Page 143 of Violent Possession

His voice, when he speaks without turning, is deeper, dragged out by the morning.

“Painkillers in the cabinet above the sink. Black bottle. Take two.”

I follow his orders. The cabinet is locked with a biometric scanner; he’s already cleared it for me. I swallow the pills dry. Only then do I realize he’s studying me in the reflection of the glass. He turns, leaning against the counter, a white porcelain cup in his hand, and looks me up and down.

“Your little show at the restaurant is going to cost me over a million in hush money,” he says. “Not to mention the marble.”

I thought he’d care more about the money, but his tone is amused. That gives me courage.

I get closer, resting my hip against the counter, invading his space just to see what happens. The morning light traces the line of his jaw and the contours of the veins on his exposed arms. The idea of causing a loss for a man like him, who probably wipes his mouth with hundred-dollar bills, makes me want to laugh.

“A million?” I repeat, teasing. I slowly raise my hand, lightly touching a bluish vein on his forearm, feeling the skin prickle under my finger. “Damn. I’m a very expensive whore, aren’t I?”

His eyes darken, but he doesn’t pull away from my touch. “The most expensive I’ve ever had.”

“And you don’t even seem angry about paying,” I continue, sliding my finger down his arm until my hand rests on his. “In fact, you look quite pleased.”

He pulls his hand from mine, cutting my exploration short. “Don’t test your luck. Your approach was still reckless.”

I let out a low laugh, half mockery, half challenge. “My approach got you what you wanted.” I lean in a little closer. “Seraphim doesn’t trust you, and you don’t trust him, but he must trustme. I’ll still find him.”

His reply is dry, only the slightest lift at the corner of his mouth betraying the effect. “He trusts the man who ratted him out?”

The logic cuts right through my optimism. I take a step back. “He wouldn’t have warned me about Vasily if he didn’t trust me… I think. He knows I’m not an idiot. He knows I play to survive, just like him.”

Alexei remains silent, studying my face, weighing my words. He’s deciding if my instinct is worth the risk. IfIam worth the risk.

Finally, he sighs. “Be careful, Griffin.”

It’s an order, but it’s also a concession. He’s giving me rope, trusting I won’t hang myself with it.

I smile and move forward again, invading his space. I feel the wall of muscle under his shirt, his pulse racing despite that Russian statue pose.

“Don’t worry, boss,” I whisper. “I can handle myself.”

And before he can react, I kiss his mouth. It lasts only a second.

“You won’t be a widower anytime soon,” I say.

I pull back with the same impulse, smiling like someone who just witnessed a beautiful shootout.

I don’t look back to see his reaction. I don’t need to. I know exactly what expression he’s wearing now: intense eyes, a half-smile on his face, relaxed shoulders.

I put on my prosthesis—just to impress him by fitting it myself, something I practiced when I had nothing else to do—pull on the black coat, and, before I leave, I hear his voice. “Don’t come back dead.”

That one is definitely an order.

Instead of drawingattention in Alexei’s new Audi, I take a regular taxi, a beat-up Uno with a faded roof. I give the address I memorized for the church where I met Cain, but I get out a block early—paranoia is a survivor’s tool.

The trip is short. I replay the scene in my head: the soup, the bread, the long tables. And the priest. The man with the tired face and gentle hands who served everyone without judgment.

I recognize the church from a distance: neo-gothic facade, stained-glass windows smudged with pollution, the kind of place where the devil can walk in wearing a hat and no one would notice.

I’m sore to my soul. Every step makes the prosthesis creak and the bruises throb, but I don’t slow down. I walk in through the front door.

The inside of the church is dark and damp. Worn-out pews, an altar covered with a crochet tablecloth. At this hour, there’s only an old woman and a beggar praying. I see the priest at a side table, stacking pamphlets and pretending not to notice me. But he does, of course, he does. The recognition in his eyes is immediate. He remembers me with Cain.

“Do you need help, my son?” he says with that voice only priests and psychologists know how to use: low, soft, but there’s a caution in it that wasn’t there before.