Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)
Inked Athena: Chapter 44

“My father believed that love was weakness.”

My voice rings out across the cathedral. It echoes. Doubles. Triples. Fades. Though some part of me thinks every word is somehow sticking to the beams arcing overhead. That what I say here today will remain here for the rest of eternity.

“My father believed that love was shameful.”

My gaze sweeps across the sea of black-clad mourners. Their faces blur together. I don’t bother noting who they are, what they’ve done, whether they are a threat, an ally, or a pawn to be manipulated. I used to do that out of sheer habit. I don’t anymore.

Because none of them matter. They might take what’s mine or add to it, but they will not change what I have. What I’ve done. Who I am.

I have Nova.

I have Myles.

I have my child.

What the fuck else could possibly matter?

“My father believed that love was a sin.” I work my jaw from side to side. “He taught me that lesson repeatedly. He made damn sure it stuck. Today, I stand before you to tell you he was wrong.”

Utter silence has the crowd by its throat.

“Leonid Litvinov built an empire through fear. He wielded power like a scythe, cutting open those closest to him first. But empires built on fear eventually crumble. True strength—true power—comes from having something worth protecting. He didn’t know that.”

My hands grip the podium’s edges. “I used to think I needed my father’s approval. His respect. His love. I don’t anymore. Because I’ve learned that real love doesn’t demand proof of worthiness. It simply is.”

The tension in the cathedral grows thicker with each word.

I turn to the casket. “So I thank you, Father, for your final lesson. In showing me everything a leader shouldn’t be, you helped me become the man I am. May you replace peace knowing the Litvinov name will endure—not through fear, but through loyalty freely given. Not because of you, but in spite of you. Not with you, but without you—and we are all better for that. So let this be a sign: today, I put you behind me. I put you beneath me. And in whatever hell you end up in, whichever lowest circle of the fucking afterlife will take you… I can only hope that God shows you the mercy that you never showed anyone else.”

As my last word dies in the rafters, I step back from the podium. The crowd eyes me strangely—no surprise there.

What’s surprising is how little I care.

Let them whisper. Let them wonder.

The frightened Samuil desperate for his father’s approval died long ago.

So did the Samuil who gives a fuck about the intricacies of life in this city’s underbelly. Once upon a time, I would’ve been cataloging every whisper, every sideways glance, trying to assess the twisted web of alliances and brewing betrayals. Now, my eyes look for only one person.

But they replace empty space where she ought to be.

Where the fuck is Nova?

My chest constricts as I scan the pews again and again. No sign of her golden-brown eyes or Myles’s tall frame.

I saw him escorting her toward the bathroom during a break in the service, but that was fifteen minutes ago or more.

They’ve been gone too long.

Way too long.

Viktor stands rigid by the cathedral’s stone wall, hands clasped behind his back. When our eyes meet, I give him the slightest nod. He peels away from his post and floats through the crowd like smoke on the wind.

Ilya’s missing, too. My brother hasn’t shown his face today, which is fucking bizarre. He didn’t come to grieve? To gloat? To threaten me some more, if nothing else?

The hair on the back of my neck rises. Something’s wrong. Everything inside me screams to tear through this place looking for Nova, but I force myself to stay put. To keep playing my role.

Mourners approach with hollow condolences. I accept their words with practiced grace while tracking Viktor’s progress through my peripheral vision. He reaches the back of the cathedral and disappears through a heavy wooden door.

The seconds crawl by like years.

A muffled sound echoes from somewhere deep in the building. Could be nothing. Could be everything.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to check. One word from Viktor:

Hurry.

I’m moving before I finish reading, shouldering past the crowd without bothering to apologize. If they think I’m grieving or growling or just plain fucking losing it, I don’t care. They can believe whatever they like.

All that matters is getting to Nova.

But I don’t get close enough.

Before I can even reach the mouth of the hallway, the cathedral doors slam open with enough force to make the hinges scream.

I know who it is. I’ve been waiting.

Ilya’s footsteps echo off marble and stone, each strike a countdown to violence. The crowd parts around him. The murmurs intensify.

I pivot slowly, letting my brother see exactly how little I care about his dramatic entrance. But the sight of his “honor guard” freezes my blood. Those aren’t our people flanking him. Those aren’t even Andropov thugs.

Those are a motley collection of fifty or more of the city’s foulest, nastiest mercenaries. I recognize their dead-eyed stares, the snaking tattoos, the guns with the serial numbers filed off.

What has Ilya done? What deal has he struck, and with what devil? What price did he promise to pay?

“Such a beautiful eulogy, brother.” Ilya’s lips curl into that familiar sneer. “You always did have a way with words. But actions speak louder, don’t they?”

He gestures, and more mercenaries materialize from the shadows. They’re carrying assault rifles under their suit jackets. The kind of hardware that says they’re ready for war, not a funeral.

My phone vibrates again in my grasp. I don’t need to look to know it’s Viktor, probably telling me Nova’s in trouble. Ilya’s timing is too perfect for this to be coincidence.

He’s played his hand well. I’m trapped between my pregnant fiancée and an army of killers, with a church full of witnesses as collateral damage.

“What do you want, Ilya?” I call out.

His smile widens. “Everything you have. Starting with that pretty little bitch you knocked up.”

Another vibration. A voice memo begins to play automatically. Viktor, panting, panicked in a way I’ve never heard him before: “Blood by the women’s bathroom. Myles down. Signs of struggle.”

My brother watches me, savoring my reaction. I keep my face blank, but inside, I’m drowning in memories of Nova this morning—adjusting my tie, touching my chest, whispering, “I love you.”

I should have seen this coming. Should have kept her closer.

The mercenaries spread through the church like a virus. They cluster around every exit—thick, clotted, dying to unleash violence.

“You always were slow, Samuil,” Ilya mocks. “While you played house, I built an army. The Andropovs were just the start. Every rival you’ve angered or neglected—they’re all mine now. And brother… they want blood.”

I meet his gaze. “Touch her and I’ll tear you apart.”

He laughs. “Oh, I won’t touch her. Katerina will. Fair is fair, after all. Nova stole what was rightfully Katerina’s. You stole what was rightfully mine. Surely you both knew the bill would come due eventually, right?”

I just gave a speech about leaving my father as what he is now: ashes. Worm food.

But Ilya is here to prove that Leonid isn’t dead. Everything the man tried to make me—selfish, callous, violent, cruel—lives on in the second son.

Ilya is what Leonid wanted.

But me? I’m not.

Not anymore.

Not ever again.

“The Litvinov Bratva needs new leadership,” he announces, raising his voice so all of the assembled mob families can hear him. “Stronger leadership.”

I sweep my gaze around the cathedral, marking positions, counting heads. My security detail shifts into defensive formations, but we’re badly outnumbered. Behind Ilya, amongst the rag-tag hired guns, stand soldiers from the Petrov, Volkov, and Kozlov families—Chicago’s most ruthless Bratva clans.

My little brother’s been busy.

“You want leadership?” I keep my voice steady, eking out precious seconds to figure out what the fuck to do. “Look around, brother. Look at the kingdom I’ve built while you played at being Father’s good little boy. The Litvinov Group has never been stronger.”

“‘Strong’?” Ilya barks out a laugh. “You’re the farthest thing from it, Samoshka. Love has made you weak.” He steps closer. It’s just him and me at either end of the aisle that runs between the pews, maybe fifteen yards apart. “But don’t worry. I’ll take good care of everything—your company, your woman, your child. After all, what kind of uncle would I be if I didn’t?”

My hands curl into fists. Every instinct screams at me to rip his throat out. But Nova needs me thinking clearly. Strategic.

I force myself to breathe. To focus.

Because my brother’s about to learn exactly what kind of strength love can give a man.

What Ilya doesn’t see—what he can’t see—is that there is no point in burning down an empire just to rule over the ashes. He thinks he can rip this from me and make it his own.

But it’s a heart, a beating, pulsing heart—and he doesn’t know the first fucking thing about how to nurture life.

The proof is in the pudding. We came here today under a sacred agreement: no blood is to be spilled on the day of a funeral. For generations, that rule has held firm.

And now, Ilya spits on it.

I look around at all the men whom he convinced to spit on it with him. Dmitri Petrov, Aleskandr Volkov, Ivan Kozlov, all battle-tested pakhans in their own right… they’ve all thrown their lot in with this rabid, flea-bitten dog? Why?

I meet Dmitri’s eyes. His mouth is a grim, unreadable slash, but there’s a glimmer of… something in his eyes. Understanding, maybe.

Or regret.

Because he knows what I’m just now realizing—Ilya didn’t convince these men to join him. He found a way to force their hands. The question is, how?

“What did you promise them, brother?” I swallow grimly. “What kind of leverage did you need to make the great families bow to a spoiled child throwing a tantrum?”

Ilya’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second. “I promised them freedom from the old ways. From dusty traditions that hold us back.”

And there it is. The truth, laid bare in my brother’s burning eyes. He doesn’t want to rule the Bratva—he wants to destroy it. To reduce centuries of culture and connection to rubble, just so he can plant his flag in the wreckage.

I nod, meet Ilya’s gaze, and smile. “Then let’s give them a show, little brother.”

My timing is impeccable.

Not that I intended it as such.

The last syllable of “little brother” has scarcely left my lips before the rear wall of the cathedral implodes.

Fountains of dust and debris erupt. Two dozen of Ilya’s mercenaries are promptly trampled beneath a herd of FBI agents in SWAT gear. Riot shields, batons held high, all of them dripped head to toe in the government’s finest battle armor.

Gunfire drowns out screams. Smoke grenades hiss and pop. The cathedral becomes a war zone of ricocheting bullets and shattering marble.

But I barely register any of it. My world has contracted to two singular points:

The bathroom.

And my brother’s face as he stalks toward me through the chaos, lips pulled back in a rictus of rage.

I can’t face both. Time slows to a crawl as I weigh my options, each heartbeat an eternity of indecision.

Nova.

Ilya.

Hope.

Heartache.

My future or my past.

Love or vengeance.

In the end, it’s simple. If I let my brother walk away now, he’ll keep coming. He’ll never stop until Nova and our child are dead.

But if I abandon her…

… then there’s nothing left worth fighting for.

So I turn and run. I carve through the mayhem, each step precise and measured despite the bullets whizzing past my head. The cathedral’s sacred silence has shattered into a hellscape of screams and gunfire.

But all I hear is the steady thump of my own pulse.

I see Viktor standing at the end of the hall. He signals me and I close the gap to him.

I reach the bathroom door just as Katerina’s voice rises to a fever pitch inside. “You stupid little bitch! You think he loves you? You think you’re special?”

Nova’s response is quieter but steady as stone. “I think you’re in trouble, Katerina. Let me help you before⁠—”

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

Something crashes. Glass shatters. My finger tightens on the trigger as I ease closer to the door.

Nova speaks again, her tone deliberately soothing. “The baby’s kicking. Would you like to feel? It might be your last chance to touch something pure.”

Clever girl. She’s buying time, keeping Katerina distracted. But there’s an edge of exhaustion in her voice that sets my teeth on edge.

We need to end this. Now.

I catch Viktor’s eye and gesture toward the hinges. He nods once, understanding perfectly. We’ve done this dance before.

He positions himself to breach while I align my sights with where Katerina’s head should be, based on the acoustics of her voice.

One clean shot. That’s all I need.

But first, I have to make absolutely certain Nova’s clear of the line of fire.

I draw breath to call out to her.

Three.

Two.

One.

Viktor kicks the door.

I charge in.

“Hello, little mouse.”