Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)

The last yacht party I attended in Sardinia ended with two dead bodies and a forty-million dollar deal to import black market firearms.

Tonight, The Sofia carves relentlessly through the Mediterranean, her hull as black as the secrets she carries. No champagne. No caviar. No elite parasites comparing the sizes of their offshore accounts.

Just the whisper of waves against steel, the echo of the crew’s boots on teak, and Nova—my broken bird, who looks seconds away from throwing herself into the endless dark below.

“The security system rivals most government facilities.” Captain Andreas drones on about surveillance and defensive capabilities while Nova drifts closer to the railing. Her fingers trail along the polished metal, testing. Searching. “Would you like to see the command center?”

“Later.” I dismiss him with a sharp nod.

Nova’s shoulders tense at my approach, but she doesn’t move away when I join her at the rail. The moon paints silver paths across black water that stretches to infinity. Different from the Wisconsin woods that cradled us, sheltered us. Out here, we’re exposed. Vulnerable.

But also untouchable. Let them try to reach us now.

“Are you hungry?” The question slips out before I can stop it. Feeding her, keeping her strong—these are problems I know how to solve. Not like the shadows haunting her eyes or the bruises marking her skin.

“No.” Her voice is barely audible.

“Nova—”

“I need to lie down.” She turns away, won’t even look at me as she asks, “Where is the room?”

“Below deck. First door on the left.”

She limps away, every step a reminder of what my brother did to her. Of what I failed to prevent. The Nova who challenged me at every turn, who squared her shoulders and spat defiance in my face—that woman is buried beneath layers of fear and betrayal.

I pace the deck like a caged animal, muscles coiled tight with the need to hunt. To destroy. Ilya is still breathing somewhere on this earth, and that fact alone makes my trigger finger itch. But Nova needs protection more than she needs vengeance.

Even if she hates me for it.

The night wind carries the bite of salt and diesel, but I keep stalking the perimeter, scanning the horizon. She’s just below my feet, yet the distance between us stretches wider than this fucking ocean.

I’m doing what needs to be done. That should be enough.

It isn’t.

For the first time in my life, I need someone to understand my choices. To trust them. To trust me.

When the cold starts to sink into my bones, I abandon my post and head below.

Nova stands at the porthole in wrinkled sweats and a thin tank top that does nothing to hide the goosebumps on her arms. Her dark hair falls in tangles down her back, wild and unkempt. She looks like a stray who’s wandered into a palace—all this gleaming mahogany and brass surrounding her only emphasizes how far we are from her world.

She doesn’t acknowledge me until the door clicks shut. Then she whirls, stumbling, one hand flying out to catch herself against the wall. The movement draws a hiss of pain from her lips.

“It’s just me.” I drag a hand over my neck, fighting the urge to go to her. To steady her. To wrap her in my arms until that haunted look leaves her eyes.

Instead, I keep my distance.

“I’ve never…” Her voice catches. “I’ve never been outside Chicago before. Not really. Just…Wisconsin once, for a school trip. And then again, for… other reasons.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “And now here I am, in the middle of the ocean, running from the Russian mafia.”

The confession hits me in the chest. While I’ve been thinking of this yacht as a fortress, a sanctuary, she sees only the vast unknown stretching in every direction. No familiar streets. No safe spaces. No home to return to.

She presses her forehead against the cool glass. “I don’t even know where we are. What country we’re near. Nothing seems real anymore.”

“We’re off the coast of Sardinia.” I take one step closer, then another when she doesn’t flinch away. “In the Mediterranean Sea.”

“Sardinia,” she repeats softly, like she’s tasting the word. Testing its reality. “I used to walk dogs in Lincoln Park and dream about traveling someday. Not like this, though. Never like this.”

The yacht pitches gently, and Nova’s hand flies out to steady herself again. Without thinking, I close the distance between us, my body moving on pure instinct to catch her if she falls.

“The rocking gets easier,” I tell her softly. “Your body adjusts to the motion after a day or two.”

She nods but doesn’t relax. Her fingers grip the window frame so tight her knuckles turn white. “Everything I own, everything I am, fits in that little duffel bag.” She gestures to the corner where her hastily packed bag sits. “My whole life in Chicago… it’s just gone.”

The words carry the weight of everything she’s lost. Her business. Her independence. The simple life she’d built for herself, far from her father’s corruption. Everything taken from her because she got tangled in my war.

“Your grandmother is safe,” I remind her. “Hope, too. And the dogs. I have men watching them all around the clock.”

“I know.” She closes her eyes, a tear sliding down her cheek. “But I can’t even call them. Can’t let them know I’m okay. They probably think…” Her voice breaks.

I step closer, close enough to feel the heat from her body, to catch the faint scent of her skin beneath the antiseptic smell of bandages. “What do they think, Nova?”

“That I’m dead.” The words come out as a whisper. “Or worse.”

My hands find her shoulders, gentle, giving her every chance to pull away. When she doesn’t, I turn her to face me. More tears track down her cheeks, and something in my chest constricts at the sight.

“Look at me.” I wait until those amber eyes meet mine. “You’re alive. You’re whole. And I swear to you, on everything I am, that I will keep you that way.”

Nova sways forward, her forehead coming to rest against my chest. Her hands stay wrapped around herself, but she lets me take her weight, lets me shelter her from the vast darkness beyond the window.

“I used to rescue animals,” she whispers into my shirt. “Strays. Abandoned pets. The ones nobody wanted. And now, I’m the one who needs rescuing.”

My arms slide around her, one hand cradling the back of her head. Her hair is silk against my palm. “You rescued yourself. I just provided the getaway vehicle.”

A sound catches in her throat—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “Some getaway vehicle you picked.”

“Only the best for you.” The words come out rougher than intended, weighted with everything I’m not saying. Everything I can’t say.

The yacht rolls with a larger wave, and Nova’s fingers finally uncurl from around herself to grip my shirt instead. I hold her steadier, stronger, becoming her anchor in the shifting dark.

“I dream about it,” she confesses, so quietly I almost miss it. “The warehouse. The cell. Ilya’s voice. Sometimes, I wake up and can’t remember where I am.”

My arms tighten involuntarily. The need to hunt my brother rises like bile in my throat. “You’re with me. You’re safe.”

“Am I?” She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t look up. Just breathes the question into the space between us like a prayer.

Instead of answering, I press my lips to her temple and whisper against her skin in Russian, “Ya ne pozvolyu nikomu tebya obizhet’.”

I will never let anyone hurt you again.

Nova melts further into me, her body softening degree by degree. Her hands stay fisted in my shirt, but the desperate grip loosens slightly. Each breath she takes grows steadier, deeper.

I should move us to the bed. Let her rest. Her body is still healing, still weak from days of captivity and fear. But I’m frozen in place, afraid any movement will shatter this moment of trust.

“Tell me what that means,” she murmurs against my chest. “What you said.”

My thumb traces circles against the nape of her neck. “A promise.”

She shifts, pressing closer, seeking more warmth. More contact. More comfort. “The good kind or the scary kind?”

“Both.” I rest my chin on top of her head. “The kind that will keep you alive.”

The yacht rocks again, but this time, Nova moves with it, letting me take more of her weight. Her eyes drift closed, exhaustion finally winning over fear.

“I should let you sleep.” The words come out, but I make no move to release her.

“Not yet.” Her fingers twist deeper into my shirt. “Just… just stay like this. For a minute.”

So I hold her in the dark, my broken bird who’s slowly learning to trust again. Outside our window, the Mediterranean stretches endless and black. Somewhere beyond that darkness, my enemies plot. My brother hunts. The world spins on with all its violence and betrayal.

But here, in this moment, Nova breathes steady against my chest.

And for the first time since I found her in that cabin in Wisconsin, I feel like I’m doing something right.