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"That one." I angle my arm, showing her the map inked across my inner forearm, with small streets rendered in precise black lines, neighborhood blocks outlined with thin details. At the center, a dagger pierces through a circle, the blade pointing straight down. "My first neighborhood. This one." I shift my shoulder, revealing the design across my chest. It's a crown, but not elegant, with thick, heavy lines forming a brutal circlet with sharpened points jutting upward like weapons. Beneath it, the year in Roman numerals. "The year I became Pakhan. I was twenty-seven." I hesitate, then decide to be honest. My jaw tightens as I pull up my shirt slightly to show the piece on my ribs. Gregory's name is written in Gothic lettering, wrapped in an ornate frame with scrollwork on either side. Beneath the name, a date. "This one is for Gregory. Got it the year I took him in. He was just a scared kid with nowhere else to go."
Ana studies the tattoo with new interest, her expression softening. "You really do think of him as family."
"He is family." The words come easily because they're true. "Blood doesn't always determine who matters."
Ivan raises his glass in agreement. "Well said. Family is built through loyalty and trust, not just shared genetics."
The moment feels significant somehow, the three of us sitting together in the warm library with the fire crackling and the whiskey flowing. For the first time since this whole mess started, the mansion feels less like a fortress and more like a home. I'm not just the Pakhan here. I'm a husband, a son-in-law, and part of something intimate. It scares the shit out of me even as warmth spreads through me.
Ana stands, stretching with a soft sigh. "I should return this before I fall asleep and drop it." She holds up the novel she'd been reading earlier, a thick historical tome that looks heavy enough to be a weapon.
"Need help?" I offer, more out of habit than actual concern.
"I think I can manage to put a book on a shelf." She laughs and crosses to one of the towering bookcases that line the library walls. The shelves are ancient, ornate pieces that have been in the Galkin family for generations. They reach nearly to the ceiling, packed with decades' worth of books and documents.
I watch her search for the right spot, my gaze caught on her ass. Ivan is saying something about tomorrow's schedule, and I'm nodding along while keeping half my focus on Ana and that sexy as hell ass. My fingers itch to grab those round globes and massage them. She finds an empty space on one of the higher shelves and reaches up to slide the book into place, making her ass even tighter. I stifle a groan as my dick hardens.
A low groan of wood straining under too much weight breaks me out of my lusty thoughts. My head snaps toward Ana, and my eyes go wide. The massive bookcase is tilting forward, pulled by gravity and the weight of hundreds of books. The ancient wood is giving way, tilting and ready to fall on Ana.
I don't think. I just move. My body reacts on pure instinct, launching me across the room in two long strides. I hit Ana with my full weight, wrapping my arms around her and using my momentum to throw us both clear of the falling bookcase. I turn midair so that I land on my back and she lands on top of me, shielding her from the brunt of the fall. We land in a tangle of limbs several feet away from where she'd been standing.
The bookcase comes down with a loud boom. The crash is deafening, shaking the floor and sending books flying in every direction. Glass shatters somewhere. Wood splinters. The noise seems to go on forever, a cacophony of destruction that fills the entire library. Then, suddenly, silence. Just the sound of settling debris and Ivan's sharp intake of breath.
Relief floods through me, hot and immediate. Ana is safe.
"Are you okay?"
She nods, her eyes wide and face pale. I help her off me and then stand. What the fuck was that all about? Relief lasts only a fraction of a second, though, before something slams into my back with devastating force, driving me hard to the floor.
39
ANA
Guards rush into the library from every direction, their boots pounding against the hardwood floor. A second bookcase pins Samuil to the ground, its weight crushing down on his back and shoulders. Books are scattered everywhere, pages torn and spines broken. Shattered glass from the display cases glitters across the floor like deadly diamonds. The air smells of old paper and dust, thick enough to choke on.
"Get it off him!" I scream, fighting against the hands trying to hold me back. One of the guards wraps his arms around my waist, physically restraining me as I struggle to reach my husband. "Let me go! Samuil!"
Four guards position themselves around the fallen bookcase, gripping the ornate wood with both hands. They count to three and heave upward with coordinated effort. The ancient structure groans as they lift it inch by agonizing inch. More books tumble free, crashing to the floor around Samuil's motionless form. My heart hammers so hard against my ribs that I think it might break through.
"Careful!" Ivan barks from his chair near the fireplace, his face pale and drawn. He's gripping the armrests so tightly, his knuckles have gone white. "Don't drop it on him again!"
The guards finally manage to lift the bookcase high enough to drag it away from Samuil's body. They set it down with a heavy thud against the far wall, breathing hard from the exertion. The moment they release me, I drop to my knees beside Samuil, my hands hovering over him but afraid to touch anything in case I make it worse.
"Samuil?" My voice breaks on his name. "Can you hear me?"
He groans, a low sound of pain that makes my stomach twist. His face is pressed against the floor, turned slightly to one side. Blood trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, staining the hardwood beneath him. His shirt is torn across the back, revealing angry red marks where the bookcase edge dug into his skin. He tries to push himself up with his arms, but his left shoulder gives out and he collapses back down with a sharp curse.
"Shit," he grumbles.
"Don't move." I place my hand gently on his uninjured shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles. "Just stay still until the physician gets here."
"I'm fine," he grits out, but the strain in his voice tells a different story. He tries again to push himself up, this time managing to roll onto his side. The movement makes him go pale, sweat beading on his forehead. "Just knocked the wind out of me."
"You're not fine." I look up at the nearest guard, a young man whose name I can't remember in my panic. "Someone call the physician. Now!"
The guard nods and pulls out his phone, stepping away to make the call. The other guards form a protective circle around us, their eyes scanning the library as if expecting an attack from some unseen enemy. Ivan has managed to stand from his chair and is making his way over slowly, leaning heavily on his cane. His expression is grim, the lines around his mouth deeper than usual.
The physician arrives within minutes, carrying a black medical bag. He kneels beside Samuil, his hands moving carefully over his back and shoulders. Samuil hisses in pain when the doctor probes his left shoulder, his jaw clenching so hard, I can see the muscle jumping.
