Page 31 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

Gennady

The war room was dim, the yellow glow of a single lamp spilling over the massive Chicago map on the table. My finger jabbed at three red-circled spots: East End docks, South Side warehouse cluster, and the abandoned downtown factory. These were the Marco strongholds Ginnie had fed us yesterday.

Dimitri and the inner circle stood around me, waiting for my call. The air was thick, taut as a bowstring. Everyone knew tonight's move would tip the scales in our war with Marco.

"We hit them as planned," I said, my voice low and hard, cutting through the silence. "Three targets, all at once. Dimitri, you take the East End docks. Alex, the South Side warehouses. I'm leading the downtown factory myself. No survivors."

Dimitri nodded, but I caught the flicker of worry in his eyes. "Boss, about the source of this intel…"

"I know," I snapped, shutting him down. I didn't want to talk about Ginnie in front of the crew. "We've got no choice. Marco goes down, whatever it takes."

The raids went off smoother than I'd dared hope. Back in my office, I fielded one victory call after another.

"Boss, East End docks are done," Dimitri said, voice buzzing with adrenaline. "We found a shit-ton of guns, drugs, and Marco's financial records."

"South Side warehouses are ours," Alex reported next. "Grabbed two of Marco's top guys—still breathing. Interrogation's underway."

Then there was my hit on the downtown factory. Once a crumbling textile mill, its basement had been turned into Marco's secret vault. When we cracked those safes, the stacks of cash and gold bars damn near blinded me.

Ginnie's intel was spot-on, scarily so. This was a win—a clean, brutal sweep that exceeded every expectation.

I set the phone down, its cold metal biting into my palm.

Victory should've tasted like fire, like whiskey burning down my throat.

Instead, it was ash, cold and bitter. Ginnie's value was undeniable—she held Marco's jugular in her hands.

If I kept her close, I could end this bastard in a week, rip out the cancer that had haunted me since my father's days.

But at what cost?

Ginnie's endgame was clear as day: a seat at my side, the queen of the Sokolov Family. She'd made no secret of it, her greedy, vain eyes always locked on that prize.

And then there was Cassie. Her pale, gaunt face flashed in my mind, her eyes filled with pain and distance, her body wasting away.

She barely touched food anymore, wilting like a flower torn from its roots.

Every time I saw her, my heart felt like it was being crushed in a vice, the pain spreading to every nerve.

My victories, my revenge—they were nothing next to her silent decay.

I shoved out of the chair, storming out of the war room. The high of the win didn't last a second, swallowed by a desperate need to see her. Now.

At her door, I knocked softly. "Cassie?"

No answer.

I tried again, my voice gentler. "Cassie, can I come in?"

Silence.

I took a deep breath, pushing down the churn in my chest, and turned the knob. The room was dark, lit only by the faint neon glow of the city outside, casting blurry patches on the floor.

Cassie sat by the window, a book in her hands, but I knew she wasn't reading. She looked up at my footsteps, her eyes flashing with wariness, like I was a stranger. That look cut deeper than any blade.

"You're wasting away," I said, stopping a few steps away, afraid to get too close. Every time I tried, she flinched, like I was poison.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

My heart twisted. God, she was a shadow of herself. Her cheeks were sunken, her body so thin it looked like a gust could knock her over. Dark circles ringed her eyes, her lips pale as death. She was fading right in front of me.

This was the woman who used to light up my world with her smile, who played her violin with love in her eyes. Was this still my Cassie?

"Cassie, please eat something," I said, my voice cracking with a plea I couldn't hide. "You're gonna make yourself sick. The doctor said—"

"I don't need a doctor," she cut me off, her tone calm but razor-sharp. "And I don't need your concern."

She turned back to the window, her coldness worse than any scream. Anger would've meant she still cared. This? This was her giving up—on us, on everything.

I stood frozen in the middle of the room, moonlight outlining her fragile frame. I wanted to rush to her, pull her into my arms, crush her against me until she was part of me again. I wanted to scream a thousand times, I'd give up everything for you!

But I couldn't. Her fear, her withdrawal—it stopped me cold.

That's when it hit me, clear as a gunshot.

Cassie's happiness was worth more than any victory.

No matter how much intel Ginnie had, no matter how fast she could help me bury Marco, I wouldn't trade Cassie's peace for it. I loved her—more than my empire, more than my revenge, more than my own damn life.

"I'll fix this," I said softly, knowing she might not believe me. "I swear, I'll make it right."

I turned and left, closing the door gently, my mind racing with a reckless, ironclad plan. I'd cut Ginnie loose, no matter what she offered. I'd take down Marco my way, even if it meant a longer, bloodier road.

Downstairs, the living room was bright, too bright. Ginnie lounged on the couch, flipping through a fashion magazine like she owned the place. When she saw me, she set it down, her face lighting up with a smug, victorious smile.

"So, how'd you like my gift?" she purred, her voice dripping with pride. "Bet Marco's losing his mind right now."

"The intel was solid," I said, sitting across from her, keeping my face neutral. "Marco's hurting bad."

"Of course," she said, tilting her chin up like she'd single-handedly won the war.

"And that's just the start. I know every one of his hideouts, his next moves, his weak spots, his so-called unbreakable allies.

" She leaned forward, her red lips curving seductively.

"Give me the green light, and in a week, I'll hand you his head on a platter. Marco, gone from Chicago's map."

She paused, her eyes glinting like a snake's. "But, of course, I have a few… small requests in return."

"We're done," I said, my voice flat, leaving no room for argument.

Her smile froze. "What?"

"You heard me." My eyes bored into her, cold as ice. "I'll pay you for your help. Cash. Now get out."

Ginnie stood, her face a mess of confusion, shock, and then raw, humiliated fury.

Her eyes turned venomous. "Gennady, are you fucking insane?

" she screeched, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

"I just handed you Marco's ass on a silver tray!

I proved my worth! I can give you his empire, his life, everything you want!

And you're throwing it away for that bitch?

That frigid little slut who won't even let you touch her? "

"Shut your mouth!" I shot to my feet, my voice a low, dangerous growl, my aura radiating pure menace. The air seemed to freeze. "One more word about her, and I'll rip your fucking tongue out."

Ginnie didn't back down. Instead, she let out a shrill, vicious laugh, like nails on a chalkboard. "Rip my tongue out? You think you can threaten me, Gennady? You think you've got options?" Her eyes gleamed with cruel madness.

She sauntered to the couch, picking up her purse with deliberate slowness, pulling out a thick manila envelope.

She dangled it in front of me, like a trophy.

"Listen, darling," she said, dragging out her words, savoring my rising anger.

"If you cut me out…" She leaned closer, her voice a venomous whisper.

"By sunrise, your precious Anya's exact address—Montana, Lake Missoula, east shore, that cute little safehouse—will be on Marco's desk.

How long do you think he's been waiting for that? "

My blood turned to ice, my mind blank except for one word: Anya. It echoed like a thunderclap.

"What did you say?" My voice was hoarse, trembling with a fear I didn't even recognize.

"Montana. Lake Missoula. East shore. Private estate," she said, each word clear and cutting, her smile poisonous. "You thought you hid her well? Gennady, you underestimated me. Isabella told me about that place years ago, before she died."

"You dare touch my daughter?" Rage erupted, a volcano exploding. I lunged, grabbing her collar, nearly lifting her off the ground. My knuckles cracked, my eyes blazing with murder. "You fucking dare?"

"Let go!" Ginnie snarled, clawing at my hand, unfazed.

"This isn't a threat—it's a deal!" She wrenched free, stepping back, smoothing her expensive collar with a mocking grace, her eyes glinting with something darker, deadlier.

"And that's not even the best part, Gennady Sokolov.

Do you know how Cassie Monroe's poor father, John Monroe, really died? "

My heart stopped. A cold dread shot from my feet to my skull, freezing me in place. "What do you mean?" My voice was rough, like sandpaper.

Ginnie's smile was cruel, predatory. She pulled out faded photos and a thick file from the envelope, slapping them onto the glass coffee table with a sharp thwack.

The photos showed a younger Victor Sokolov—my father—standing next to a man with a gentle smile, familiar features.

Cassie's eyes, her softness. It was John Monroe, alive, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with my father like friends.

"Twenty years ago," Ginnie hissed, her voice like a snake in my ear, "your dear old dad, Victor, wanted to keep a fortune smuggled from Russia—enough to buy half of Chicago. He betrayed his closest partner, John Monroe. Set him up, framed him as a traitor."

My world spun, the floor dropping out from under me. I grabbed the photos, my hands shaking so bad I could barely hold them. My father's smile in those pictures looked monstrous now.

"John found out," Ginnie went on, her voice cold as a guillotine.

"He had proof, enough to bury Victor. He was ready to blow the whistle to the other families.

So Victor struck first." She slapped the file down next to the photos.

"He stirred up old grudges, sparked a 'random' gang war.

And in the chaos…" Her eyes stabbed into mine.

"He made sure John Monroe died. Clean, no trace.

Look—action logs, signatures. Victor's own hand. Ironclad."

A tidal wave of guilt and horror crashed over me, drowning everything. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

Ginnie watched my face pale, her smile triumphant, like she'd crafted a masterpiece. "So, you get it now?" she said, her voice thick with malice. "Cassie Monroe, the woman you love, is sleeping with the son of her father's killer. And the kicker? She doesn't even know."

"Shut up!" My voice was a snarl, the urge to tear her apart almost overwhelming. But a shred of reason held me back—she wouldn't play this card without a backup.

"The truth's the truth, Gennady," she sneered. "Imagine if she found out. That your father murdered hers. You think she'd still look at you with those lovesick eyes? Let you near her? She'd hate you to her core."

Every word was a branding iron, searing my soul. The thought of Cassie knowing, of her looking at me with hate—it was unbearable.

"What do you want?" I rasped, each word tasting of blood.

The urge to rip her to pieces froze as my fingers grazed the cold chair. I sank back, the chair groaning under my weight. She thought she had me by the throat? Fine. Let her gloat. She'd learn soon enough what it cost to corner a beast like me.

Ginnie stepped closer, her manicured nails grazing the chair's edge, her expensive perfume and dangerous aura enveloping me.

Her breath was hot against my ear. "It's simple…

" She paused, relishing the tension. "Next week.

A big wedding. Every major player invited.

I want all of Chicago to know I'm the queen of the Sokolov empire.

" She straightened, stepping back, her eyes burning with greedy triumph.

She paused, her gaze cruel. "Refuse, or try to play me, and Anya's address goes straight to Marco. And these—" she tapped the photos and file—"the proof of Victor's murder, your family's bloody hands, will land in Cassie's lap. She'll know exactly what kind of monster she's been loving."

Rage roared through me, molten and unstoppable, but I forced myself to stay calm. Years in this life taught me one thing: never show weakness to an enemy. I leaned back, fingers tapping the table like I was mulling over a business deal, though my grip was tight enough to dent the wood.

"Interesting offer," I said, my voice eerily calm. "Forty-eight hours, you said?"

Ginnie blinked, thrown off by my composure. She'd expected me to lose it. "Yes," she said, trying to regain control. "Forty-eight hours. I want an answer."

"Fine." I stood, smooth and composed, like I was discussing dinner plans. "Let me see you out. I need time to think."

Every cell in my body screamed to end her, but I played the polite host, guiding her toward the door. Her eyes flickered with uncertainty—she hadn't expected this.

Then, a sound—soft, almost nothing, like a snowflake landing. A sharp gasp from the stairs.

In the dead silence of the room, it hit like a bomb.

Ginnie and I snapped our heads up. Cassie stood halfway down the stairs, her hand gripping the banister, knuckles bone-white. Her face was paler than the moonlight, her eyes—once so full of love, pain, struggle—now empty, drowning in despair.

She'd heard everything.

"Cassie…" My throat burned, like it was sealed with hot iron. I wanted to run to her, but my legs felt like lead.

Her eyes locked on mine, and God, the pain in them—I'd never seen anything like it. Her lips trembled, trying to form words, but nothing came out. She stood there, fragile as glass, crushed by the ugliest truth.

Then she turned and bolted upstairs.

"Cassie! Wait!" I found my legs, charging after her. "Let me explain!"

Explain? What the hell could I say? That the truth wasn't real? That I wasn't the son of her father's killer? Lies were useless now.

A door slammed upstairs, followed by her muffled sobs, tearing through the night—and my heart.

Behind me, Ginnie's laugh rang out, cruel and triumphant. "Well, looks like she knows now. So, Gennady, what's it gonna be?"