Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)
Inked Athena: Chapter 42

The Chicago skyline looms over me like a dark, jagged wound against the November sky. I used to replace 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, one block 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.

And another.

And another.

I lose count of how many people come to pay respects—each more expensively dressed than the last, each with harder eyes and colder smiles. Their wives drift by like exotic birds in couture plumage, appraising me with sharp glances, but the women know better than to speak, it seems.

I scan the crowd. I don’t know if it’s Samuil’s influence or my own paranoia, but I can’t help categorizing faces into potential threats. This man’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. That one’s hand lingers too long on Samuil’s shoulder. That group over there whispers too suspiciously and stares too intently.

This world is still mostly foreign to me, but it’s beginning to take on a fuzzy, indistinct shape. I get the gist, if not the details.

And the gist is that we are seated on a precarious throne. Leonid built his empire on broken bones and stolen dreams. Now, all his enemies will be circling Samuil like sharks scenting blood in the water. Wondering if he’s fit to take up his father’s place.

And that’s on top of Ilya and Katerina and the Andropovs still gunning for him. God only knows which pocket of shadow they’re lurking in.

My free hand drifts to my stomach. The baby kicks. It’s okay, little one, I think to it, trying to send telepathic messages of soothing. Sam is going to take care of us.

But even as I say it, I can’t help but feel that pang of hot anger low in my gut. Listening to him turn down that FBI agent’s offer… It felt like a slap in the face. From where I stood, it seemed like he had the key to a happy ending being handed to him on a silver platter. And he said no.

I want to understand why. I trust him, I do, I swear I do.

But trust is a hard thing to cling to when everyone around us has murder in their stare.

A flash of familiar blonde hair catches my eye, and my heart stutters. But when I look again, it’s gone—swallowed by the sea of black suits and somber dresses filing into the church.

I must have imagined it.

“Could we replace somewhere to sit, Samuil?” I whisper to him during a break in the tide of well-wishers. “I’m feeling a little dizzy.”

Sam’s gaze darts to me in concern. Then he snaps his fingers and the crowd parts. His arm is tight around my waist as he guides me to the pew in the front of the cathedral. I sink onto it gratefully. My hands shake slightly as I smooth my dress over my thighs.

“Water’s coming,” Samuil murmurs, his thumb brushing my cheek. “And Myles will stay with you during the service.”

Myles materializes beside us. “I’ve got your six, Nova. Not leaving your side until the boss says otherwise.”

I manage a weak smile. Grams, Hope, and the dogs are back in Scotland for their own safety, but having Myles here helps—he’s become like a brother to me these past months. A brother who could probably snap a man’s neck with his pinky finger, but isn’t that what brothers are supposed to be for?

The water arrives a moment later. I take small sips, willing my stomach to settle and my head to stop spinning.

But as more people file into the cathedral, the air grows thick with incense and whispered Russian. My nausea rises again, and this time, it’s not just morning sickness. It’s the weight of a hundred calculating sneers boring into my skull from every angle.

It’s almost funny how trite and standard the service is. Who picked this? Who approved this? Myself and most of the people in here have met Leonid Litvinov, and cliched eulogies about his “generosity” are outright laughable. I’d sooner have expected Satan himself to come conduct proceedings. Not this stooped, graying Russian Orthodox priest with a voice that barely rises above a dull mumble.

A slow, dull mumble, at that.

The service drags like a funeral dirge played at quarter-speed. The priest’s voice rises and falls in waves of Russian I don’t understand. The incense keeps burning. A pot too close to me spews smoke, making my nostrils sting and my eyes water.

Or maybe those are real tears. It’s hard to tell anymore.

I shift on the hard, wooden pew for the thousandth time, trying to replace a position that doesn’t make my lower back scream in protest. The baby is equally uncomfortable. He or she does somersaults, stomping against my bladder with determined little feet.

Beside me, Samuil sits like a statue carved from granite. His shoulders are squared, his chin lifted. Only the muscle thrumming in his jaw betrays any emotion at all.

I want to reach for his hand again, but something in his rigid posture warns me away.

The endless stream of prayers and hymns finally peters out. As the last notes of the choir fade away, a collective exhale seems to ripple through the crowd. No one wanted to be here—not really. This was obligation, not grief.

I struggle to my feet, my pregnant body protesting every movement. The pressure on my bladder has reached critical mass.

“Myles.” I catch his eye and make a desperate gesture.

He nods, already moving to escort me. We hustle down the aisle, dodging condolences and curious stares. When we reach the bathroom, Myles does a quick sweep of the inside before positioning himself outside like a sentinel.

“All clear,” he says. “I’ll keep watch.”

I duck inside, grateful for a moment alone. The black-marbled bathroom is freezing cold, but right now, all I care about is blessed relief.

I pee, finish up, and head to the sink. My mind is already wandering to what fresh hell might await us at the reception. The counter is ice-cold under my palms as I lean forward to check my makeup in the mirror.

That’s when I hear it—a dull thump outside the door, like a sack of meat hitting tile.

My throat closes. “Myles?”

Silence is the only thing that answers. Not even the shuffle of feet or murmur of voices from the hallway.

I grip the edge of the counter, willing my racing heart to slow. It’s nothing. Just paranoia. Pregnancy hormones making me jumpy.

But Myles would answer. He always answers.

I edge toward the door, my heels clicking against marble in a staccato rhythm that matches my pulse. Three steps away, I freeze.

Dark red seeps under the door, spreading across the black tile like spilled wine.

Blood.

The metallic scent hits my nose at the same time as the recognition. My stomach heaves. I clamp a hand over my mouth, stumbling backward until I hit the wall. My other hand curves protectively over my belly.

The door handle starts to turn.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Think, Nova. Think. What would Samuil do?

My phone is in my purse—which Myles was holding for me.

I scan the bathroom desperately. No windows. No other exits. Just me, my unborn child, and whatever horror waits on the other side of that door.

The handle keeps turning with excruciating precision, like whoever’s out there wants me to feel every microsecond of terror.

I kick off my heels. If I’m about to die, it won’t be tripping over four-inch Louboutins.

The door creaks open.

And a familiar head of platinum blonde hair sneaks in.

“Your watchdog is taking a little nap.” Katerina’s whisper slithers down my spine. She shuts the door behind her, then looks down in distaste when she realizes she’s stepped in Myles’s blood. Her nose wrinkles.

I try to speak and fail, so I swallow, lick my lips, and try again. “Did you kill him?”

Kat laughs. “I’d worry more about yourself, sweetheart.” She saunters toward me. “I must say, you’ve been a delightful pest. Leading us on such a merry chase across Europe. Or was it me who was leading you? Impossible to tell, really.”

My back presses against cold stone. I force myself to meet her ice-blue stare, channeling every ounce of Samuil’s steel into my voice. “If you’re going to kill me, spare me the fucking lecture and get on with it.”

She laughs—a tinkling sound like broken crystal. “Oh, darling. I’m not going to kill you. Not yet.” She raises her hand to reveal a snub-nosed pistol. “This is just to ensure your cooperation.”

“Cooperation in what?” I ask.

“Excellent question. First, you’re going to help me ruin Samuil. If you play nice, maybe I’ll let you live long enough to see your bastard born.”

“You really are insane.”

Her perfectly painted lips twist. “Insane? No. I simply understand something you don’t.” She steps closer, lifting the gun to level its black eye right between mine. “Men like Samuil don’t change. They don’t learn to love. They only know how to possess and destroy.”

I gulp. “You’re wrong about him.”

“Sweet, sweet little Nova.” She sighs, almost sadly. “Still so naive. Even after everything.” She comes close enough to kiss the tip of the gun to the arch of my belly. “Tick tock, though. Time’s a-wasting. You’re coming with me, and we’re going to give Samuil a choice—you or his empire. And trust me, I know exactly which one he’ll pick.”