spiraling in the air between us.

“I am saving us.” My hands clench at my sides. “By my fucking self. The feds can’t protect shit. The moment I flip, every two-bit thug with delusions of grandeur comes gunning for what’s mine.”

“What’s yours?” She laughs, bitter and sharp. “What do you mean—your empire? Your reputation?”

“I mean my family.” I step closer, crowding her against the wall. “You. Our child. Everyone we love. They’d all be targets.”

Her chin lifts. “We already are targets, Sam.”

“And I can protect you.” I press my forehead to hers, breathing in the vanilla-honey scent of her skin. “I know every player. Every move. Every weakness. But we can only win if I stay in the game.”

“That was a ticket out of this game, Samuil.” She shudders. “That was our chance to… to… Fuck. Fuck! I told you, Sam: I don’t want our baby growing up in this world.”

“Then we’ll make a better one.” I cup her face as tenderly as I know how to do. “But we do it my way. The smart way. Not by throwing ourselves on the FBI’s mercy and hoping they can keep their promises.”

Nova’s eyes search mine, and I see the moment she realizes I won’t bend on this. Won’t risk everything on Boyko’s honeyed words and empty guarantees.

“You really mean it,” she whispers. “You really think you’re the only one who can win this.”

I sigh. I nod. “I know I am.”

She tears away from me and swallows hard. “I need some air,” she mumbles. “One more breath of outside before you lock us all back in the cages you love so much.”