Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)

Two weeks.

Two weeks of radio silence from Chicago. Two weeks of nothing but cryptic texts from Myles showing Rufus and Ruby playing in Sam’s penthouse garden. Two weeks of Sam’s increasingly creative attempts to “distract” me from asking questions about home.

I trace my fingers over the old stone walls of the castle kitchen, watching Mrs. Morris stir something that smells divine. The kitchen is my favorite room here—all worn flagstones and copper pots hanging from iron hooks, steam rising from bubbling pots into wooden rafters that have absorbed centuries of secrets. It feels real in a way the rest of my gilded cage doesn’t.

“More salt?” Mrs. Morris asks, offering me a spoon.

I shake my head. “I think the boys will love it exactly as it is.”

And they’d better. I’ve spent all afternoon here, mostly staying out of Mrs. Morris’s way while she works her magic. But when Myles arrives from Chicago for dinner, I want him to think I slaved over this meal myself. Want him to feel indebted enough to finally tell me what the hell is happening back home.

The dull roar of an approaching helicopter makes the windows rattle. Right on schedule.

I dry my hands and head for the hallway that leads to Sam’s office. My bare feet are silent on the stone floor—a skill I’ve perfected living in this museum of a house. It’s pathetic that I have to resort to eavesdropping, but Sam’s left me no choice. If he won’t tell me what’s happening with my family, with Hope, with the life I left behind, I’ll find out myself.

The heavy oak door to his office is closed. I can hear the low rumble of male voices inside—Sam and Myles, already deep in conversation. I press closer, holding my breath.

“Have you told her yet?” Myles’s voice is clearer now.

“Not yet.” The resignation in those two little words has me catching my breath. I barely stop myself from knocking in time.

“Jesus, Sam.”

“I’ve been trying to—” Sam sighs. “I’ve been waiting for the right time.”

“I don’t think there is a right time to tell someone their entire family is dead.”

My ears fill with a high-pitched whine that drowns out everything else. The castle stones pulse around me, the portraits on the walls blurring into smears of oil paint and judgment as my world contracts to this single, horrible moment.

I see Grams sprawled on her kitchen floor, blood pooling under her silver hair.

Hope, her bright smile frozen forever, throat torn open.

Rufus and Ruby, their precious little bodies riddled with bullets.

My knees quake, and I want nothing more than to sink into the floor. No—beyond the floor. I want to melt into nothing.

They’re dead. They’re all dead.

That’s what Myles said.

And Samuil knew. He fucking knew.

Has it been days? Weeks? How long did he keep this secret from me? I want to collapse, but if I do, I’ll never get back up again.

And I need answers.

With trembling hands, I shove Sam’s office door open. The hinges shriek in protest, making both men whip around to face me. Their expressions are identical masks of concern, which only makes the rage burn hotter in my chest.

Sam rises from behind his massive desk. “Nova⁠—”

“Is it true?” I choke out. “They’re all… Everyone is…?”

Samuil’s face is drawn tight as he rises and takes a step towards me. “Krasav⁠—”

“Don’t!” I throw out a hand, my vision too blurred with tears to know if he listens or not. “Just tell me the truth. Are they g-gone?”

Yesterday—just yesterday—I asked Sam if Grams was okay. The day before, I begged him to have Myles check on Hope.

He looked me in the eyes and lied.

Again and again and again, he lied.

“Nova, sit down.” Myles stands and tries to usher me into his chair. “We can explain⁠—”

“That you’re liars?” I hiss. “Goddamn both of you! You told me Grams and Hope were safe, but⁠—”

“They are.” Sam moves like lightning, gripping my shoulders and pulling me against his chest. His heart thunders under my ear. “God, Nova. I didn’t think— They’re okay. Grams and Hope are safe.”

My world is on a bungee cord. I was plummeting to the ground, and now, suddenly, Sam sends me soaring in the other direction.

“Wh…what?” I rasp. I stare at him, trying to suss out a lie in the beautiful words I want to curl up inside of.

They’re okay. They aren’t dead. They’re all okay.

“They are safe.” He kisses the top of my head. “I made sure of that.”

Myles nods. “I checked on them both right before I flew out. Hope is great—a handful, but safe. And Serena is as scrumptious as ever.” He offers me a wink, but it’s a thin cover for the anxiety creasing his face.

“Okay, but— You said—” I pull away from Samuil and shake my head. “You said my family was dead.”

Samuil’s hands fist at his sides like he wants to reach for me, but I feel fragile right now. The next words out of his mouth will change everything, and I want to see his face as he says them.

“There was a shootout,” Sam explains haltingly. “The official story is some kind of blow-up between rival gangs. Civilians died… but so did the officers who tried to break up the fight.”

I feel cold.

Before, thinking about Grams and Hope, there was white-hot panic.

Now, I’m ice.

“Your brothers,” Myles picks up. “They were killed on the scene.”

I try to picture Tommy and Mike’s faces, but they’re blurred around the edges, like old photographs left too long in the sun. When was the last time I even spoke to them? Called them? The silence stretches back years.

My throat closes up. “My father…?”

Sam finally reaches for my hand, and I let him. “He didn’t make it.”

“But… how?”

It’s not possible. My father was always the one wielding the gun. He can’t have been taken out like this.

“They’re reporting he was shot in the line of duty, but it’s a cover-up,” Sam grits out. “The Chicago PD doesn’t want to reveal how many of their officers were on the take from the Andropovs.”

“So, they were… executed?” A tear slips down my cheek, and Sam presses a strong hand to my back, holding me up.

“As far as we can tell, yes.”

I shake my head, tears blurring my vision. Why in the hell am I crying for them? “But they were working for the Andropovs? Why would they⁠—”

The reality slams into me and Sam’s hand on my lower back is the only thing that keeps me from toppling over.

“Me,” I whisper. “It was my fault.”

The server I delivered was a dud. My father took the Andropovs’ lone shot to get inside Samuil’s penthouse, and he wasted it on a useless server and a mole who skipped town immediately afterward.

He pinned all his hope on me.

And they killed him for it.

Sam is already pulling me back into his chest, his strong arms squeezing me tight. He smells like oak and frost, and I breathe him in deeply to keep my lungs from clenching tight.

“This isn’t your fault, Nova. Your father and brothers knew the kind of people they were getting involved with.”

People like the Andropovs and Ilya… and Samuil.

I squeeze my eyes closed.

No, Samuil isn’t like them. But maybe my father and brothers would be alive if I wasn’t with Samuil. If I’d kept my head down and continued walking dogs, maybe none of this never would’ve happened.

What makes me feel even worse is that I wouldn’t change a thing. I should be devastated. I should be screaming, raging, drowning in grief for my family. Instead, all I feel is sick relief washing through me. They can’t hurt me anymore. They can’t threaten Grams or try to control my life or drag me back into their web of corruption.

They’re gone, and I’m free.

Maybe I’m as much of a monster as they were.

“I need some air,” I croak, pushing away from Sam.

“Nova—”

“A minute,” I beg, turning for the door, hoping he can’t see the awful person I am all over my face. “I just need a minute.”

I make it as far as the front lawn before my legs give out. The grass is damp with evening dew as I sink to my knees, running my trembling fingers through the thick green blades.

My father is dead.

My brothers are dead.

They’re all gone.

I repeat it to myself again and again, but it doesn’t feel real.

Is this shock? Is that why I’m not horrified or grieving for the men who shaped half my life? Is that why my mind keeps circling back to one terrifying thought:

If the Andropovs executed my father and brothers for failing them… what would they do to me?

My hands curl protectively around my stomach. There it is—real fear finally cracking through the numbness, sending violent shivers up my spine. The evening air feels arctic against my clammy skin.

I picture the people I actually love: Hope’s bright laugh, Grams’s gentle hands, Myles’s steady loyalty, Samuil’s fierce devotion. I press my palms more firmly against my belly, where our child grows beneath my heart. Tears blur my vision of the sprawling Scottish grounds, turning the castle into a dark smear against the purple twilight sky.

The Andropovs didn’t just kill my father and brothers—they made examples of them. Left their bodies in the street like warnings. My father, who terrorized our neighborhood for decades, died cowering in the gutter.

What horrors would they dream up for the woman who betrayed them? For Samuil Litvinov’s pregnant lover?

The grass beneath my fingers suddenly feels like a funeral shroud. I could run. Take the Range Rover and disappear into the Highlands. Keep my child safe from all of this.

But even as the thought forms, I know it’s pointless. There’s no running from this life anymore. No hiding from who and what Samuil is. No protecting our baby from the legacy of violence it will inherit.

The only way out is through—and the only way through is with Samuil beside me.

I push myself to my feet, one hand still pressed to my stomach. The castle looms before me. Ancient. Dark. Unmoving.

Either this place will be my prison, or it will be my fortress.

It’s time to decide which.