Page 22

The office is steeped in near darkness.

The only light comes from the desk lamp, its glow dying slowly, casting long, tired shadows across the room.

Smoke curls from the ashtray on the corner of the desk, tendrils reaching upward before dissolving into the stagnant air.

The smell of burnt tobacco and something heavier—gunpowder, anger—lingers.

The vodka in my glass sits untouched.

I lean back in the chair, the leather creaking under my weight, glass held loosely in my fingers.

The cold bite of the drink tempts me, promises numbness, but I don’t lift it to my lips.

I just stare into the glass, watching the liquid tremble, my reflection fractured into jagged pieces across its surface.

My anger has cooled.

It hasn’t disappeared. It never does. It simply sharpens—refined into something quieter, more dangerous. Reflection. Awareness.

I replay the moment in my mind.

The gun in my hand.

The man kneeling on the floor, blood dripping from his split lip.

My finger tightening on the trigger.

Then—her voice.

Cutting through the haze. Cutting through me.

Clear. Steady. Terrified, maybe—but unshaken.

She shouldn’t have been there. She shouldn’t have spoken. In any other world, in any other life, her interruption would have been fatal—for her, for the man at my feet.

I see it now. The mistake he made was serious. A betrayal of orders. A risk to everything I built, but it wasn’t worth an execution.

Not then. Not like that.

I allowed rage to cloud my judgment. I allowed emotion—not reason—to guide my hand.

She saw it before I did. That gnaws at me.

Control is everything. Precision is survival. I pride myself on never acting out of impulse, never letting anger dictate my actions. Men who lose their temper lose their empires.

Yet tonight, it was her voice—not my own discipline—that pulled me back from the edge.

She stepped into the fire without hesitation, without knowing if I would burn her down for it. She saw me slipping—and she stopped me.

No one else would have dared.

I set the glass down, the soft click loud in the stillness.

Leaning back, I stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of her interference settle deep into my bones.

She isn’t just dangerous because I want her. She’s dangerous because she sees me in ways I haven’t allowed anyone to in years.

Why her?

The thought gnaws at me, sharp and persistent, refusing to be silenced no matter how many times I push it aside.

I’ve killed friends without blinking. Lovers.

Traitors. Men who swore loyalty, who smiled in my face while sharpening blades behind my back.

Their lives ended by my hand without regret, without even hesitation.

I have been betrayed more times than I can count, and I have survived because I never allowed myself to need anyone.

Yet she gets under my skin like nothing and no one ever has.

Alina.

Young. Na?ve. Stubborn to the point of recklessness. She has no place in my world—too soft, too untamed. A girl raised behind walls of wealth and protection, thrown into chaos she doesn’t even fully understand.

She should have broken already. Bent. Yielded.

Except there’s something inside her—a core that refuses to bend, no matter how much pressure I apply. A defiance that lives in her bones, even when her body submits.

I hate it. I crave it.

I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, staring into the glass as if it holds the answers I can’t find.

The memory crashes into me without warning—sharp, vivid.

Alina, barefoot and furious, descending the grand staircase during the celebration. The silk of her robe clinging to her curves, her hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes wide but unbowed. She didn’t realize what she was walking into. Didn’t realize that every man saw her.

Desired her. Coveted her. In her innocence, her complete lack of calculation, she owned the space.

My hand tightens around the glass until it creaks under the strain. I force myself to ease up before it shatters.

I had wanted to tear Jackson Waters apart that night. Still want to.

The image of him leaning in close, speaking to her like she was available, like she was something he could have, still makes my blood boil.

No one touches what’s mine. No one even looks.

The jealousy burns, but there’s more beneath it—something harder to name. Something colder.

Fear.

Not fear of losing face. Fear of losing her.

Of her slipping through my fingers before I’ve fully claimed her. Before she understands who she belongs to, before she understands that her life—her very existence—is tied to mine now, whether she wants it or not.

I lean back, exhaling slowly, the tension in my muscles refusing to fade.

I will not lose her. I will not let her go.

Whatever it takes, whatever lines I have to cross, I’ll keep her tethered so close she’ll forget what it ever felt like to be free.

I lift the glass at last, the vodka burning a sharp, clean line down my throat. The bite is welcome.

It grounds me, slices through the haze of useless reflection. It’s time to stop thinking. Time to start moving.

I set the glass down with a soft thud, the decision already crystallizing in my mind. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial without hesitation.

Dima answers on the first ring.

“Boss,” he says, his voice low and steady.

Good. Always ready. Always listening.

“Watch Jackson Waters,” I say. My voice is sharp, cutting through the stagnant air of the office. “I want to know every step he takes. Every word he speaks.”

There’s a beat of silence—hesitation, barely there.

Then Dima clears his throat. “Already started digging, Andrei. Figured you’d want it.”

I lean back in the chair, smoke still curling lazy shapes above the desk. My free hand drums once against the wood, a silent signal to continue.

“Waters has history with Richard Carter,” Dima says. “Goes back years. Legitimate business—import-export, mostly. Shell companies, off-book deals. Nothing illegal we can prove. Nothing clean either.”

I clench my jaw. “Loyalty?” I ask.

Dima hesitates again, and that tells me everything I need before he even speaks. “Hard to say. Carter trusted him once. Might’ve even mentored him. Waters is an opportunist. He’s not here for friendship.”

I close my eyes for a moment, piecing it together.

Jackson didn’t stumble into my world by accident. He came looking. For Alina. For leverage. For something he thinks he can gain—or steal.

“So?” I say, voice dropping lower.

“So?” Dima’s voice hardens. “He’s calling himself an ally. Says he has information. Claims he can help.”

I almost laugh.

Help.

There’s no such thing as help without a price in our world. No favors without blood on the receipt.

If Jackson is lying—or worse, if he’s trying to use Alina to get to me—there will be no second chances.

No negotiations.

I end the call with a curt command for Dima to keep digging. Deeper. Faster. I want Jackson’s life mapped out to the bone—who he talks to, where he goes, what deals he tries to broker while he thinks no one is watching.

I stare down at the phone for a moment longer, mind already racing ahead.

This isn’t just business anymore.

Alina changes the equation.

She always has.

Anyone who touches her, who tries to reach for her without my permission, signs their own death warrant. Jackson just doesn’t realize he’s already crossed the line. Already marked himself.

I lean back, the plan forming in my mind—quiet, brutal, necessary.

Waters will be watched first. Let him feel safe. Let him think he has room to move, to maneuver. He’ll show me his hand if I give him enough rope.

When he does? I’ll tighten the noose myself.

I stare at the dark window beyond my desk, the faint reflection of myself caught in the glass—blurred, indistinct, like a man already halfway vanished into shadow.

Jackson Waters isn’t simply a threat to my operations. Not just another opportunist sniffing around the edges of my business, looking for cracks to exploit. He’s something far more dangerous: a crack in the foundation I’m building between Alina and myself.

If Alina listens to him—if she believes Jackson’s whispered promises, his easy smiles, his polished lies—if she trusts someone else more than she trusts me—

I could lose her.

The thought hits harder than it should, sinking sharp teeth into the center of my chest. It isn’t just her body I’ve claimed. It isn’t enough. Not anymore. I want more. I want everything.

I want her to wake in the middle of the night and think of no one else. I want her to come to me first—fearful, desperate, needing—and never doubt who she belongs to. I want her choices, her defiance, her broken whispers, her fucking soul laid bare before me.

That makes her a weakness. A terrifying, inevitable weakness.

The realization coils cold and tight inside me. I’ve built an empire on discipline. On the ruthless ability to sever ties before they become chains. On the principle that anything can be sacrificed for survival.

Except her.

I can’t sacrifice her, not to Jackson. Not to anyone.

Yet, even knowing that she is a weakness, even feeling the heavy weight of it pressing down on me—I don’t regret it.

Not for a second.

Not for the night I spent inside her. Not for the way she clung to me afterward, trembling and wrecked. Not for the way she stood in that office tonight, barefoot and shaking, and still dared to speak.

I will protect what’s mine.

Even if it means becoming something worse than I already am.

I grab the vodka and finish it in one harsh swallow, the burn searing its way down to my gut, grounding me in a way nothing else can.

The empty glass hits the desk with a hard, final thud.

A decision. Jackson Waters has already lost.

The city sprawls out beneath me, a glittering expanse of cold lights and broken promises.

I stand at the office window, hands braced on the frame, my reflection staring back faintly against the glass. Smoke from the abandoned ashtray curls behind me, twisting into the shadows. Far below, Moscow hums with life—unaware, uncaring of the violence that keeps its heart beating.

My mind is already ten steps ahead.

Securing Alina. Neutralizing Jackson.

Reinforcing the loyalty of my men—reminding them, if necessary, exactly who they serve and what the price of hesitation is.

Strategy comes easily. Always has. It unfolds itself inside me, efficient and relentless, each piece slotting into place like a weapon assembled by instinct alone.

Underneath it—beneath the ruthless logic that built my empire—something else seethes.

Emotion. Hot. Sharp. Unmanageable.

I don’t let it surface often. It’s dangerous, unpredictable. The kind of thing that makes men weak, that cracks open steel and lets rot seep in.

I thought I had burned it out of myself years ago.

Then Alina walked into my life.

I curl my fingers into fists, the glass cool against my knuckles, grounding me as I force my breathing steady.

Jackson will regret ever breathing the same air as her.

I’ll make sure of it. Slowly, carefully. I’ll dismantle him until nothing remains. He’ll know what it means to covet something that doesn’t belong to him. He’ll know what it means to choke on regret, to wish he had never set eyes on her.

He’ll beg for the kind of death I’m going to deny him.

The promise hardens in my chest, a molten certainty that soothes even as it burns.

Still, a part of me knows this isn’t just about Jackson.

Soon, I’ll have to face her.

She’s no fool. She’ll have questions. She’ll fight me—she always does. She’ll demand answers, try to claw her way back to the illusion of freedom she thinks she can still reach.

This time… I’m not sure I want to fight back. I might just let her win.

Let her scream at me, rage at me, claw at me with all the fire she tries to hide. Let her break herself against me.

There’s a terrible, aching hunger in me now—a need to see her shatter. To feel her tear herself apart and still come back to me, still choose me, even if it’s only because I left her no other choice.

I want her ruined for anyone else.

I hear the door creak softly behind me.

Dima steps into the room, his footsteps quiet but purposeful. He doesn’t speak at first—he knows better. He waits until I acknowledge him with a glance over my shoulder.

“Well?” I say, voice low.

He shifts his weight, folding his hands behind his back. “Waters is moving. Not tonight, but soon. Rumors say he’s reaching out to the Kovalchuk family. Trying to find leverage.”

I nod once, unsurprised. The rats always scurry when they sense the fire coming.

“Keep him under,” I order. “No moves unless I say.”

Dima hesitates, just for a breath. “What do we do about Alina?”

My mouth twists. “Leave her to me.”

He nods and leaves without another word.

I turn back to the window.

The city blurs slightly in my vision, the lights smearing into long, broken lines. My reflection stares back at me—hollow-eyed, sharp-mouthed, the monster I chose to become a long time ago.

There are a thousand ways to break a man.