Page 18

The glow of the monitors paints the room in cold, sterile light. I lean back in the chair, cigar balanced loosely between my fingers, watching her.

On the center screen, Alina sprawls across my bed, one bare leg tangled in the sheets, the other stretched toward the edge, as if trying to escape even in sleep.

Her body is tense, stiff despite the exhaustion dragging at her.

One small fist curls tight in the fabric, clutching it to her chest like a shield.

Even in rest, she betrays herself.

Fear tightens her shoulders. Resistance hums in the rigid lines of her limbs. But there’s something else too, lingering beneath the surface—something raw, unspoken. Surrender. Not the kind that comes from defeat, but the deeper, uglier kind: the kind that grows from desire.

I take a slow drag from the cigar, letting the smoke coil lazily toward the ceiling.

Satisfaction hums through me, low and potent, threading through my blood like a drug.

It isn’t the sex that matters—not really.

It’s the shift. The understanding carved into her body now, written in every trembling breath she takes, every shudder she tries to hide.

Wife.

The word drifts through my mind, a mockery and a claim all at once.

I never wanted this. Never needed softness or connection. Love is weakness. Marriage is a transaction. Always has been. Always will be.

Yet here she is: mine—not through vows or promises, but by the sheer inevitability of my will. By force. By circumstance.

After tonight, she belongs to me more deeply than any contract could make real. Not just in name, not just on paper or through the hollow mechanics of power and fear. I own her in the places she cannot take back—the corners of herself she probably never even knew existed.

I tap ash into the crystal tray beside me, the soft hiss barely audible over the low hum of the surveillance equipment.

Every camera feeds into my private server, every movement, every breath preserved.

I savor the weight of the moment, rolling it between my fingers like the glowing end of the cigar.

There’s still work to do.

The world outside this room doesn’t stop turning because I finally laid claim to what’s mine. Deals wait. Enemies sharpen their knives. Alina’s father still breathes, and with him, a hundred tangled debts and secrets that will either feed my empire or bleed it dry.

I lean forward, extinguishing the cigar with a slow, grinding twist of my wrist.

When I look back at the screen, she’s turned in her sleep, her face pressing into my pillow like she knows, even now, what she belongs to.

A slow smile curls my mouth.

She’ll learn soon enough.

The burner phone buzzes against the glass tabletop, rattling faintly. I reach for it without taking my eyes off the screen where Alina shifts again, restless in her sleep.

“Da,” I answer.

Dima’s voice crackles through the line—sharp, efficient, as always. No wasted words. “Ortega’s active. Miami. He’s pushing on the port, rerouting small shipments. Nothing major yet. Looks like disruption, not theft.”

Not about money. Not about territory.

It’s about me.

I tap the ash from my fingers absently, listening as Dima outlines the rest: minor sabotages, contacts shifting loyalties, whispers designed to stir fear.

Small moves. Careless, even. Matías Ortega thinks he can needle me into responding publicly.

He thinks he can claw back a shred of the respect he lost.

My mouth tightens into something that isn’t quite a smile.

Matías has always been petty. Insecure. A man who wears silk suits and gold watches to cover the thinness of his skin.

Dangerous, yes—but not because of his power.

Desperation makes men reckless. Makes them unpredictable.

Makes them willing to burn everything just to feel like they’re still standing on top of the ashes.

I lean back, letting the chair creak under my weight, eyes narrowing slightly as Dima continues.

It’s a stupid game. Transparent. A ploy to bait me into lashing out, into making a mistake. Matías doesn’t understand—he never did—that I don’t move unless I mean to destroy.

Again, I think of Monaco, three years ago. The race was nothing, just a cover for the real business being handled behind closed doors. But Matías made the mistake of believing it was personal. That beating me on the track would humiliate me.

Instead, it was his humiliation.

Public. Unmistakable. The crowd watched him stumble, fall, watched him bleed in front of the cameras, and no one—no one—stepped in to help. His face, his worth, stripped away in broad daylight while I stood untouched.

Men like him never forget that kind of defeat.

I end the call with a clipped acknowledgment, tossing the phone back onto the table where it buzzes once more and goes still.

A thin smile cuts across my face, sharp as broken glass.

I know exactly what kind of enemy I’m dealing with.

“Cowards are always the most dangerous,” I murmur under my breath, “until they aren’t.”

I reach for the notepad beside the monitors, jotting down a single line in heavy, deliberate strokes:

Miami—handle personally.

The Miami situation isn’t just business. It’s an opportunity. A stage.

Matías Ortega thinks he’s reminding the world he still has teeth. His confidence will be his downfall.

I stand, reaching for my jacket where it hangs on the back of the chair. The movement is smooth, practiced—everything I do has purpose. No hesitation, no wasted energy.

Something makes me pause.

My gaze flicks back to the monitor.

Alina’s body is still wrapped in my sheets, small and pale against the dark linens. One arm thrown over her head, her chest rising in slow, shallow breaths. Restless even in sleep. Her brow furrows slightly, like she’s dreaming something she can’t quite wake from.

A flicker of memory sharpens behind my eyes.

The taste of her.

The way her body trembled against mine when I touched her just right.

The broken sounds she made when she gave in—not with permission, not with surrender, but with that raw, involuntary need she couldn’t hide.

Her hips arching into me, hands clutching at my skin as if she hated herself for needing what I gave her.

She fought herself harder than she ever fought me.

My mouth twists—not into a smile, not quite. Something darker. Deeper. A satisfaction that has nothing to do with victory and everything to do with possession.

She wanted it.

That truth echoes louder than anything else. She’ll deny it. Maybe not out loud, not yet, but inside? She’ll try to drown it. Smother it. Tell herself it was coercion, survival, manipulation. She’ll cling to whatever lie makes her feel clean.

I know better.

I shrug into the jacket. The weight of it is familiar, grounding. Leather molded to my shape, worn smooth along the seams from years of wear. My shoulders settle under it, muscles coiling tight again, ready for war.

Still, her memory clings, and I sit again.

This was never just about conquest. I could’ve taken a dozen women with half her fire and twice her desperation. I’ve had obedience. I’ve had silence. None of it ever mattered. Not like this.

It’s not enough that she fears me.

Not enough that she lies beneath me and obeys.

I want her to need me.

I want her to choose me—even if the choice is built on ruin. Even if it’s a lie she tells herself to survive.

I force my eyes from the screen, dragging my mind back to what matters.

First Miami. Then Alina.

The engines rumble low outside, headlights casting long shadows across the gravel drive. The convoy is ready—three cars, blacked out, armored, humming with contained violence. My men move in silence, waiting only for my signal.

I take one last look at the monitor before I join them.

Alina has shifted again.

She’s curled tighter into herself now, the sheets wrapped around her shoulders like armor. One hand is tucked beneath her cheek, the other clenched loosely near her chest. Her brow is furrowed, her lips parted as if caught in the middle of a dream—or a memory she can’t quite escape.

She looks small like this. Vulnerable.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, watching the slow rise and fall of her breath, the faint movement of her fingers. She gave me her body last night—every gasp, every shudder, every ragged cry. She came apart beneath me, and when I touched her afterward, she didn’t pull away.

That’s not enough.

I don’t want her just in pieces. I want the whole of her—her thoughts, her loyalty, her pride. I want her to look at me and know exactly what I am… and still choose me. That kind of surrender—the real kind—that’s what matters.

The kind that can’t be undone.

I draw from the cigar one last time, the taste bitter on my tongue. The smoke lingers in the back of my throat as I hold the image of her there, soft and restless in my bed. I can almost feel her skin beneath my palms again, hear her voice break on my name.

She’s dangerous to me.

Not because she could betray me. Not because she could run.

She’s dangerous because I care.

The realization tastes like poison.

I thought I’d burned that out of myself a long time ago—any softness, any vulnerability, any pull toward something I couldn’t control, but she’s wormed her way in, slow and silent, and now I can’t look at her without wanting. Not just to keep her. To have her. Entirely.

I extinguish the cigar in the tray beside me, a final, vicious stab—ash grinding into glass.

Then I rise.

The door closes behind me with a low click, and the night greets me like an old adversary.