To Wear The Devil’s Ring

Back in the study, Nadya shut the door and collapsed into the nearest chair.

Her spine curved. Her hands trembled. Her ribs throbbed beneath the scar.

The scent of her father — old wood and faint cologne — clung to the room like a ghost.

Would Ivan be dead if you had stayed?

Her chest burned.

Her vision blurred. She hadn't cried in years. Not for her mother, her father—not even at Ivan's empty grave

But here, surrounded by memory and silence and her father's scent clinging stubbornly to the shelves, she couldn't hold the pieces anymore.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

Then another.

They think I sold him out.

Her fingers dug into her thighs.

They think I ran.

They think I survived because I'm weak.

The door creaked open.

Tiny footsteps padded across the carpet.

Then: a warm, familiar weight.

Darya wrapped her small arms tight around Nadya's leg.

"Can we go now?" she whispered. "You promised."

Nadya looked down.

Messy curls. Flushed cheeks. But those eyes, wide and unguarded, held none of the suspicion Nadya had just faced. Only warmth. Only love.

This was why she was doing it.

Not for herself. Not even for her brother.

For Darya.

She bent low and pulled the child into her arms, hugging her tight.

Nadya buried her face in her niece's soft hair, drawing strength from the quiet rhythm of her breathing.

"Yes, sweet girl," she whispered hoarsely. "We're going home."

The door opened again.

Victor stepped inside, closing it gently behind him.

"They've gone," he said. "For now."

She didn't look up but nodded once.

"You made your point. Your father would be proud."

Another nod.

"It wasn't enough."

Victor didn't argue. He never did when it came to her father's business.

Instead, he crouched beside her, his voice low and steady. "They don't know what you've survived."

He met her gaze.

"But they will." Nadya exhaled.

She pressed a kiss to Darya's temple, heartbeat steadying as she stroked her niece's back.

Darya looked up at her, pouty-lipped, one small hand brushing her damp cheek.

"Don't cry, Auntie. Or I'll cry too."

"I won't, my love," Nadya whispered, forcing a smile.

Darya beamed back, content.

And in that quiet space, Nadya made a vow:

I'll protect that smile—with everything I have.

She stood, lifting Darya against her hip.

"Let's go," she said, her voice steady now.

"We've kept the devil waiting long enough."

~*~*~*~

The warehouse stank of blood and sweat and dying things.

Bodies lay strewn across the concrete—some limp and cooling, others still groaning faintly, twitching where bones had been broken wrong.

A smear of crimson marked the wall, shaped like a hand that had slipped too fast.

Alexei stood in the middle of it all, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, splotches of blood staining his white shirt and splattered across his jaw. One cut above his brow was still beading.

He lit a cigarette with a flick. The glow lit his face briefly, shadowed cheekbones and eyes like frozen ash.

Smoke curled from his mouth as the warehouse door creaked open.

Boots echoed as Mikhail entered, pausing just inside to sweep the scene with a slow, unimpressed glance.

"Shouldn't you be home?" he asked, voice dry, brow arched. "Ruining the sheets with your new wife?"

Alexei snorted. "She was drunker than your mother at my uncle's funeral."

Mikhail made a sound between a groan and a laugh. "I'd have paid to see that."

Alexei's lip twitched. "The only thing getting ruined would've been the upholstery. Vomit everywhere."

"Romantic."

They turned toward the nearest corpse.

One man's mouth had been sewn shut crudely, lips pulled tight with thick black thread. Another bore a tattoo across his collarbone: a black serpent coiled around a dagger.

"Interrogation?" Mikhail asked, crouching for a better look.

Alexei shrugged. "I forgot it was supposed to be."

"You always forget."

"I get carried away."

Mikhail stood, brushing off his hands like he hadn't just poked a corpse. "This is why they tell you to leave interrogations to people with impulse control."

"Noted," Alexei replied, entirely unrepentant.

Behind them, a wet crunch.

An enforcer in the back was swinging a hammer, flattening bones with each blow. A man whimpered before going silent.

Mikhail sighed. "So messy."

Alexei didn't blink.

They started walking.

Blood followed in their footsteps like a second shadow.

"You missed the reception," Alexei said.

"No judgement," he added, before Mikhail could answer.

Mikhail gave a theatrical sigh. "I heard she slapped Grigori."

"She did."

Mikhail stopped to pantomime the motion with relish. "Did the old bastard cry?"

Alexei hummed. "He said something stupid."

"That's a given." A beat. "Guess she was sober enough for that."

A flash of dark lashes fluttering against his shirt popped into his mind.

"No. She was stoned."

They reached the back hallway, where the floor stopped being sticky and the air smelled less like death. Mikhail pulled a pristine handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it out without a word.

Alexei took it, wiped the worst of the blood from his palm before touching the handle of the private dressing room.

Inside, the room was cool and dim—wood-paneled walls, pressed suits hanging from a steel rack, a low table lined with crystal decanters and polished glasses. It smelled of sandalwood, whisky, and quiet ruthlessness.

Alexei peeled off his ruined shirt. The blood-stiffened fabric resisted, tugging at half-healed scabs.

Underneath, his torso was a graveyard: old stab wounds stitched like ghostly vines across his ribs, bullet grazes near his left shoulder, a whip-scar curling darkly down his spine.

Mikhail didn't comment. He just moved to the armoire, flipping through crisp shirts with professional ease.

"Amazing," he muttered. "Funeral or wedding?"

Alexei pointed to the black one.

Mikhail tossed the shirt onto the nearby chair but didn't move away. His gaze snagged on the fresh scar beneath Alexei's ribcage. He reached out, brushed a knuckle lightly over the healing skin.

"This one's new."

"Last month. Government contractor. Didn't like our terms."

"They never do."

From the side table, he grabbed a towel and handed it over without a word. Alexei caught it, wiped his face and hands with slow, deliberate motions, then dropped it where he stood.

Mikhail stepped close again, holding the clean shirt open. Alexei slid into it wordlessly. The fabric clung slightly to damp skin as it settled over his shoulders.

He moved with practiced ease—tugging the shirt into place, smoothing the collar, adjusting the cuffs. Fingers brushed the back of Alexei's neck with casual familiarity.

"You're meeting that German arms rep tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yes. Odessa deal's being finalized. But we'll funnel it through the orphanage fund."

Mikhail's mouth twitched. "Still laundering through the kids?"

Alexei reached for the collar and straightened it himself. "No one questions you when you say 'for the children.'"

Turning away, Mikhail crossed back to the table. He uncorked a decanter and poured two fingers into a glass. "What about the deal Petro was sniffing around? Still got contacts with that Spanish firm?"

Alexei moved to the cracked mirror on the wall, his reflection splitting cleanly down the center. One half of him was clean, composed. The other, fractured. Real.

"I own half their logistics," he said. "Bought them six months ago."

Mikhail let out a low whistle, took a slow sip. "You really planned ahead for this one."

The blood was gone. Shirt clean. But his eyes?

Still dead.

"You've made enemies."

He wiped a hand along his jaw. "When have I not?"

"I'm not talking about old enemies. I'm talking about new ones." Mikhail set his glass down and poured another. "Since last night, two of the old guard have already sent people sniffing around her estate. The Voronovs are asking questions."

Alexei grunted, still not turning.

"And someone from her side's been asking about the Romanov family archive."

That stilled him.

Mikhail's brow twitched as he offered the fresh glass.

Alexei finally turned. Instead of taking the new one, he plucked the half-empty glass from Mikhail's hand and drank from it, unbothered.

"She was meeting with the remnants of her father's circle today," Mikhail continued, not missing a beat. "Viktor tried to keep them quiet, but word gets out. They want to know if she's soft. Or worse—if she's ambitious."

"She's both."

Mikhail rolled his eyes, took the untouched glass, and poured another for himself. "And you think that's a good thing?"

"I think it's interesting."

"And your grandmother wants to see you," he added, leaning one hip against the table. "This afternoon. She said—and I quote—'If he's going to break tradition and marry a girl without informing the family, he can at least show his face.'"

Alexei gave a dry smile and walked back toward the decanter, placing the empty glass beside it. "She sounds thrilled."

"She sounds like she's sharpening something."

"She always is."

Mikhail's tone shifted, quiet now. "What are you going to tell her?"

Alexei looked once more to the cracked mirror, still standing apart. "That I'm investing in a long-term asset."

Mikhail's eyes narrowed faintly. "You're gambling with something bigger than your inheritance this time."

Alexei didn't answer. His gaze drifted to the cracked mirror across the room.

Inheritance? He wasn't planning on inheriting anything. He'd burn it down and build his own.