Page 31 of Hooked On Victor
She hesitated only a heartbeat.
“Why now?” she asked. “Why—after all this time—would someone want you dead?”
He exhaled slowly, the sound scraping his throat.
He didn’t answer at once.
Instead he moved to the table, bracing himself with both hands splayed on the scarred wood. For the first time sincethe panic started, he stilled. His shoulders were tense, the thick muscles along his back coiling as he forced himself to breathe.
And then, without lifting his head, he began.
“My family was supposed to die in 1918,” he said.
The words dropped into the room like lead.
He raised his head a fraction, eyes locking on hers. There was nothing evasive in them now. No grin. No careless spark. Just history. Just ruin.
“Tsar Nicholas II. His wife. His five children,” he said, voice flat. “Executed in a basement by men who wanted to wipe out the last trace of the monarchy. Most believe they succeeded.”
Rose felt the chill run up her spine, even though the small stove crackled faintly with embers behind them.
She nodded slowly. “The Romanov massacre. I remember learning about it in school. The bones. The rumors of Anastasia surviving.”
Victor’s mouth twisted, humorless.
“There’s always a story,” he said roughly. “A missing duchess. A whisper of survival.” He flexed his hands on the table, the tendons standing out white. “In my case, it wasn’t the immediate royal family that lived. It was a cousin. A quiet one. Far enough removed not to be noticed, but close enough to carry the blood.”
He pushed off the table with effort, turning toward the next drawer. She watched the way his hand shook before he willed it steady to pull it open.
Inside was a narrow wooden case. He ran his thumb along the seam. He didn’t open it.
She didn’t ask what was in it.
He closed it with a click that sounded final.
“I’ve lived most of my life as a ghost,” he continued. His voice was lower now. Tired. “My name passed through Europe like a myth. There were always rumors. But I kept low. Moved often.Changed paperwork. Changed accents. I became the kind of man who’s easy to forget.”
Rose’s hands were folded on the back of the chair in front of her. She could feel her heart beating in her palms.
He turned enough to see her face.
“But there are people,” he said. His eyes darkened. “Ancient bloodlines. Leftover power brokers. Families that built new wealth on old betrayals. They believe if the Romanov line ever publicly resurfaced, it would threaten everything they built in its place.”
She felt the words sink in. Heavy. Oily. Real.
“Old enemies,” she said softly.
He nodded once. Slow.
“Old debts,” he corrected. “Old fears. Some of them are descendants of Bolsheviks who signed the orders. Some from the royal court itself—families that turned traitor to survive. They buried their shame with the Romanovs. If the name came back from the dead, so would all the guilt they thought they’d outrun.”
He clenched his jaw hard enough she heard his teeth grind.
“And then there’s Rasputin.”
The name landed in the small room with a chill.
Rose felt herself tense.
