Sloane
Every inch of my body ached. My throat was raw, my wrists burned, but I held my head high because that’s what a queen would do. With a deep breath, I took a step back and looked back at Nikolai.
His eyes locked on mine.
It was like nothing else existed. His gaze was hot, unblinking, and torn wide open in a way I’d never seen. His jaw clenched once. Twice.
He was focused on me like the rest of the world had already been burned to the ground, and I was the only thing left in the ashes.
And then Stillwell spoke.
His voice was hoarse, thick with blood and ego.
“I wasn’t going to touch her,” he sneered, eyes flicking over me as he lied. “She’s not my type.”
The shift in Nikolai was instantaneous.
He reached down, grabbing his holstered gun, pulled it back out and pressed it against Stillwell’s forehead.
His finger hooked around the trigger.
His entire body was tense, shoulders braced for action, breath almost silent, that dangerous, electric quiet that only came before violence. His stare pinned Stillwell like a nail through the chest, his body leaning forward like he was already imagining how far the blood would spray across the concrete.
I saw it in him.
He was going to do it.
He was going to kill him right there for thinking he could put his hands on what belonged to a Morozov and walk away breathing.
I would have let him. I wanted to.
But if Stillwell died here—on the floor of some back-alley warehouse in Southie, blood pooling at his feet—there would be no justice. Only headlines, rumors, and we’d be the ones hunted for it. That was letting Stillwell off too easy.
I shook my head and cleared my throat. Nikolai’s stare seemed frozen, but I knew he saw me. My voice cracked, but the words came anyway.
“Stillwell can’t die. Not like this. It would be too messy—not for him, but for us.”
He blinked, just once, as he cocked his head. His eyes narrowed, confusion and curiosity evident on his rugged face.
I took another breath, chest constricted, ribs aching. My hands curled into fists at my sides, and when I spoke, I didn’t raise my voice.
“He’s not just some guy; he’s a politician, a public figure. His death would make headlines. You kill him here, and his people make him a martyr. They’d turn you into a violent Bratva thug, me into a silly rich girl who got involved with the wrong crowd. Then they’ll come for us. Maybe they’ll throw us in jail, if we’re lucky, or maybe worse.”
Nikolai didn’t answer for a long moment, but then he nodded once with understanding before taking a deep breath and holstering his weapon once again.
I stepped closer to him, held out a hand.
“Give me your phone.”
Without hesitation, he handed it over.
I swiped it open, already punching in the number. My father picked up on the second ring.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Sloane?”
“I need you to listen to me. Stillwell kidnapped me from my own wedding. Drugged me. Kept me tied to a chair in a goddamn warehouse.”
The other end of the line went dead silent.
I didn’t stop.
“He made sure I knew it was about us—it was about me and you. About Nikolai. And about what we were doing to bring him down.”
He sucked in a breath. “Where are you?”
I turned to Ivan.
“Greeley and Wain,” he said, glancing up. “Old McAllen Freight building.”
I brought the phone back to my ear. “We’re at the McAllen Freight warehouse, Southie. Corner of Greeley and Wain.”
I could hear the sound of my father standing, probably already moving around his office, the quiet scuff of someone shuffling papers in the background.
“I want the cops here in ten minutes,” I said. “No sirens, no cameras. Send the ones on your payroll, the ones who don’t need a warrant to follow an order. He’s alive. The Morozovs will keep him busy until your people get here.”
There was a long pause.
Then my father said, softly, different than I’d ever heard before, “Did he touch you?”
I glanced at Nikolai—who was still holding himself back by the thinnest thread imaginable—and at Stillwell, slumped and pinned between Sergei and Aleksei, still wheezing through what was likely a freshly fractured rib or two.
“No, but given the chance, I think he would have,” I said.
Another beat passed.
“I’ll send them,” he said. “And Sloane?”
I waited.
“Don’t you dare let that bastard get away.”
I ended the call.
Stillwell shifted like he wanted to speak, but Sergei pressed the muzzle of his gun harder against his ribs, and the only thing that came out of the man’s mouth was a hiss of pain.
Good. Because fuck him.
I turned back to Nikolai and handed him the phone. He took it, but his eyes stayed locked on me, burning with pride.
“This is how we take him down. We run everything we have. Blast him in the headlines. Paint him as the child molester he is and if that isn’t enough, then we kill him. But we do it our way. Quietly. An unfortunate accident in prison. An apparent suicide. A fight that goes too far…”
I looked over my shoulder and met Stillwell’s wide bloodshot eyes.
“I’m sure we can get creative when the time comes, maybe draw it out for a while. Painfully.”
That’s when Nikolai stepped forward.
No words. No warning.
Just one clean, brutal strike, his iron fist slamming into Stillwell’s jaw with a crack that echoed throughout the warehouse. Stillwell crumpled to the side, half held up by Sergei, blood pouring from his mouth.
“That’s for touching children,” he said, voice cold and clipped. “And for daring to lay hands on the future wife of a Morozov.”
Stillwell moaned, a wet gurgle of pain.
Sergei shoved him back upright, forcing him to stand.
Aleksei stepped in next, crouching slightly, just enough to meet Stillwell’s eyes.
His voice was quiet, but razor-sharp. “You ever wonder what happens to sexual predators in prison, Stillwell? Especially the kind that likes their girls too young to protect themselves, and too scared to say no?”
Stillwell didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. He already knew. He wasn’t walking away from this unscathed.
In all likelihood, he wasn’t walking away from this at all.
The sound of tires crunching on gravel outside pulled our attention to the front of the warehouse. Moments later, two dark cars appeared at the loading bay: government plates, no lights, no markings. They didn’t need them. They weren’t here to make a scene. They were here to collect trash and make it disappear.
Three men stepped out, plainclothes officers, broad-shouldered, with the kind of faces you forget unless you’re the one they’ve come for. One of them gave a short nod to Sergei, and another flicked his gaze to me, taking in the state of my dress, my tangled hair, and the rope-burned skin on my wrists. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer apologies. He just turned toward Stillwell like he already knew how this was going to end.
Nikolai hadn’t said a word since I’d handed back the phone. His eyes were on me the entire time. He didn’t speak to the officers, didn’t motion toward Stillwell. He just waited. Not because he was uncertain, but because he wanted me to be the one to end it.
I nodded once, not trusting my voice to hold steady in that moment and everyone understood.
That was all it took. Sergei shoved Stillwell forward, letting him fall into the waiting arms of the officers. Without ceremony, they turned him around, cuffed him, and began walking him out while reciting his Miranda rights.
Stillwell didn’t say a word. No last gasp of defiance, no apology. He just walked stiff-legged toward the car like a man who finally understood he was finished. No trial would save him now. No rich donors. No alibis. He was a liability, and the people he’d once protected were going to let him be buried if it meant saving themselves.
I watched him disappear through the warehouse doors, the sound of them closing behind him anticlimactic. It felt strange, watching it end this way, not with a bang, not with a bullet or a knife, but with the legal system hard at work.
Just like that, he was gone.
My chest loosened for the first time in hours. The ache in my shoulders throbbed less when I let them drop. I felt filthy, exhausted, but I also felt something close to peace. Whatever came next—headlines, press conferences, political fallout—wouldn’t be as dangerous as what we’d just survived.
Stillwell was out of the game, for good.
