Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)
Inked Athena: Chapter 41

The screens covering my war room’s walls show my father’s empire dripping in red.

Casualties. Compromised assets. Security breaches.

Each alert represents another crack in the foundation that Leonid Litvinov spent fifty years building. I’ve been staring at these screens for hours, watching dominoes fall, calculating moves and countermoves until my vision blurs.

I glance out of one window. A black Range Rover is exiting the grounds. I know that in the back of it sits Angelo Boyko, bandaged like a fucking mummy and accompanied only by what little he brought in his pockets, the Glock I found in his car, and my refusal of his deal.

Good fucking riddance.

I check the other window, the one with a view into the library. The room is dark. The fireplace is cold. The couch is empty. No Nova sitting alongside Hope, laughing and oohing and ahhing over bodice ripper romance novels.

The women are in their respective rooms, and I can practically feel the icy chill of Nova’s mood rippling throughout the castle air.

She might as well be standing behind me, whispering her last words in my ear again and again.

I need some air. One more breath of outside before you lock us all back in the cages you love so much.

I had a nightmare in the few short hours I slept last night. Nova, on the other side of a veil I couldn’t reach through, gasping and choking as the oxygen drained from her lungs.

I couldn’t save her, no matter how hard I tried.

I wrench my attention back to the screens. It’s a bloodbath in every corner of the Litvinov territory. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get an upper hand anywhere. Katerina and Ilya, backed by the might and reach of the Andropovs and with a sizable head start, are too much to overcome.

Myles raps his knuckles on the cracked door. When I nod, he slips in and shuts it behind him. There’s a sheaf of papers in his hand.

“Check it out.” Myles tosses a photo onto my desk. “Surveillance caught this at Heathrow two hours ago.”

My throat tightens. The grainy image shows my father’s unmistakable profile, his broad shoulders stooped with age. And next to him—a baseball cap pulled low, but I’d know that arrogant strut anywhere.

Ilya.

“Facial recognition to confirm?” I keep my voice level despite the rage bubbling beneath my skin.

“Ninety-two percent match on both.” Myles spreads out three more photos. Different angles. Different timestamps. Same conclusion. “They’re traveling under Venezuelan passports. Our contact at MI6 confirms Ilya booked a suite at the Connaught under the same alias.”

I lean back, steepling my fingers. “Father never stays anywhere but Claridge’s.”

“Already have a team watching both hotels, just in case.”

The pieces click into place. Ilya choosing London—taunting me by being close enough to strike and yet utterly untouchable. Taking Father there when he should be resting at his dacha. The synchronized attacks across my holdings.

“He’s making his move.” I stand, energy thrumming through my veins. “Get Vladimir and his crew on the next flight to England. I want our best hunters on this.”

“And you?”

“Have a chopper ready in thirty.” I check my watch. “But I need ten minutes with Nova first.”

Myles nods and heads for the door, then pauses. “Sam. What if this is another trap?”

“Then we spring it.” I bare my teeth in what might pass for a smile. “And this time, we make sure my dear brother doesn’t walk away.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “You’re sure?”

“He threatened my family, Myles. He threatened us.” I clear my throat. “There are no more questions left worth asking.”

My best friend shifts his weight from foot to foot, exhaling wearily. His face is drawn long and haggard, bags under his eyes looking bigger and grayer than I’ve ever seen them before. “This goes without saying, but Nova’s already worried sick about⁠—”

“Nova is—” Her name catches in my throat. In my mind’s eye, I see her standing in the doorway earlier, belly peeking out from beneath the hem of her shirt, eyes wide with fear when I ordered her out.

The cages you love so much.

I shake my head. “Don’t talk to me about Nova. Nova needs me to end this. Now. Before our child is born into a world where Ilya can reach them.”

“Copy that.” Myles pulls out his phone. “I’ll tell Vlad to bring down the⁠—”

My phone vibrates against the mahogany desktop. The screen lights up with an incoming call.

From, of all people…

Ilya.

Myles follows my eyes, sees what I see, and blanches pale white. “Don’t answer.” He takes a step forward. “Let me trace⁠—”

I hit accept and put it on speaker. “Calling to surrender, brother?”

I expect laughter. I expect taunting.

All I hear is an animalistic sob.

The sound coming through my phone’s speaker isn’t human. It’s the wail of a wounded beast, and even out here in the wilds of Scotland, as violent and untamed a place as exists, it sounds like something that doesn’t belong on this earth.

“Father—” Ilya chokes. “Otets, he’s—” More Russian expletives follow, each more broken than the last.

I grip the edge of my desk, knuckles white. Waiting. Is he actually saying that Leonid is⁠—

“Dead.” The word explodes from him in another wail. “You killed him. You and your fucking stubbornness killed him.”

“What happened?” I grit out.

“His heart. Fucking blew up on him.” Ilya’s voice cracks. “Right the fuck in front of me. One minute, we were talking about—about you—and the next…” A harsh, grating laugh. “The great Leonid Litvinov, taken down by his own fucking body.”

My legs won’t hold me. I sink into my chair, phone clutched to my ear.

“The doctors say it was quick.” Ilya’s tone shifts from grief to venom. “But you weren’t here. You weren’t here to hold his hand or call for help or⁠—”

“Shut up.” The words come out barely above a whisper.

“You were too busy playing house with your whore and your bastard to⁠—”

I end the call.

The silence that follows is an anvil on my chest.

Myles hasn’t moved. His face is a mask of shock and sympathy I can’t bear to look at.

“Get the helicopter.” My voice sounds distant, foreign. “And tell Nova…”

What? That the man who terrorized my childhood is dead? That we’re free of him?

“Tell her I need her.”

Myles runs off.

I slump back in my seat.

Dead.

The word sears through my skull like a bullet searching for an exit. It’s suddenly burning hot in here, but when I wrench open the closest window, bitter cold comes pouring in. My breath is a plume in the frigid room.

Dead.

Dead men can’t make amends. Dead men can’t earn forgiveness. Dead men can’t suffer for their sins or beg for mercy as you choke the life from them.

The burn behind my eyes intensifies. I squeeze them shut, willing away memories of hockey games and vodka shots and bruising backslaps that felt like approval until I learned better.

When I open them again, Nova’s reflection appears in the glass beside mine. My chest constricts at the sight of her—belly swollen with our child, face drawn with worry. She’s wearing one of my sweaters, the sleeves rolled up four times to free her hands.

I brace for her lecture about the FBI’s offer. About how we could be free of all this, if I’d just take their deal.

But she doesn’t speak. Instead, her small hand slides into mine, fingers threading through my own. Her other palm presses against my back, right between my shoulder blades, and starts moving in slow circles.

The gesture is so tender, so Nova, that something inside me cracks. I turn and pull her close, burying my face in her hair. She smells like lavender and safety and home.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers against my chest. “About your father. About earlier. About all of it.”

I tighten my grip. Probably too hard, but she doesn’t complain. Just keeps rubbing my back. Keeps holding on.

Maybe dead men can’t give closure. But living women—the right ones—can give something better.

They can give grace.

It’s a while before anyone speaks. Nova is the one to break the silence.

“What happens now?”

I stroke her hair. “There will be a funeral in Chicago. Three days from now.”

She stiffens. “Chicago? But that’s⁠—”

“Neutral ground. Sacred ground, by Bratva law.” My jaw clenches. “No blood can be spilled at a patriarch’s funeral. Even Ilya will honor that.”

Nova pulls back, searching my face with those gold-flecked eyes that see too much. “And after the funeral?”

“What comes after doesn’t matter yet,” I whisper. “All that matters is paying proper respects. Making the right moves. Showing strength.”

“It sounds like another game.” Her voice carries an edge of frustration. “More chess pieces for you to position.”

“Because it is a game.” Myles steps into the room, phone pressed to his ear. He covers the mic. “And if we fuck up the opening moves, we lose before we start.”

Nova’s shoulders slump. I can see the fight drain from her posture, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion.

“You should rest,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Doctor’s orders.”

She nods, but her fingers clutch my shirt. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Promise you won’t let this funeral turn into your grave.”

I meet her gaze, seeing all the fear she’s trying to hide. “I promise.”

But when I glance over her shoulder, Myles’s expression reflects what we both know—some promises are harder to keep than others.

He clears his throat. “A toast before you go. To the dead old bastard.”

Myles crosses to the bar cart, his footsteps echoing in the war room’s suffocating silence. The crystal decanter he selects—Russian Imperial, because Father would accept nothing less—catches the light from my screens. A hundred broken beams of blue and red glow dance across Nova’s face.

He pours three shots with practiced precision. Water for my pregnant queen, vodka for us.

The familiar scent hits my nostrils—hints of wheat and pepper that take me straight back to Father’s study. To lessons learned between sips about power, about weakness, about the price of trust. To mastiffs barking and snarling in dark, cold forests.

“To Leonid.” Myles raises his glass. “The worst man I’ve ever met. Who did one good thing in life, despite all his best efforts to undo it. Cheers, you miserable fuck.”

The vodka burns sweet and clean down my throat. Nova sips her water, one hand still locked in mine beneath the desk.

Myles pours again, faster this time, and passes my glass back to me. “And to you, Samuil. The one good thing.”

I throw back the second shot. The alcohol works quickly to numb the ache in my chest. When I stand, my legs feel steadier.

Nova wraps her arms around my waist, face pressed to my chest. Her tears soak through my shirt—silent drops of grief for a man who never deserved them.

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.