Page 98 of Jewel of the Assassin
I exhale and step back, the heat in my blood rising like lava, slow and consuming. “So,” I murmur, more to myself than the man, “it’s begun.”
I turn to my men. “Dispose of him.”
They nod. One drags him away, still twitching.
I don’t watch. I leave.
My wife requires that lesson more than ever.
33
“A blade can always turn on the hand that tries to wield it.”
VALENTINA
THREE DAYS LATER
“Are you quite serious, Sasha?” Roksana asks—Roman’s mother, who has permitted me to call her by her first name.
I almost regret inviting Sasha to our afternoon meal, but after I’d practically hogged Roksana, I knew it was time for Roman’s most important family to meet my family.
My brother tips his head back, his dark curls flirting with his cheeks as he laughs…at my expense. “Deadly serious—and I knew Val would turn downright deadly if I did not give her rocking horse back immediately.”
I laugh softly and wave a hand. “I’d like to go on record that I don’t remember any of this.” But putting superglue on the saddle of a real prized horse, one my father taught Sasha to ride… “I guess it does sound like something I’d do.”
“Milaya moya, of course it does,” Roksana says. “And may I say how lovely you look.”
I nod a thank you. Today, I chose a royal blue velvet wrap dress with a deep V-neckline and bell sleeves with black suede slippers. The black lace choker Roman gave me complements the brand on my chest.
It still fills me with a subtle sense of wonder whenever I look at Roman’s mother—how similar they are. The same piercing emerald eyes, though Roman’s are more deeply hooded and commanding, while his mother’s are deep-set and intense.
“Val has always been a force of nature,” Sasha adds. “She outshines me in so many ways.”
Our eyes meet, and our hands find each other in a silent clasp that says more than blood ever could. We were more than siblings. We were allies, the kind who shared secrets and scars.
And yet, from what I’ve gathered—from the stories he’s shared, and the glimmers I’ve received—I was always the one our father feared. Not because I was more beautiful, but because I was harder to mold. Sasha, with his charm and easy grace, could be steered. I could not. And that’s why our father wanted to get rid of me—before I learned just how much power I held.
I hold more power now.
I pause as we arrive outside the manor’s gallery, one of many rooms I haven’t frequented.
Sasha touches my elbow, leans in, and kisses my cheek. “I promised Fleur I’d help her decorate the ice sculptures. You enjoy your time with Roksana Ivanovna.” Oh, he is laying it on thick with the deep tone of respect, citing her first name plus the patronymic, expecting me to do the same. Which I will, of course.
Once Sasha is gone, Roksana and I enter the gallery, and I gush at all the priceless art. I guess I’ve been too busy interacting with all the staff to worry as much about appreciating the deeper beauty in Roman’s estate. Our estate. By now, I know everyone’s names and pieces of their histories.
Roman might also have a secret gallery where I’ve frequented more. If frequented means posing in the nude so my husband canphotograph me to his heart’s desire and hang the art on the walls…
Roksana moves through the long gallery, surveying the oil paintings and sketches, all Russian—melancholic winter landscapes, bold iconography, and portraits that seem to breathe with the weight of history.
She pauses before one: a family portrait with a younger Roksana standing proud beside a tall, sharp-eyed man. Two teenage boys stand in front of them—one younger, dark-haired, handsome, and haughty, the other golden, proud, and commanding with a subtle knowing smirk. I stop beside her, watching her expression shift as if caught between pride and regret.
“My work kept me from them,” she murmurs. “As the Bratva’s blade, I was always moving, always killing. But their father…he was the face. He played the political game better than anyone. We were unstoppable. Formidable.”
“But…” I say softly.
She smiles, faint and tired. “But…I made the mistake of having children.” Her voice is low, wistful. “It didn’t happen overnight, but eventually I stopped taking contracts. I wanted to be a mother. He did not stop. If anything, he became more ruthless. My husband traveled more than he was home, building his empire—an empire made possible due to my sacrifices, my bloodshed. Roman…he was always mine. I saw it early—his gift. His precision. He needed discipline, strength. I gave him that. But Anton had his father’s charm.”
“So, you made Roman the man he is today?”
