Page 9

The whiskey in my glass barely moves as I swirl it, staring at the amber liquid as if it holds the answers I seek. It doesn’t. Nothing does.

Julie Spade is an issue. A complication in what was meant to be a simple game of leverage. I had expected her captivity to send ripples of panic through the Spade family, to have her father and sister scrambling to get her back. Instead? Silence.

No desperate negotiations. No emotional pleas. No signs of a family torn apart over her absence. It’s infuriating.

Julie is supposed to be valuable to them. If not as a daughter, then as a pawn. James Spade doesn’t strike me as the type to let his blood be taken without consequence. And Sophia? She’s cold, calculating. Even she must realize that allowing her sister to remain in my hands makes them look weak.

Weakness, in our world, is unacceptable. Which means they’ll try to take her back—not for her sake, but to maintain the illusion of power.

That realization should satisfy me. It doesn’t. Instead, my mind keeps circling back to her. To the way she looked at me tonight, her body trembling with exhaustion, hunger, hopelessness. To the way she cried in front of me.

Not the quiet, controlled tears of someone trying to manipulate a situation. No, Julie Spade broke. And when she spoke—when she told me outright that her family didn’t care whether she lived or died—there was no deception in her voice.

That shouldn’t bother me.

I set the glass down with a dull clink , jaw tightening. A part of me—the rational part—knows I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. Julie is nothing more than leverage. If her father and sister don’t feel her absence, then I’ll find another way to make them suffer.

That moment, the one where her voice cracked and she told me the truth of her insignificance in their world? It lingers.

It unsettles me.

I lean back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my face, irritated at my own thoughts. This isn’t about her. It’s about the Spades. It’s about revenge.

A sharp knock at the door disrupts my thoughts.

I straighten, irritation already burning beneath my skin. “Enter.”

The door swings open, and Ivan steps inside, his expression carefully neutral. Still, I don’t miss the flicker of scrutiny in his gaze as he takes me in.

I don’t like that look.

“What?” I snap.

He doesn’t flinch. He never does. “You seem… distracted,” he says, closing the door behind him. “That’s not like you.”

My jaw tightens. “Watch yourself, Ivan.”

He exhales, tilting his head slightly. “You can lie to yourself, Mikhail, but not to me. Something is bothering you.”

I hate how easily he reads me.

I glare at him, my voice dropping to something colder. “You’re here to take orders, not analyze me. You’d do well to remember that.”

Ivan sneers, unbothered. “Of course. Just making an observation.”

I grip the armrest of my chair. “Observing isn’t your job. You’re not my friend, Ivan. You’re a trusted member of the Bratva, nothing more.”

His faces goes blank, but he nods once. “Understood.”

For a moment, the room is thick with tension. Then, he shifts, crossing his arms. “The doctor came. She’s fine. Weak, dehydrated, but fine.”

I nod, already expecting as much.

“She asked about leaving,” he adds.

I scoff. “Of course she did.”

Ivan leans against the desk, arms still crossed. “What’s the plan with her?”

I exhale sharply. “She is not the problem. Her family is.”

“Except they don’t seem to care that she’s gone,” Ivan points out.

I press my fingers together. “They care about how it looks. They care about power and reputation.” My voice hardens. “They’ll come for her. Not out of love, but because they have no choice.”

Ivan watches me carefully. “What if they don’t?”

I smile coldly. “Then I’ll give them a reason to.”

He nods slowly, but there’s something else in his gaze.

“Say what’s on your mind, Ivan,” I snap.

He hesitates, then exhales. “She’s not like them, you know.”

I clench my jaw. “That doesn’t matter.”

Ivan shrugs. “Maybe not. Just don’t get so caught up in breaking her that you forget she was already broken before you took her.”

My fingers twitch. I hold his gaze, letting the silence drag before I finally say, “Are we done?”

He gives me a lazy smile. “Of course, sorry.”

Without another word, he turns and walks out, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I exhale, slow and measured, rubbing the tension from my temples.

Ivan is wrong, Julie isn’t broken. Not yet, anyway, but she will be.

***

The day moves forward in a routine that should have been mindless—meetings, phone calls, deals that require my attention. A sense of normalcy settles over the operations, but I know better than to trust it.

Peace in this world is an illusion, a brief pause before the next inevitable act of violence. Still, I go through the motions.

By the time I leave my office, the sun is rising, casting a pale glow over the city skyline. The compound is already coming to life—men moving through the halls, phone calls being made, security shifting positions. The Bratva never truly sleeps.

In the main room, I find Leonard, another of my men, sitting at the long wooden table, a cup of black coffee steaming in front of him. He looks up when I approach, nodding once.

“You look like shit,” he remarks dryly.

I smirk, dropping into the chair across from him. “Good morning to you too.”

He slides a second cup toward me. “Long night?”

I take the coffee without answering.

He watches me for a beat, then leans back. “I heard you and Ivan have been arguing.”

I raise a brow. “You heard?”

“I hear everything,” he says smoothly, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Word is, you’re a little preoccupied these days.”

My grip tightens slightly around the cup. Leonard is one of the few people I actually trust—but even trust has limits.

“Julie Spade is leverage,” I say evenly. “Nothing more.”

He snorts. “Leverage that’s keeping you awake at night?”

I don’t dignify that with an answer.

He grins, but his expression sobers quickly. “So what’s the plan?”

I exhale, rubbing my jaw. “I give the Spades a little more time to react. They care more about power than blood, but they won’t let this go unanswered forever. Their pride won’t allow it.”

“What if they decide she’s disposable?”

I lean back. “Then I make her useful in another way.”

Leonard’s gaze sharpens slightly. “Careful, Boss.”

I meet his stare, unflinching. “I don’t need reminders.”

Leonard nods, not pushing further, but I can see the warning in his eyes.

I know what he’s implying. I don’t like it.

I finish my coffee and push the empty cup aside. “Since you’re here, and Ivan apparently tells you everything, you can give me the status update,” I state, shifting the conversation.

Leonard catches the change in tone and leans forward. “Shipment arrived last night. No issues. Semyon is handling distribution.”

“Good.”

He continues, listing off smaller business matters, the kind that keep everything running smoothly but don’t require my direct involvement. I listen, nodding where necessary, giving orders when needed.

The work keeps my mind occupied. Until it doesn’t. Until, despite myself, my thoughts drift back to her.

Julie Spade is a problem, and I don’t let problems go unresolved.

I push back from the table, grabbing the empty cup and heading toward the coffeepot on the far counter. Leonard watches me, arms still crossed, his expression unreadable.

“You should get some sleep,” he says, though there’s no real concern in his tone. Just observation.

I pour the coffee, taking a sip so quickly it burns my tongue. I barely feel it. “Sleep is a luxury,” I mutter, finishing the rest in a few quick swallows before setting the cup down with a sharp clink .

Leonard snorts. “You say that like we’re not drowning in luxury.” He gestures around the room—the polished floors, the grand fixtures, the wealth that seeps into every corner of our world.

I glance at him, unimpressed. “The reason we live like this is because I don’t rest. Money and rest don’t go together.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Sure, but it makes exhaustion a little easier to tolerate.”

I don’t respond, already striding toward the door.

He doesn’t follow, doesn’t press the conversation further. He knows when I’m done talking.

Once I reach my office, the weight of responsibility crashes over me, a familiar pressure settling into my bones.

The business of the Bratva never stops.

For the next several hours, I deal with all of it—the constant flood of decisions, the ceaseless demands for my time.

My phone rings almost constantly. Supply chain issues with our shipping routes. A dispute between two lieutenants over territory encroachment. Payment delays from a European partner who suddenly seems to be having trouble moving our product through customs.

The usual headaches of running an empire built on blood and business.

Meetings blur together, one after another, as I navigate conversations with men who think they can waste my time.

Some require reminders of their obligations. Others need reassurance that our power is still absolute.

By midday, I almost wish for the violence.

The talking, the negotiations, the endless diplomacy—it’s necessary, but it grates on me. I’ve never had much patience for the bureaucratic side of this world, but power isn’t just about force. It’s about control.

Control requires strategy. Still, as the day drags on, I find myself craving something simpler—something more primal. The clean finality of a bullet.

The weight of a knife in my hand.

The kind of violence that doesn’t require endless discussions or drawn-out threats.

Not today. Today, I sit through the meetings. I sign off on shipments. I approve decisions that keep the machine running.

By the time the last meeting ends, the sun has started to dip beyond the skyline, casting the room in shades of deep orange and shadow.

I exhale slowly, rubbing my temple as the quiet settles in. For the first time all day, no one is demanding my attention. No ringing phones. No waiting men. No business.

Yet, my mind still refuses to be quiet.

Because despite everything—despite the endless stream of work, despite the calls, the deals, the meetings—Julie Spade still lingers in the back of my mind.

I lean back in my chair, stretching my arms above my head as the tension coils tighter in my muscles. The room is quiet now, just the faint ticking of the clock on the far wall, the dim glow of the evening sky casting long shadows across my desk.

Yet, my thoughts refuse to settle.

The image of her lingers in my head—the way she had looked up at me last night, tears shining in her eyes but with her chin lifted, still fighting even as she crumbled.

I liked it, probably more than I should.

There’s something irresistible about it—fear and anger twisting together, making her eyes burn even brighter, her body tense as though she wanted to run but knew she couldn’t. Knew she was mine to control.

I exhale, rubbing my thumb along my jaw, considering.

Perhaps I should visit her. Not out of kindness—there’s no room for that—but out of curiosity. I want to see if she’s still shaking. If her lips will still tremble when she speaks to me, if she’ll still try to fight when she knows she’s already lost.

The thought of it—of standing close to her again, watching the emotions flicker across her face, feeling the heat of her skin when I brush too close—sends a slow burn curling through my chest.

She’s beautiful. I noticed it the first time I saw her, but’s more than that. It’s the way she looks when she’s cornered. The way her body goes still, like a rabbit caught in the sights of a wolf, knowing there’s no escape. I bet she’d look just as good like that in other situations.

Trembling. Breathless beneath me.

I exhale sharply, shaking the thought away before it can linger too long.

Distraction.

That’s all she is.

I reach for my phone, ready to call Ivan and tell him I’m heading down to see her. But before I can, the device vibrates in my palm.

I glance at the screen. The doctor.

Frowning, I answer. “Speak.”

The man on the other end clears his throat. “I’ve seen to Miss Spade. She’s recovering well. The fever has gone down, and the wound is healing properly.”

I say nothing, waiting.

“However,” the doctor continues hesitantly, “she’s still weak. She needs to eat more, drink more. If you want her to regain strength, she’ll need fresh air. Some movement.”

Before I can respond, Ivan’s voice cuts in from the background, sharp and unimpressed. “She gets enough fresh air through the window.”

I smirk slightly, knowing full well that window is barred shut.

The doctor hesitates. “That’s not quite the same thing, is it?”

Ivan exhales in irritation. “Besides, I can’t force her to eat.”

I consider that. I could force her, except subtle fear is a better motivator than brute force.

She’ll eat when she realizes starving herself won’t change her fate. She’ll drink when the thirst becomes unbearable. She’ll break when I decide it’s time.

“Do what you can,” I say flatly, then hang up before the doctor can respond.

For a moment, I sit in silence, my fingers tapping idly against the desk.

Julie Spade is recovering, that’s good.

It would be a shame for her to fall apart too soon. I want to watch her push back, even knowing it’s useless.

I picture her again—lips parted, breathing uneven, her body tense with uncertainty. The way she looked at me last night, caught between fear and defiance, was exquisite.

If I push her just right, if I step too close, if I murmur something dark against her skin just to watch her shudder…. I grin. That trembling wouldn’t just be from fear.