Yelena Romanoff Novels & Stories

Chapter 42: The Sins of the Father The elevator doors retracted with a pressurized hiss, revealing a figure that shattered the static tension of the penthouse. It was Elena, but the woman standing before them was a stranger to the corporate hallowed halls of the Vanderwall Tower. The tailored silk power suits and the calculated elegance of the Chief Operating Officer had been discarded. In their place was a woman clad in tactical charcoal gear, her frame cinched by a utility harness that held a ruggedized, military-grade tablet strapped to her left forearm. Her hair, usually a soft wave of professional poise, was pulled back into a severe, functional knot that highlighted the sharp, unforgiv

It was hard to imagine that the woman who lived here had once handled millions of dollars of dirty money for a criminal empire. Yelena Petrov sat in a worn armchair, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on Raven. She was old, older than Raven had expected. Her hair was gray, her skin paper thin, her body frail. But her eyes were sharp. She had not lost her mind. "You are Marcus Wolfe's daughter," Yelena said. "Yes." "I knew your father. A long time ago. He was a good man." "He is dead." "I know." Yelena looked down at her hands. "I am sorry."

Oksana said, “but those meetings always run long.” “They don’t need to admit it. We’ve both learned how to wait.” A small laugh. A quiet understanding passing between them—the unspoken art of living in orbit around dangerous men. They stood side by side under the garden lanterns as the sky deepened to purple-black. ✘ ✘ ✘ Four-year-old Vasiliya Rostova—perpetually disheveled blond hair, shoes always on the wrong feet—found Elena. She collided with Elena’s knees without warning. Looked up with a face of perfect innocence. In her small palm sat a plastic seashell liberated from a decorative vase.

I should’ve written her off as a one-night distraction, a beautiful mistake, but something about her had burrowed under my skin, and the longer I stood there, the more it festered. An hour later, Matteo returned, a folder tucked under his arm. The look on his face told me I wasn’t going to like what he found. “She’s… nobody,” he said, flipping open the file and tossing it onto the counter. “Elena Russo, works as a waitress at that little Italian place on 5th, no criminal record, no known affiliations, just an ordinary girl.” Ordinary? Bullshit. There was nothing ordinary about the way she carried herself, the sharpness in her eyes, the way her smile never quite reached her mouth. Ordinary gi

And the killer was someone who'd stood by my side at the funeral, had helped raise me after my parents died, and had shaped pack policy for years. Someone who was still out there. Still in a position of power. Still capable of killing anyone who got too close to the truth. The door opened again, but it wasn't Thomas . It was one of my mother's former attendants. An older she-wolf named Elena who'd retired years ago but still lived in pack territory. "My lord," she said, her voice hesitant. "I heard you were investigating your parents' death. There's something I need to tell you. Something I should have said years ago."

he said, a hint of his usual smugness creeping in. ‎I ended the call, my heart still racing but steadied by his promise. Elena stared at me from the driver’s seat, her eyes wide with shock. “Nora, what the hell was that? You’re calling Mikhail Romanov for help?” ‎I avoided her gaze, groaning inwardly. “It’s complicated,” I said, scrambling for a lie. “Elias got mixed up with some bad people. Mikhail’s... connected. He can help.” ‎She frowned, clearly skeptical but letting it slide. “You sure you’re okay?”

Because of course, this was just another night of duties and fake smiles. Then the wind shifted, and I caught that scent. My wolf froze as every nerve in my body went on high alert. I turned, scanning the room until my eyes fell on her. She was standing at the corner, obviously trying to stay hidden. Her dress was a bit shabby and her dark hair was barely adorned. Nothing about her screamed “special,” but that pull inside me tightened so hard I could barely breathe. “Who’s that?” I’d asked Marcus. He glanced over. “Her? That’s Celia…Hartwood, I think. She’s an omega.” My eyes bulged for a second.

she said, shaking her head. "Go home, before I call the police," Zelena added, growing serious. "I-I’m not lying. I’m his girlfriend five years ago," the woman insisted. Zelena froze where she stood, staring intently at the woman. "W-Wait. Who are you?" Her hands trembled. "I-I'm Elianna Martinez. But they call me Yanna." Zelena went rigid as she stared at her, her heart suddenly pounding faster.

"Ah, young love. How poetic. But I have leverage, my dear. You see, I've got something that means more to him than his precious Bratva." I furrowed my brows, a sinking feeling settling in my stomach. "What are you talking about?" Mikhail signaled to one of his henchmen, who brought forward a restrained and disheveled woman. It took me a moment to recognize her – Yelena. The shock of seeing her in this predicament rattled me to the core. "Alexei has a choice to make," Mikhail declared with a wicked grin. "His beloved Bratva or his dear sister. It's quite the conundrum, don't you think?"

Well, at least the cat died knowing and I grabbed my phone. I punched in his name, my fingers fidgeting as the search bar loaded and his profile appeared on the screen. Judas Romanovski—son of Ralph Romano, Killian Schmidt, Alexei Volkov. I frowned. Three fathers? Mother—Rara Romanovski. Siblings—Anya Romanovski, Tina Romanovski.