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Viktor

Zasha speeds me toward another Makarov property, where professional matters await. But it's not business that consumes my thoughts—it's Scarlett.

Her image intrudes, unbidden but not unwelcome. Sweet, feisty Scarlett with eyes that burn green like spring grass and see right through me. She's a melody in a world of discordant notes, and I've become an unwilling captive to her tune. My chest tightens at the thought of her feeling weak from the life growing inside her. A life that I have put in there.

My body still feels the strain from holding back from her yesterday. The cold show did nothing to subside my raging desire.

"Damn," I mutter under my breath, a war waging within me. To protect her means to keep her close, but every inch of space I share with Scarlett tears at the fabric of the walls I've built around my heart. A mafia lord isn't afforded the luxury of love; love is leverage against me.

The car rolls to a stop outside the nondescript building—a fortress masquerading as a derelict warehouse. I step out, and the change in my personality is instant. Where I’d been burning with passion a second ago, is now replaced with cold hardened. Emotion recedes like the tide going out, leaving behind the cold, hard shore of necessity. This is the Viktor Makarov I’m familiar with. The one who’s in his element when it comes to taking out his adversaries.

With each step toward the entrance, I feel lighter even with the weight of the gun against my side. The steel door closes behind me with a resounding thud, there’s no room for sentiment.

We descend the stairs, the dim lighting casting shadows that dance along the walls like spectators. This place is where consequences are delivered, where debts are paid in pounds of flesh.

At the bottom, I pause, allowing the chill of the basement to seep into my bones. My nostrils flare at the coppery hint of blood lingering in the air. The stark fluorescent lights hum above, merciless in their exposure of every grim detail.

"Here he is, Pakhan." Lev's voice cuts through the silence, a little too excited for the job he’s handling.

"Speak," I say, walking in like an avenging angel, cloaked not in wings but in tailored darkness. "And it better be worth the air you're wasting."

The captive sits slumped in a chair, his breathing ragged, and his swollen eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal. I stride closer, each step measured and deliberate. His good eye latches onto me, and his pupils dilate like those of a deer caught in the headlights of a car. He quickly looks away, his eyes landing pleadingly on Zasha.

"Look at me," I command. The authority in my voice leaves no room for defiance.

He obeys, though his body trembles, sweat beading on his forehead. I lean down, our faces inches apart, and I see it—the raw fear, the understanding that I hold all the cards.

"Talk," I say simply. My tone doesn't rise, but the threat is implicit, hanging between us heavier than chains.

"Please ... I'll tell you everything," he stammers, voice barely above a whisper.

"Good." I nod, straightening up. "Because you wouldn’t want me to pry the truth out of you."

He spills everything, voice quivering, words tripping over each other in his haste. "The club manager, he's in deep, deeper than we thought. Was the stripper ..." His sentence falters incoherently, eyes darting between my men and me, pleading for some mercy.

"Spit it out," I command, my patience fraying like a worn rope.

"The manager had said that there is a stripper who has some serious connections in the underworld.”

“And?”

“And she has the body and wit to bring down the high and mighty.”

“And?”

She's not dancing anymore, she's ..." He swallows hard as if tasting the bile of his betrayal. "She's climbing ranks, fast. Got protection from someone high up."

Anger simmers in my chest, a slow burn that threatens to erupt. Protection means a backer, and backers mean a power play—my power. My grip on the chair's back tightens, knuckles whitening.

His eyes, full of fear, flicker towards me as he continues talking, his voice a hoarse whisper clawing its way out of his battered throat. "About the girl ... she had plans, ambitions that reached beyond the stage and poles."

"Plans?" My voice is ice over steel. "What kind of plans?"

"To become the queen of the underworld," he rasps, each word shivering with terror. "She wanted to carve herself a name within the mob."

I lean in closer. His breaths come in sharp, jagged pulls, the stench of fear mingling with the cold dampness of the basement. "Why did you assume it was Electra?" I press, fixing my gaze on his.

"Because," he stutters, "the manager ... he mentioned she's gone from the club. So, when they asked me about a stripper turned criminal ..." He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like a buoy at sea. "I thought ... it had to be Electra."

"Thought," I echo, letting the silence stretch between us like a taut wire.

My left hand moves of its own accord, colliding with his face and sending a splatter of teeth and blood flying. I step out just in time to prevent any stain.

“You put Electra’s life in danger just because you thought?”

The fact that this could have put her and my child in danger if another group had gone after her has me seething with rage.

"Hmm," I murmur, my face a mask of indifference, betraying none of the curiosity that worms its way through my mind. The bartender's eyes flicker with a glimmer of hope at my measured tone. He searches my expression for a sign of mercy but finds none.

"Take care of him," I say flatly to Lev. My trusted right-hand man nods once, understanding flashing in his eyes. As I turn on my heel and stride away from the wretched scene, I don't look back. 'Taking care' can mean a bullet or a second chance. After all, cruelty and benevolence can both be tools of power.

"Bring the wretched manager to me," I say, turning to Zasha. The order is succinct, an unyielding decree.

My man nods once, understanding the urgency and necessity of swift action. I watch as he exits, his movements a silent testament to the well-oiled machine that is the Makarov Bratva. In moments like these, I'm reminded of the weight I carry, the responsibility to lead, and the responsibility to protect what's mine.

As I ascend the stairs, the chill of the basement lingers on my skin, but my resolve is fiery hot. My thoughts are a whirlwind, strategies forming and reforming with each step I take. The balance of power has shifted, and I must recalibrate. I need to fish out whomever the person trying to wipe out my family is. Not just for my sake but for Scarlett, the baby, and the empire I've bled for. No one, not a club manager or a stripper-turned player, will stand in my way.

With every step I take away from the darkness, the image of Scarlett seeps back into my mind, easing the edges of my anger like a balm.

She's a constant, persistent thought, a flickering light in the murky world I rule over. I wrestle with this dichotomy—a pakhan and a father—knowing full well that the collision of these worlds spells danger. Both for her and for our unborn child.

"Concentration," I mutter to myself as I push through the exit, stepping into the cool air. It wraps around me, almost mocking in its normalcy after what has just transpired. My car awaits a sleek and silent beast. I slide into the driver's seat, the leather cool against my skin, and start the engine.

The drive back is mechanical, muscle memory guiding me home while my thoughts remain captive to her—Scarlett. She's sweetness wrapped in steel, feisty yet undeniably vulnerable. And she's mine, whether she fully realizes it or not.

When I pull up to the mansion, it stands imposing and grandiose in the moonlight. I park and step out, my movements sure and swift. The doors open before me, and the warmth and soft lighting of the foyer engulf me. I nod back at the greeting of my men and hurry up to her room, taking the stairs two at a time.

I knock once, then twice, but no response, so I turn the door knob only to find it locked. A strange emotion I’ve never felt rushes through my veins, and I begin to bang relentlessly on the door. It will be fruitless to try and break the door because I know it will not yield.

“SCARLETT! ARE YOU IN THERE?” I scream, banging more loudly on the door.

The sound of the door opening from inside does nothing to ease my racing pulse.

“Is everything alright?” she asks wide-eyed as she opens the door, her figure haloed by the gentle glow from the chandelier above. Our eyes lock, and the air between us crackles with an energy that's both dangerous and intoxicating. She's wrapped in a towel, obviously just stepping out of the bathroom. Yet, she owns the space, her presence demanding acknowledgment without a word being spoken.

"Is everything alright?"

"Umm, yes?" I say, trying to keep myself from devouring her whole. “Just checking up on you before heading to my office.”

“Thank you. I was in the shower. I’d read that taking showers restores one energy in early pregnancy.”

“Are you feeling unwell? My protective instincts are on full alert now.

Without bothering for a response, I lift and carry her to the big bed. Every cell in my body is screaming to taste her again. But I hold back, fighting the primal urge that demands I claim her.

Her eyes, those vivid green pools of defiance and desire, don't waver. They search mine, seeking answers I'm not ready to give, promises I'm not sure I can keep. She's a puzzle and a revelation, a sweet torment I never anticipated when I brought her into my world.

As I drop her gently on my bed, her towel loosens and exposes her nudity like an offering before me.

Just kill me.