Page 5

She looks small, fragile. but I know better.

I stand at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching her carefully. The dim lighting casts shadows along the soft curves of her face, making her look even more delicate, her long blonde hair fanned out over the pillow, but I don’t let it fool me. Looks mean nothing. Innocence is a mask, and I’ve seen enough people wear it to know better than to trust it.

The bandage on her arm is stark against her pale skin, a reminder of the bullet I put there hours ago. A clean shot—calculated, precise. Enough to stop her, but not enough to kill.

Not yet.

Ivan stands beside me, his posture casual but his presence sharp. He’s been waiting to ask the question, and when he finally does, his voice is low, steady.

“You could have ended it back there,” he says, studying me from the corner of his eye. “Why go through the trouble of bringing her here?”

I don’t look at him. My eyes stay on her.

“Not that easily,” I murmur. “I’ll make her suffer first.”

Ivan exhales, a sound laced with both understanding and curiosity. He doesn’t need to ask more. He knows how this works. Revenge isn’t just about balance—it’s about control. It’s about making them feel the weight of their choices before I erase them from existence.

If I had put a bullet in her head back there in the street, it would’ve been over in seconds. Too fast. Too clean. This is better.

She starts to stir, her fingers twitching slightly against the crisp white sheets. A slow, unconscious movement, but a sign that her body is waking up, recognizing the pain.

I take a step closer, watching as her breath hitches, as her body tenses against the unfamiliar surroundings. Her brows pull together, her lashes flutter, and then finally—her eyes open.

At first, there’s nothing but confusion. Then wariness.

She doesn’t move right away, but I see the way her breathing changes, the way she blinks quickly, as if trying to clear the haze of unconsciousness. Her gaze flits around the room, taking in the unfamiliar space, the reality of her situation sinking in.

I let the silence stretch, let her feel the weight of it, let her realize she’s trapped. Then, finally, she looks at me.

I don’t speak. Neither does she. Still, I see the moment the fear sets in—the slight widening of her eyes, the way her throat bobs as she swallows.

She’s realizing exactly what kind of situation she’s in.

Sophia shifts against the mattress, her movements slow, uncertain, like a wounded animal testing its own limits. The wince that flickers across her face tells me everything I need to know—she’s in pain, and she’s trying not to show it. A lesser man might feel something for her, a flicker of sympathy, a moment of restraint.

I am not a lesser man.

I watch her struggle, her body tense beneath the crisp sheets, her breath uneven as she fights through the fog of unconsciousness. The bullet wound in her arm must be screaming, her muscles stiff from the shock, but I don’t offer her comfort. I simply wait.

The room is silent, save for the faint rustling of fabric as she shifts again, this time with more urgency. Her eyes move, flicking from the unfamiliar space around her to Ivan, who stands beside me, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. Then, finally, she looks at me.

That’s when I see it.

The moment the reality of her situation settles in, the slow, creeping awareness that she’s not safe. That whatever nightmare she thought this was? It’s real.

Fear is an interesting thing. Some people crumble under it. Others try to push past it, pretend it doesn’t exist. Then there are the rare few, the ones whose fear doesn’t make them weaker—it makes them sharper.

I don’t know which kind she is yet.

“Hello, Sophia. Finally, you’re awake,” I say, voice calm, controlled. I take a step closer, watching as she flinches ever so slightly, a barely there reaction. She’s trying to keep her composure, but the way her fingers curl into the sheets betrays her.

Her lips part, but for a moment, no words come. She swallows once, the muscles in her throat working against her nerves, and then she speaks, her voice thin but surprisingly steady.

“I’m not Sophia.” A pause. Then, stronger— “I’m Julie.”

Her words hover between us, a quiet challenge wrapped in uncertainty.

Ivan shifts beside me, his brows furrowing. “James Spade only has one daughter.”

Julie exhales, her chest rising and falling a little too quickly, like she’s trying to steady herself. She hesitates, just for a moment, before forcing herself to meet my gaze. “I’m his daughter too,” she says, quieter this time. “He just… never made it public.”

I don’t react right away.

Instead, I study her, watch the way her shoulders tense, how her fingers dig even tighter into the sheets, like she’s holding on to something she knows she’s not supposed to say.

Illegitimate, then.

Ivan makes a small, disbelieving noise, but I don’t take my eyes off her.

“Illegitimate,” I say, letting the word settle, waiting to see if she’ll flinch at the truth of it.

She doesn’t. Her lips press together, her nostrils flaring ever so slightly, but she doesn’t deny it.

I step closer, the space between us shrinking, and watch the way her breath hitches. There’s still fear in her eyes—of course there is—but beneath it, I see something else. Resentment.

Not just towards me. Towards her father, maybe? That, more than anything, makes her valuable.

I tilt my head slightly, considering her. “So, you were the secret,” I muse. “Kept out of the family business, left in the shadows while Sophia played the golden daughter.”

Her fingers twitch, a reaction she doesn’t control fast enough. There it is. She hates it. Hates the truth of it.

She might have played the part of the carefree socialite for years, but deep down, I see it now—the part of her that has always wanted more. Wanted to be seen. Wanted to matter.

A slow grin tugs at the corner of my mouth as I reach forward, wrapping my fingers around her throat.

Her entire body locks up, her breath catching in her chest as my grip settles—not tight, not yet, but firm. My thumb brushes against her pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat beneath my touch.

She stares up at me, her lips parted, her breath uneven. Julie wants to fight it. Wants to pretend she’s not afraid.

I see the truth in the way she stays perfectly still, like a rabbit caught in a wolf’s jaws, unsure if moving will make things worse.

I lean in slightly, just enough that she can feel the heat of my presence, the weight of my attention settling fully on her.

“Well,” I murmur, “this just makes things even more interesting.”

Her breath is uneven, each inhale shaky beneath my grip. She’s tense, every muscle in her body wound tight, but she isn’t stupid enough to fight me. Not yet.

I study her, watching the way she forces herself to hold my gaze despite the fear I can feel humming beneath her skin. She’s trying to stay composed, but I see the flicker of something behind those wide blue eyes—defiance.

I tighten my fingers slightly, just enough to remind her who’s in control. Her pulse jumps against my palm, her lips parting slightly, but she doesn’t look away.

“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask, my voice smooth, almost conversational.

She swallows. “Because you’re a psychopath with control issues?”

My lips twitch, more amused than I should be. Even with the gunshot wound, even after watching me execute two men without hesitation, she still has a mouth on her.

“Wrong answer,” I murmur, loosening my grip just enough to let her breathe fully. “Let me educate you.”

I release her throat and step back, watching as she lets out a shaky exhale. She lifts a hand to where my fingers had been, rubbing at the skin, but I know better than to think she’s relaxing. She’s waiting—calculating her next move.

“You’re here,” I say, folding my arms, “because your beloved father and sister played a very important role in having my uncle killed.”

Confusion flickers across her face, mixing with something else. A beat passes before she shakes her head. “What?”

“Valeri Sharov,” I continue, as if she hadn’t spoken. “A man who built his empire with his own two hands. A man who was loyal to the Bratva until the day he was put in the ground. A man your sister helped eliminate.”

She blinks rapidly, shaking her head again. “No… no, that’s not possible. My family—”

“Your family,” I cut in, “is full of liars. Now, you’re either one of them, or you’re too naive to see the truth.”

Her jaw clenches. “I am telling the truth,” she snaps, her voice sharper now. “My family wouldn’t—”

I step forward, grabbing the file Ivan had left on the desk and flipping it open. I don’t give her time to argue before I toss the documents onto the bed beside her. Photographs, bank transactions, and written testimonies scatter across the sheets, the damning proof staring back at her in black and white.

“Look,” I say coldly. “Tell me again that your family wasn’t involved.”

She does.

“This isn’t possible,” she whispers, her hands trembling as she picks up one of the papers.

“It’s fact,” Ivan interjects, arms crossed. “You’re either a fool, or you’re playing a very stupid game pretending otherwise.”

Her nostrils flare. “I’m not lying.”

“You’re just like them,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Desperate to pretend you don’t know how deep in the dirt they are. Or maybe you do know, but you’ve convinced yourself it doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t know!” she snaps, frustration breaking through the thin veil of composure she’s been clinging to. “I don’t know anything about this! I wasn’t involved in my father’s business—I never was!”

“That,” I say slowly, “is something I intend to change.”

Her breath catches, her expression shifting from anger to something warier, something uncertain.

“You’re going to be useful to me, Julie,” I say, watching the way her face tightens at my use of her name. “One way or another.”

She opens her mouth, ready to argue, but I turn away before she can speak.

“Ivan,” I say, my voice calm as I motion him toward the door.

He follows without hesitation, leaving Julie alone in the bed, breathing hard, fury and fear warring in her eyes.

The door clicks shut behind me, sealing her inside, but I can still feel the tension from our conversation lingering in the air. Julie Spade is desperate, confused—but most importantly, angry. Not just at me. Not just at this situation. At her father. That makes her more valuable than she even realizes.

Ivan walks beside me as we move down the hall, his sharp gaze flicking toward me, waiting. He’s been silent, but I know him too well to think he doesn’t have something to say.

I don’t make him wait long. “She should be watched at all times,” I tell him. “No exceptions.”

He nods once, falling into step with me easily. “I’ll have a man outside her door at all hours,” he says. “Rotating shifts—no weak links. We should install cameras in her room. Hidden, obviously. If she’s got any plans to get clever, I want to know about it before she even tries.”

“Do it,” I say, pleased with his efficiency. “I want eyes on her from the moment she wakes up to the moment she falls asleep. Even then, I want someone listening.”

He exhales, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “You think she’s going to try something?”

I don’t answer immediately.

Julie isn’t like her sister. That much is obvious. Sophia Spade is calculating, ruthless in a way that only someone raised to wield power can be. Julie, though—she’s untouched by that world. Kept in the dark, hidden away like some shameful secret.

Or so she claims.

It doesn’t matter if she’s naive or pretending to be. What matters is what she is now. A bargaining chip. A weakness to exploit. A tool I can shape into something useful.

I glance at Ivan. “Did you see her face when she spoke about her father?”

His brow furrows slightly, then realization clicks into place.

“She’s got resentment,” he mutters.

“Exactly.” I pause in the hall, turning to face him fully. “That kind of anger? It doesn’t come from nowhere. It’s deep, and it’s been festering for a long time.”

Ivan watches me carefully, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “You want to use that.”

I tilt my head slightly, considering. “Maybe.”

I will.

Resentment is a powerful thing. It doesn’t just create cracks in loyalty—it shatters it. Julie Spade may not be her sister, but if I play this right, she won’t need to be. She’ll be mine to use.

Ivan doesn’t question me further. He’s been at my side long enough to know when my mind is already made up.

“I’ll make sure she’s under constant surveillance,” he says. “I’ll check in on the camera installation myself.”

“Good,” I murmur.

Ivan watches me for a beat as I turn back toward the door. He doesn’t ask what I’m doing—he doesn’t need to. He knows me well enough to understand when I’ve decided something.

I push open the door and step inside.

Julie is curled up in the bed, her body small against the vastness of the space, her knees tucked slightly toward her chest. She’s cradling her wounded arm, fingers pressing against the bandage as if she can hold the pain inside and keep it from spreading. Her face is pale, the aftermath of shock settling in, but her jaw is still tight, her lips pressed into a thin line.

She hears me enter, but she doesn’t look up right away. She’s trying to ignore me.

That’s fine.

I cross the room slowly, my steps unhurried. “Your arm needs to be looked at properly.”

She stiffens slightly at my voice but doesn’t respond.

I take another step forward, watching the way her fingers tighten over her injury, nails digging into the bandage. The pain must be unbearable, but she doesn’t complain, doesn’t make a sound.

“You were shot, not grazed,” I continue. “You need stitches. If it gets infected, you’ll be dealing with something a lot worse than just pain.”

Still, she doesn’t answer.

I let the silence stretch between us, watching, waiting. Eventually, she shifts, barely enough to tilt her head up, her eyes sharp despite the exhaustion written across her face.

“I don’t want anyone near me,” she says flatly.

I arch a brow. “Tough shit.”

Her glare deepens, her lips parting slightly, like she wants to argue, but she must realize how useless that would be.

“You can’t control everything,” she mutters.

I smirk. “Watch me.”

She exhales sharply, turning her face away, her fingers still curled protectively around her wound.

I watch her for a long moment, taking in every tense line of her posture. I could force her—easily. She’s in no condition to fight me on this. I don’t need to. She’ll come to the same conclusion herself.

I turn for the door, calling over my shoulder. “I’ll send for the doctor. You’ll sit still and deal with it.”

She doesn’t respond, but the way her jaw clenches tells me all I need to know.