Volkov's Gambit
**Chapter 9: Volkov's Gambit**
The Bratva auction house reeked of greed. Men in tailored suits bid on stolen art, weapons, and women, their voices slick with entitlement. I adjusted the wire hidden beneath my black cocktail dress, Sasha's voice crackling in my earpiece: *"Remember, you're bait, not a martyr. Don't do anything stupid."*
"Define stupid," I muttered, clenching the locket at my throat—Dmitri's locket, now filled with cyanide.
A hand gripped my waist. "*Printsessa*," a man purred in Russian. "You're overdressed for a bloodsport."
I turned, smiling sweetly. "And you're underdressed for a coffin."
His laugh died as I plunged a syringe into his neck, stolen from Sasha's arsenal. He slumped, and I vanished into the crowd.
**Two Hours Earlier**
Sasha had outlined the plan in her usual charmless tone. "The Pakhan's hosting an auction tonight. He'll be there to 'bless' the merchandise. You walk in, flash that Volkov smirk, and make him *itch* to catch you. I'll plant explosives. Simple."
"And if he kills me on sight?"
She tossed me a diamond hairpin. "Stab him in the eye. Less simple, more fun."
Now, striding through the auction hall, I felt Viktor's ghost at my shoulder. *No hesitation*, he'd say. *Aim for the heart.*
The Pakhan's throne sat empty.
**The Trap**
A child's laugh echoed over the speakers—*my mother's laugh*, lifted from a digitized home video. The screens flickered to life, showing Monica's autopsy photos, her chest cavity splayed open. A red stamp blazed across the image: *СПАСИБО (THANKS).*
The crowd stirred, uneasy.
"*Ashley Volkov*." The Pakhan's voice boomed from the shadows. "You've inherited your father's flair for drama."
He emerged, skeletal and grinning, a collar of scar tissue glistening beneath his suit. "Where is my heir?"
I stepped forward, hands raised. "You want a Volkov? Here I am."
"Not you." His gaze dropped to my stomach. "*The child.*"
Sasha's voice hissed in my ear: *"Bomb's planted. Get out. NOW."*
I didn't move. "My father's ledgers for the Bratva's surrender."
The Pakhan sighed. "You misunderstand. This isn't a negotiation."
He snapped his fingers.
A cage descended from the ceiling, its bars rattling. Inside, a man knelt, bruised and bloodied, his face obscured by matted hair.
*Viktor.*
**The Ghost**
His head lifted slowly. One eye swollen shut, the other burning into mine. *Alive.*
"*Malyshka*," he rasped. "Run."
The Pakhan tossed a knife into the cage. "Kill her, and I'll let you live."
Viktor stood, swaying. "Never."
"Then watch her die."
Guards surged toward me. Sasha's bomb detonated, shaking the chandeliers. In the chaos, I lunged for the cage, picking the lock with my hairpin.
Viktor stumbled out, crushing me against his chest. "You're a fool," he breathed into my hair.
"Your fool," I said, pressing Lena's ultrasound into his hand.
His sob was a shattered thing.
**The Escape**
We fled through smoke and screams, Sasha covering our retreat with a hail of bullets. Viktor limped, his body broken but his grip unyielding.
In the garage, he shoved me into a stolen sedan. "Go. I'll hold them off."
"Not this time." I yanked him inside, peeling out as bullets spiderwebbed the windshield.
Sasha leapt into the backseat, cackling. "Family reunions are *messy*."
**The Safehouse**
Viktor's wounds were worse under the light—cracked ribs, infected burns, a finger missing. I cleaned them in silence, his gaze searing my skin.
"The child…" he began.
"A lie. For now."
He flinched. "Good. This life… it's no life for a child."
"But it's mine," I said, holding his face. "And I'm done hiding."
Sasha tossed a file onto the table. "Then here's your first move as Pakhan."
Inside: photos of the Bratva's offshore accounts, enough to bury them. And a note: *From Dmitri. For my daughter.*
**The Promise**
Viktor found me on the roof at dawn, his hands bandaged but steady as he pulled me close. "I won't ask you to stop. But let me stand with you."
"Always," I whispered.
His kiss tasted of blood and hope, a vow sharper than any blade.