Chapter 13
Anton
Idon’t make rookie mistakes. I don’t fuck where I work. I don’t blur the lines. That’s suicide in my world. Business comes first. Always.
Mary ruined that.
Last night I broke my own code. Slipped into her room, telling myself it was nothing—just a quick check, making sure the door was locked, the window secured. Bullshit. I stayed.
She was curled on her side, fists in the sheets like she was holding on to something slipping away. Her face pinched, her lips trembling, little whimpers breaking loose from her throat. Tears tracked down the side of her cheek, soaking the pillow.
I should’ve walked out. Shut the door. Left her to fight her nightmares alone. That’s what I do. I don’t comfort. I don’t soothe. Not my job. Not my place.
But I didn’t. I stood there in the dark, fists clenched, chest tight, wanting to fucking touch her. To brush those tears away, to crawl into that bed and make her forget whatever ghost she was chasing in her sleep.
It was worse than any bullet I’ve ever taken—realizing that this slip of a woman, who should mean nothing to me, makes me feel something. Makes me feel wanted. Like my presence matters. And that… that’s more dangerous than any enemy I’ve ever faced.
Now it’s morning. The gym smells like sweat, iron, and gun oil, the air sharp with disinfectant and spent shells. The Charleston range and training floor are quiet this early, just the hum of lights and the echo of her sneakers on the mat.
Mary’s in a gray hoodie that swallows her frame, black tights clinging to her legs. She looks soft, out of place here. Not a fighter, not a killer. But mine to harden, mine to train, mine to keep breathing in a world that eats women like her alive.
She’s already gasping through the circuit I set; jump squats, mountain climbers, burpees. Her arms shake as she comes out of a push-up, hoodie sticking to her back with sweat.
“You’re trying to kill me,” she pants, dropping to her knees. “This is not normal human behavior at—what is it—even six in the morning?”
“No excuses,” I say, standing over her. “Keep moving. Ten more.”
She groans, mutters something about sadists, but plants her palms and pushes back into position. Weak. Sloppy. But she doesn’t stop. Not when her arms buckle, not when her chest hits the mat. She claws her way through the reps anyway, sweat dripping off her chin.
“More,” I order.
Her hoodie rides up as she lowers to the mat, arms shaking before she’s even halfway through the first push-up. She collapses, groaning.
“Again.”
She mutters something under her breath but pushes up anyway, muscles trembling. Weak. But she doesn’t quit. Not after five, not after ten. She drags herself through fifteen, collapsing flat on the mat.
“Don’t stop, Mary.”
She groans, rolls to her elbows, body stiff and trembling like she’s about to snap in half. Sweat drips down her temple. She looks up at me, hair sticking to her cheek, eyes blazing. Defiant.
My chest tightens. I shouldn’t be watching her like this, shouldn’t be noticing the stubborn curve of her mouth, the flush crawling up her throat, the way her arms give out as she tries to stop.
But I don’t let her. “Again,” I growl, and she drags herself back up, shaky and cursing under her breath.
Her eyes snap to mine, blazing. Daggers. Fury, sharp and hot.
Good. Let her hate me. Let her burn. Fire means she’s alive. Fire means she won’t fold the second someone bigger, meaner, faster comes for her.
Tears, anger, whatever—doesn’t matter. Weak is what gets you killed. Rage? Rage I can use.
She wants to quit. I can see it in the slump of her shoulders, the way her eyes flick toward the clock, begging for mercy. But she doesn’t get mercy. Not here. Not from me.
Because if Timofey’s assassin ever finds her, she won’t last a minute. She’s too soft, too breakable. One blade, one bullet, and she’s gone.
The image of her body on the ground, pulse stilled, hits me like a fucking gunshot. Something inside me snaps.
I realize it then. I won’t let it happen. Not to her.
Her chest heaves, sweat dripping onto the mat. She’s red-faced, trembling, muttering curses that sound like they belong to somebody’s chain-smoking grandmother.
“Burpees are for demons,” she gasps, dragging herself upright for the last round. “This is how I die. Right here. Cause of death: sadistic Russian gym torture.”
I grunt, ugly and sharp. The sound rips out of me before I can stop it. She freezes mid-motion, wide-eyed, then breaks into a strangled laugh.
“Was that… was that a laugh, Anton? Or did your soul just… collapse?” She groans, flopping into the last burpee like she’s collapsing into her grave.
It should irritate me. She should irritate me. But instead I’m standing here with sweat running down my spine, fighting a smirk like a fucking idiot.
“Finish it,” I tell her.
She does—barely—before face-planting onto the mat, limbs spread out, soaked in sweat.
“I’m supposed to be asleep right now,” she groans into the floor. “Like normal people. Who don’t train for the apocalypse before dawn.”
I walk over, towering above her wrecked body. She peeks up at me with narrowed, hate-filled eyes. I hold out my hand.
“Up.”
She glares like she’d rather spit on it. Still, she takes it. Her palm is damp, trembling in mine. I haul her to her feet.
“I’m proud of your effort.”
She shuts up instantly, lips parting like she doesn’t know what to do with that. Color floods her face, hotter than before. She smiles—small, uncertain—then drops her arm over her eyes like she can hide from me.
“But…” she pants, catching her breath, “it feels good after the torture.” A pause. Then, quieter, almost embarrassed: “Like sex.”
I cock a brow. “You’re comparing my training to fucking?”
“Exhausting. Messy. You think you’re gonna die halfway through.” She peeks at me under her arm, eyes sparkling with mischief. “And then you feel great after.”
I step in closer, voice dropping. “Difference is, malyshka, when I fuck you, you won’t want it to end.”
Her breath catches. She laughs, but it’s shaky. “Cocky.”
“Confident,” I correct, dead serious.
Her eyes linger on mine longer than they should. Something flickers in her face—old Mary, messy Mary, the girl who would’ve laughed this off a week ago. But there’s fire now, too. Fire I put there.
I tear my gaze away, walk to the stand by the wall, and glance at the clock. 6:03 AM.
“Shower. Breakfast. Then I take you to work.”
She groans again, flopping back onto the mat like a corpse. “Work. Right. Because I’m totally gonna survive my nine-to-five after this.
I don’t tell her what’s really clawing at the back of my skull.
Step away. Two fucking words, and they rot in my head like poison.
Chert.
Igor’s a fucking fool. Too stupid—or too paranoid—to know who’s loyal to him. I bled for him. Buried men for him. Half the empire he sits on was built off my back, off the men who follow me without question. Lev. Dima. Boris.
And Igor knows it. That’s why he keeps me close but never lets me rise higher. He’s scared. Scared that the empire loves me more than it fears him.
He should be.
Pakhan isn’t supposed to doubt. Pakhan isn’t supposed to look over his shoulder every time his most loyal man walks into the room. And yet here we are.
I’ve had men—big men, respected, killers in their own right—ask me why I haven’t taken the throne already. Why I still take orders from a man who can’t tell the difference between his enemies and his soldiers.
The answer’s simple. I never wanted it. I’m not a king. I’m the blade the king sends into the dark. Cleaner. Fixer. Reaper.
But now? With Timofey making plays, with assassins slipping too close, with Mary’s life hanging in the balance? Maybe my hand is being forced.
The feeling sits in my chest, heavy. I drag a hand down my face, jaw tight, fighting the urge to put it through the nearest wall. My ears pick up her movement instead—small, clumsy sounds in the quiet gym. She’s at the bench now, yanking her bag from the locker.
She leaves the mat and shuffles toward the showers, mumbling curses under her breath.
I watch her go, every sway of her hips, every line of sweat cutting down her back.
For a second, I think about following. Stripping her down and pushing her under the spray until she screams my name for a different reason.
But I don’t. I stay rooted, fists jammed in my pockets, staring at the scuffed floor of the Charleston gym like it might give me answers.
I’m about to head for the other showers when the door slams open.
Lev strolls in first, tossing his helmet onto the bench like he owns the place. His lip’s split, cheek purpled from last night’s ambush. He’s grinning like he enjoyed it.
“Morning, sunshine,” he drawls. “We here for Round Two, or do we actually get to hit back this time?”
Dima comes in behind him, shoulders stiff, face carved from stone. There’s a bruise blooming under one eye, darker than I’ve ever seen on him. He doesn’t say a word, just cracks his knuckles like he’s already picturing Timofey’s men lined up against the wall.
Boris is last, phone in hand, smirk plastered across his bruised face. His left eye is swollen half-shut, blackened around the edges, but he still looks like he just won a poker game.
Lev jerks his chin at me. “So, boss. Do we get to return the favor? Or are we still playing Igor’s little patience game?”
Dima mutters low, voice like gravel. “If we wait, we bleed.”
Boris chuckles, thumb swiping across his screen.
“Guess who’s on the guest list for the Starlight Children’s Charity Gala, Friday night?
” He taps the screen, mock-reading in his best announcer voice.
“Imperial Hotel Ballroom, black-tie, hosted by none other than Timofey Volkov. Oh, and look at that—Caleb Whitfield. Front and center.”
He flips the screen toward us. The header looks official, some glossy PDF invite he clearly hacked into, with the Imperial’s gold crest at the top.
Lev whistles low. “No shit. Thought lover boy usually kept his nose clean. Sitting behind a desk, moving the money, pretending he doesn’t know where it ends up.”
“Exactly.” Boris’s smirk deepens. “If Caleb’s showing up on Timofey’s arm in public, it means one of two things: he’s either untouchable… or stupid.”
Dima mutters, voice like gravel. “Both. Which makes him dangerous.”
Lev grins, teeth flashing. “And vulnerable. Tell me we’re not sitting this one out, boss. Tell me we finally get to show Timofey that gifts get returned.”
The door creaks behind us.
Mary steps out, damp hair curling against her cheeks, flushed from the shower.
She’s already in her work clothes: a pale blue blouse buttoned to the collar, tucked into a pencil skirt that hugs her hips, her Brightside National name tag pinned straight on her chest. Sensible flats on her feet, mascara smudged at the corner of one eye.
She freezes at the sight of my men, her mouth parting in shock.
I shouldn’t notice the small things. The way she squared her shoulders, like just putting on that blouse and tag was her armor. Even in this world, she’s still taking the fucking field, still fighting for her own right to exist.
Four pairs of eyes turn to me, waiting. Always waiting.
I look at them—bruised, bloodied, hungry—and I know the truth. Igor would tell me to stand down. Wait. But Igor isn’t here. I am.
My jaw ticks. The decision’s already made.
“We hit back.”