For the first time since arriving at the Moretti estate, Elena didn't feel like the walls were pressing inward.
She still didn't feel free—but there was air between her ribs again. A breath that didn't catch.
Lucian hadn't touched her since offering the choice. No pressure. No reminders of the contract that held her name like a leash.
And somehow, that made it harder.
She found herself wondering if she wanted him to pull her back.
Not because she craved the chain.
But because she was starting to fear what she might do without it.
--
A courier arrived midmorning. Pale man. Shaky hands. Didn't speak.
Rosa accepted the envelope with a quiet nod and brought it directly to Lucian's study.
Elena caught only a glimpse of it—black seal, gold ink, the faint outline of a crest that looked far too old for the modern world.
An hour later, Lucian called for her.
She found him at his desk, jaw clenched, hands steepled over the letter.
"It's a summons," he said.
"From who?"
"The Volkovs."
Her blood ran cold.
"I thought they were shadows."
"They were," he said. "Now they want to be seen."
He handed her the envelope.
Inside was a formal invitation—handwritten, elegant, and laced with veiled threat.
To Elena Claire Volkov-Carter,
Blood of Claire, Daughter of Legacy—
The House summons you for recognition.
Refusal is declaration. Attendance is proof.
Your name will either burn or bind.
—The Volkov Circle
Elena stared at the words, her throat dry.
"They want to claim me."
"They want to see you," Lucian said. "Gauge your loyalty. Decide if you're theirs or not."
"And if I say no?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
--
That night, Elena sat outside Lucian's room. She didn't knock. Just leaned against the wall, knees drawn to her chest, her heart thudding like a warning drum.
He found her there just before midnight.
"I couldn't sleep," she said.
Lucian didn't speak. He sat beside her, close but not touching.
"You knew this was coming," she murmured.
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Since your name surfaced. Since the night of the engagement party."
"You should've told me."
"I was trying to buy us time."
She looked at him then.
"Do you think they'll hurt me?"
His expression darkened. "They don't use blades. They use blood. They name you. And once they do, you're either theirs—or an enemy."
"I'm not either," she whispered.
"That's the problem."
--
They left the estate at dawn.
Lucian insisted on controlling every detail—disguised route, unmarked vehicles, armed escort that looked more like a diplomatic entourage than a mafia convoy.
Elena wore black again. Simple. Sharp. A soft echo of the woman her mother might have been before the world turned her into myth.
The meeting took place at an old cathedral—abandoned, repurposed, still echoing with prayers that had long since curdled into silence.
Inside, a ring of men and women waited. Half seated, half standing, all wearing the quiet, coiled grace of predators in repose.
At the center sat an older man.
Silver hair. Pale eyes. A scar that cut through his left brow like lightning frozen in flesh.
He rose as they entered.
"Elena Claire Volkov," he said. His accent was Russian, thick but clean. "Daughter of Claire. Granddaughter of Antonina. Welcome."
Elena didn't bow. Didn't offer thanks.
"I'm not here for legacy. I'm here for answers."
A smile flickered at his mouth. "Then ask."
She stepped forward.
"Why now?"
"Because now, you matter."
"I've always mattered."
"Not to us," he said. "Not until your blood proved stronger than your disappearance."
Lucian stepped beside her, silent but radiating danger.
"You're wasting time," he said.
The older man—Semyon, he introduced himself—ignored him.
"Your mother betrayed us," Semyon said to Elena. "She ran from our world. Hid you. Raised you as something soft."
"She raised me as herself."
"That's worse."
Elena's hands curled into fists.
"What do you want from me?" she asked.
"To see what you'll become."
"I'm not joining your family."
"Then you are our enemy."
Lucian moved fast.
The sound of a gun being drawn was quiet—but final.
"Try it," he said coldly, the weapon aimed at Semyon's chest.
But the old man didn't blink.
"Don't be foolish, Lucian. She'll decide, not you."
--
They left without bloodshed.
But Elena felt marked all the same.
Back in the car, she didn't speak.
Lucian didn't push.
Only when they were inside the estate again did she finally ask:
"Did you know about Antonina?"
He nodded. "Your grandmother. She ran a Volkov sector in Prague. Vanished before you were born. Presumed dead. But the records—they show another daughter. Someone your mother never spoke of."
Elena's pulse jumped. "Aunt?"
"Possibly. Or a cousin raised like one."
"And if she's alive?"
"She might be the reason they're circling now. They need a face. A future."
"And I'm the name."
Lucian met her gaze. "But you don't have to be."
"I don't think that's up to me anymore."
--
That night, Elena stood at the mirror in her room, staring at her reflection.
She touched the spot beneath her collarbone—where her mother's scar once lay.
She had no brand.
No tattoo.
But the weight of legacy pressed into her skin all the same.
There was no hiding now.
No pretending this would pass.
There were fires being lit in her name.
And whether she ran or stayed—
She was already burning.