Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)
Inked Athena: Chapter 45

Three heartbeats. That’s how long it takes between Sam appearing in the doorway and Katerina realizing she’s lost.

I count them against the pulse of our baby.

One.

Sam fills the frame, his Sig Sauer trained on Katerina’s head. The bathroom’s fluorescent lights catch the sweat in his beard. Like a net of diamonds.

Two.

Dark-suited men materialize behind him. Shadows given form. They move like they’ve done this countless times before. In the span of a breath, they’ve surrounded us.

Three.

Katerina’s gun hand trembles against my temple. Her perfume carries notes of desperation now.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” she hisses, pressing closer to use me as a shield. My shoulder blades dig into her chest, and I feel her rapid breathing. “Your men were supposed to be⁠—”

“Dead?” Sam interrupts. “Like the ones you and my brother bombed?”

Myles groans from his spot on the floor, trying to push himself up despite the blood seeping through his dress shirt. I want to help him, but Katerina’s grip tightens.

“Stay down,” I whisper to him.

Sam hasn’t moved. That gun stays fixated on Katerina where her face bobs over my shoulder. I see that face reflected in the thousand pieces of broken mirror that litter the floor around us. A murky, indistinct version of it floats in the pool of Myles’s blood, too.

She looks terrified in every single one.

“You really thought I wouldn’t have a contingency plan for my father’s funeral?” continues Sam. “You thought I’d leave this all to chance? To tradition?”

More shadows join the first crew. The difference is that, whereas Samuil’s men are clad head to toe in black, these men have three letters stamped on the front of their riot gear in bright, undeniable white.

FBI.

And bringing up the rear is a face I recognize—although the last time I saw it, it was beaten into a pulp.

Angelo Boyko.

My throat constricts as it all comes together, so blindingly obvious that I can’t believe it took me this long to see it. All those times I pleaded with Sam to work with law enforcement, he was already ten steps ahead. The arguments, his cold dismissals, the way he kicked me from the war room—it was theater. A performance to keep everyone, even me, in the dark.

“Drop it, Ms. Alekseeva,” Angelo barks, his own weapon joining the bristling arsenal aimed at Katerina. “You’re surrounded by two tactical teams, and there’s nowhere left to run.”

Katerina’s laugh splinters against my ear. “You think I care about running?” The gun digs deeper into my temple. “Your precious FBI can’t protect you from what’s coming, Samuil. Ilya’s already⁠—”

“Being taken into custody as we speak.” Angelo’s voice booms with the finality of a coffin lid closing. “Along with the Andropov leadership. Simultaneous raids across three continents. Game over.”

I meet Sam’s gaze through the forest of weapons. His eyes hold mine, steady and sure, like they did the first day we met. When an unruly Great Dane brought chaos to both our lives.

The gun at my temple suddenly feels lighter. Katerina’s grip loosens, her breath hitching.

“You planned this,” she whispers in horror as she comes to the same realization I just did. “All of it. The funeral. The attacks. You wanted us to think we had you cornered.”

Sam’s lip curls. “I learned from the best, didn’t I? You taught me everything about playing the long game when you married me.”

Katerina’s arm snakes around my throat as she drags me backward until we collide with the rear wall.

“Stay back!” Her scream hits a pitch that makes my ears ring. The gun digs deeper into my temple, cold metal kissing bone.

Through the bathroom door, chaos erupts in the main hall. Ilya’s voice carries over the mayhem—no longer the triumphant boom we first heard. He’s spewing Russian curses now, each word more venomous than the last. The sound of his world crashing down.

Katerina’s breath comes in ragged gasps against my ear. All traces of perfume are gone. There’s only the acrid scent of fear-sweat. The arm around my neck trembles.

“You don’t understand,” she murmurs, though I’m not sure if she’s talking to Sam or herself. “We were the ones who had it all planned. Every detail. The funeral was supposed to be your ending, not ours.”

Sam takes one deliberate step forward. “You still think you know me, Kat?” His voice drops to that dangerous velvet that sets my skin on fire. “After all this time, you still haven’t learned?”

The gun at my temple wavers as Katerina processes the truth: she never really knew him at all.

Her desperation rolls off her in waves. The same turbulent terror that clings to abused dogs when they’re cornered. Ready to bite because they see no other choice.

I’m not out of the woods just yet.

I meet Sam’s eyes over the wall of tactical gear between us. His finger hasn’t moved from the trigger, but something in his expression shifts when I give him the tiniest shake of my head.

“You don’t have to do this, Katerina,” I say quietly. “There are other ways out.”

Her laugh is like stones crumbling. “You think I have options? I never had fucking options. Ilya made sure of that. The moment I agreed to his plan, he owned me. Every move, every breath—” Her voice quivers. “He used me, just like your precious Samuil did.”

“The FBI can protect you,” I murmur. “You could start over, build something real⁠—”

“Shut up!” But there’s a frantic edge to her command now. “You don’t understand what it’s like to lose everything.”

“Don’t I?” I think of my father, my brothers. The family I lost to corruption and greed. “Sometimes, losing everything is how you find what really matters.”

The raw anguish in Katerina’s face is jarring. For the first time since I’ve known her, the polished mask slips completely.

“I loved him,” she spits out, and her grip on me loosens just enough that I can finally take a full breath.

I frown. “Sam⁠—?”

“No,” she snaps. “Not Samuil—never Samuil. Ilya. Since we were young, I loved him.”

Through the bathroom door, the agent’s voice rings clear as he reads Ilya his rights. The charges roll off his tongue like a grocery list: racketeering, conspiracy to commit murder, money laundering, trafficking. Each one drives Katerina’s nails deeper into my shoulder.

“I thought, once we took power, we’d finally be together.” She sniffles and hiccups. “But he lied. Didn’t even tell me he was making this move. I was just another pawn.”

The gun slips a fraction lower. I scoot a fraction farther.

My eyes find Sam’s again. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t holstered his gun. But there’s something in his gaze now—not quite sympathy, but understanding. He knows exactly what it’s like to have love turned into a weapon.

“You have a choice,” I tell her softly. “Right here, right now. You can be more than what Ilya made you.”

For a heartbeat that stretches into eternity, the bathroom fills with the sound of Katerina’s ragged breathing and the echo of Ilya’s curses from the hall.

And for that heartbeat, I feel like we’re all going to make it.

She’s going to drop the gun. Going to surrender. Going to make the right decision for once and⁠—

Then she wrenches me closer and jams the gun into my belly. Her finger goes to the trigger.

Men shout.

Things move.

Then the shot rings out before I can scream.

My ears explode with white noise. Time warps and stretches like taffy as two things happen in rapid succession.

The first comes from below. Myles rises from beneath us, unsteady but roaring a wordless battle cry as he knocks Katerina aside. She screams, too, and whirls the gun from my gut toward him. From this close, I don’t see how she could miss.

The second thing comes from afar. A blur comes flying in and Samuil dives in front of the gun…

Right as it erupts.

Boom.

Blood sprays across the mirror shards, turning their reflective surfaces into rubies. My throat burns from a scream I can’t hear over the ringing in my ears.

Katerina’s grip on me goes slack in her shock. I drive my elbow back into her sternum. Her hold breaks completely. The gun clatters to the floor as she stumbles.

FBI agents swarm the space, piling on top of Kat, but I’m already dropping and crawling toward Sam. His blood soaks into the knees of my black dress as I reach him. He’s conscious, gray eyes blazing as they find mine.

“The baby…?” His voice sounds far away through the lingering echo of gunfire.

I press my hands over his wound. “We’re fine. I’m— We’re— Fuck, somebody help me!”

Myles kneels beside us, pressing his balled-up jacket against Sam’s shoulder where it’s pouring blood. His face is pale from his own blood loss, but his hands are steady. “You really went and took a bullet for me, you melodramatic bastard?”

Sam’s laugh turns into a cough, then a grimace. “Consider us even for the boat rescue.”

Behind us, Katerina’s hysteric sobs mix with the sounds of handcuffs clicking shut. But I can’t look away from Sam’s face, can’t stop counting his breaths, because each one means that he’s still here, still with us.

He caught a bullet meant for his friend. Meant for me.

Just when I didn’t think I could love him any more.

I can’t stop shaking as Sam’s blood seeps between my fingers. The shoulder wound gushes with each beat of his heart, dampening his crisp white shirt into a grotesque watercolor.

“Stay with me,” I whisper, pressing harder. His muscles tense under my hands, but he doesn’t make a sound.

I glance over my shoulder in time to see a glimpse of Kat’s face through the tangle of black-clad limbs. She thrashes and screams, mascara turning her tears into black rivers. The blood of the two men she tried to kill paints her cheeks red.

“Target secured,” one of the FBI agents barks. “Room clear.”

Boyko appears beside us, his previous injuries now just yellowing bruises on weathered skin. He squats next to Sam and pats him on the knee.

“As agreed, Mr. Litvinov. Full immunity in exchange for your brother and the Andropov network.”

Sam manages a tight nod, his jaw clenched against the pain. “Make sure… Nova and the baby are protected, too.”

“Already done.” Boyko stands and retreats as paramedics rush in. “Your family’s safety was part of the deal from day one.”

The medical team works quickly, their practiced movements a stark contrast to my trembling hands. As they load Sam onto a stretcher, his fingers find mine, squeezing with surprising strength.

“Krasavitsa,” he murmurs when he sees my shell-shocked face, “didn’t I tell you to trust me?”

I laugh through my tears, following as they wheel him out. “Next time, maybe fill me in before taking a bullet.”

His answering smile is weak but genuine. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He catches my hand and brings it to his lips as his smile fades into something more serious. “It had to be done like this. I hope you know that. Your reactions had to be genuine for her and Ilya to believe.”

“You orchestrated all of this?” My other hand finds his face, fingers threading through his sweat-damp beard. “The raids, the FBI, everything?”

He manages a shadow of his usual smirk. “I had a hand in things here and there.”

The paramedics start to guide Samuil’s stretcher down the hall. But as we emerge into the belly of the church, an anguished bellow stops us. We all turn in unison.

Ilya bucks against his zip-ties and cuffs as agents march him toward an armored vehicle. His suit is torn and bloody, his once-perfect hair wild.

But it’s his eyes that make my skin crawl. They burn with the kind of hatred that could set the world on fire.

“Brattan,” he spits in Russian, zeroing in on Sam. “Always the chess master. Always three moves ahead, eh?”

Sam’s fingers interlace with mine. His wound is bleeding through the pressure bandage, but his face remains impassive. Like his brother’s venom simply can’t touch him anymore.

Behind Ilya, Katerina stumbles as agents drag her toward a rear exit. Her black-and-red-stained face crumples when she catches Ilya’s eye. Some strange, almost tangible kind of ripple passes between them—a current of betrayal and broken dreams that makes my chest ache despite everything.

I can’t help pitying them. They’re violent, yes, and broken, most definitely.

But no dog is unredeemable.

Give them time. Maybe they’ll find a way back to the light.

Then Ilya’s gaze finds mine. His lips curl into a sneer. “Shlyukha,” he hisses.

On second thought, maybe not.

I open my mouth to say something, but Sam catches me with one hand looped around the back of my neck. “He’s not worth the breath of telling him to go to hell,” he rasps to me. “Let him go.”

I look at him. Not at Ilya, not at Katerina, but at him.

He’s right.

The only people left who matter are us.

The paramedics rush Sam through the church doors, but his hand never leaves mine. Even with blood soaking his shirt and pain etching lines around his eyes, he refuses to let go.

Outside, a sea of flashing lights bathes everything in red and blue. FBI agents herd handcuffed mercenaries into armored vehicles. Katerina’s sobs fade into the distance. Ilya’s curses turn to echoes, then to nothing.

But all I can focus on is the steady beep of Sam’s heart monitor as the EMTs hook him up. The way his chest rises and falls. The warmth of his fingers threaded through mine.

“Your blood pressure’s dropping, sir,” one paramedic warns. “We need to move.”

Sam’s eyes find mine through the chaos. “Come with me?”

As if he needs to ask. As if I’d be anywhere else.

They help me into the ambulance beside him. The doors slam shut, muffling the circus outside. In this metal cocoon, it’s just us and the rhythm of his heart on the monitor.

His hand slides from mine to rest on my belly. Our child kicks against his palm—strong and alive and real. Despite everything, a smile tugs at his lips.

“Worth it,” he mumbles, fighting to keep his eyes open as the morphine takes hold. “All of it. For this.”

I lean down to press my forehead against his. “Rest now. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

His other hand finds my cheek, thumb brushing away tears I didn’t know I’d shed. Even half-conscious, his touch is gentle. Reverent.

The last thing I hear before the sirens start is his whispered “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

I love you.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, I know we’re going to be okay.