Chapter 5
Anton
Itry to ignore the racket: moans, headboard, drywall… all of it.
The sound triggers something unwanted. A memory of softer moans. Real ones. The way she breathed against my neck when her hand found my cock through my jeans.
Stop thinking about her.
“Nngh… Oh, baby… hrrgh…” He’s gasping, struggling to keep up, and I can practically hear his lungs begging for mercy.
It’s been sixteen hours and fourteen minutes.
Since she kissed me like she meant it—drunk and wild, but honest. No performance. No fake screaming. Just pure want.
Fuck.
I press my fingers against my temples and try to focus on the laptop screen in front of me.
Financial records. Bank transfers. Numbers that don’t add up.
Two point seven million dollars missing from Igor’s casino operations, and I’m sitting in this shithole listening to amateur porn while I hunt down the thief.
But all I can think about is the weight of her in my arms. One hundred and thirty-eight pounds of dangerous curves and trust. The kind of woman who passes out on strangers’ couches without checking the locks. Without wondering if she’s safe.
She has no idea what kind of world she stumbled into.
This is why I need a proper apartment. Quiet. Professional. Not this fucking circus.
Not this constant reminder of what I can’t have.
The Stardust Motel—forty-nine dollars a night, cash only, no questions asked. The kind of place where cheating husbands bring their secretaries and drug dealers conduct business in the parking lot. Perfect for staying invisible. Terrible for concentration.
Terrible for forgetting hazel eyes and the taste of wine on soft lips.
My phone buzzes. Igor.
“Da?”
“Anton, moy drug, how goes the hunt?” His voice is gravelly, weathered by sixty-three years of vodka and violence. Igor Vetrov—Pakhan of the Las Vegas Bratva, my boss, and the closest thing to family I have left.
“Still tracking the money trail. Whoever’s skimming knows what they’re doing.”
“Time is not a luxury we have,” Igor says, switching to heavily accented English. The suspicion in his voice is sharper tonight. “This thief, they make me look weak. And when the Pakhan looks weak…”
He doesn’t finish, but I know what he means. Weak leaders don’t last long in the Bratva. Someone always comes to take their place.
Igor’s been getting more paranoid lately. More suspicious. He sees threats everywhere, even from his most loyal soldiers. Especially from his most loyal soldiers. The old man’s convinced that everyone wants his throne, including me.
Especially me.
Truth is, I don’t want to be Pakhan. Never have. The politics, the constant paranoia, the need to watch your back every second… That’s not me. I’m a weapon, not a leader. But try explaining that to a seventy-year-old crime boss who thinks every shadow is an assassin.
“I’ll find them,” I say, because that’s what I always say. What I’ve been saying since I was sixteen, and Igor pulled me off the streets of Moscow after my father was killed.
Loyalty. That’s all I have. All I’ve ever had.
But it runs deeper than that. Igor didn’t just save me; his father saved mine first. Pulled him out of a Siberian labor camp when the Soviets wanted him dead for stealing from State coffers.
My grandfather worked for the Vetrov family before that, back when organized crime meant survival, not just profit.
Three generations of my blood tied to theirs.
It’s not just loyalty; it’s legacy. It’s debt written in DNA.
“Good. But, Anton… be careful. This traitor, whoever they are, they have inside help. Someone feeds them information. Someone I trust.”
The line goes dead. Igor doesn’t do goodbyes.
From next door: “Oh God, oh God, I’m coming! Yes! YES!”
The woman’s fake climax reaches its theatrical peak, complete with breathless panting that sounds like she’s hyperventilating. Finally, blessed silence.
I close the laptop and try to focus on the spreadsheets scattered across my bed. Three hours of combing through numbers, and I’m no closer to finding Igor’s thief. The figures blur together; account numbers, transaction dates, deposit amounts that should make sense but don’t.
But I can’t concentrate. Can’t think.
Because every time I close my eyes, I see her.
Mary.
Wide hazel eyes, soft curves, that ridiculous hoodie sliding off her shoulder. The way she felt in my arms—warm, alive, perfectly fucking breakable.
Suka. Stop thinking about her.
I shift in the chair, my jeans suddenly too tight. My cock’s hard again, throbbing, like it’s got a personal vendetta against my self-control.
Fucking annoying.
I’m thirty-two, not some horny kid who can’t keep it together.
But it’s been a while—months, maybe a year—since I’ve even wanted a woman like this. Hookups are quick, mechanical, a means to an end. No names, no feelings, just bodies. I don’t linger, don’t obsess. I don’t fucking dream about them.
But Mary? She’s lodged in my head like a bullet I can’t dig out. Her taste—wine and recklessness—lingers on my tongue. I walked away, did the right thing, but my body doesn’t give a shit about right.
It wants her.
Wants to pin her down, spread her thighs.
I grit my teeth, willing the hard-on to fuck off, but it’s not listening.
The numbers on the bed taunt me; bank transfers, shell companies, Igor’s missing millions. I need to focus, need to deliver, but my blood’s pounding south, and every thought circles back to her.
Fine. I’ll handle it. Get it out of my system. Quick and easy, so I can think straight again.
I stand, peeling off my jeans with a muttered curse.
My cock springs free, hard and heavy, pulsing like it’s got its own heartbeat.
The motel bathroom’s a shithole; cracked tiles, a mirror speckled with grime—but it’s got a door, and that’s enough.
I lock it, more out of habit than need, and lean against the sink, the cold porcelain biting into my palms.
My reflection stares back, all sharp angles and shadows.
Scars crisscross my chest, reminders of knives and bullets that didn’t finish the job.
I don’t look like a man who gets soft for anyone.
But she didn’t see the scars, didn’t see the killer.
She saw me, or some version of me she made up in her drunken haze, and that’s what’s fucking me up.
I wrap my hand around my cock, rough and deliberate. It’s thick, veins standing out, pre-cum already beading at the tip. I’m pissed at how much I want this; how much I want her.
My grip tightens, and I stroke, slow at first, imagining her hand instead of mine. Her fingers, soft but bold, fumbling through my jeans last night, squeezing me like she owned me. I groan, low and guttural, the sound swallowed by the bathroom’s hum.
The fantasy takes over.
Mary sprawled on my bed, that stupid hoodie gone, her tits full and heavy, spilling out for my hands, my mouth.
Nipples hard, pink, begging for my tongue.
I’d suck them, bite them, make her gasp, her back arching off the mattress.
Her thighs spread wide, pussy glistening, so wet it’s dripping, and that voice—fuck, that voice—whimpering, “Anton, please…”
I remember what she said, drunk and rambling, her cheeks flushed as she confessed she’d never come before. Never had a man make her shake, make her lose herself.
A fucking shame.
A crime.
But I’d fix that. I’d make her come so hard she’d forget everything but me.
I’d start slow, teasing, my fingers sliding through her slick folds, circling her clit until she’s trembling, begging.
I’d push one finger inside her, then two, curling them, finding that spot that makes her eyes widen, her breath hitch. I’d lick her clit, slow and deliberate, tasting her, feeling her thighs quake around my head as she clutches the sheets.
She’d be so tight, so responsive, her hips bucking against my mouth, and I’d keep going, sucking, licking, until she’s screaming, her pussy pulsing around my fingers, coming apart for the first time.
But I wouldn’t stop. I’d make her come again, over and over, until she’s a writhing, sobbing mess, her body shaking with aftershocks, her voice hoarse from crying my name. Wanting more.
My hand moves faster, slick with pre-cum, my cock throbbing, hard as steel.
I imagine her under me, those full tits bouncing with every thrust, her pink nipples pinched between my fingers.
I’d flick them, roll them, just to hear her gasp, her breath catching like she’s drowning in it.
I’d grip her hips, hard enough to bruise, and sink into her, deep, relentless, her pussy clenching tight, pulling me in.
She’d claw at my shoulders, moan “Anton” like a prayer, and I’d fuck her like I mean it, like she’s mine to ruin.
Her legs would wrap around me, heels digging into my back, urging me deeper, and I’d give it to her—hard, brutal, watching her eyes roll back as she takes every inch.
I’d make her come on my cock, feel her shatter beneath me, her body shaking as I push her over the edge again, because once isn’t enough.
I want her addicted, begging for me every fucking night.
My breaths come short, ragged, my balls tightening as the pressure builds.
I’m lost in it—her scent, her sounds, the way she’d look at me, wide-eyed and wanting, like I’m more than a killer.
Like I’m hers. “Come for me, kiska,” I’d growl, and she would, screaming, her pussy milking me as she breaks, her tits bouncing, her nails tearing into my skin.
I’d keep going, fucking her through it, making her come until she’s limp, spent, and still whispering my name.
The thought tips me over. Chert!
My cock pulses, and I come hard, ropes of cum hitting the bathroom wall, the sink, the fucking tiles. It’s a mess, a goddamn explosion, like I’ve been storing it up for months. My knees buckle, and I brace myself against the sink, chest heaving, a low growl in my throat.
Fuck. I haven’t come like that in… ever. Not from my own hand, not from anyone else. It’s like my body’s been waiting for her, hoarding every ounce of want until she stumbled into my life.
I catch my breath, staring at the mess. Cum’s dripping down the wall, pooling on the floor, a testament to how fucked I am.
Quick and easy, my ass. Jerking off was supposed to clear my head, not make me want her more.
But now all I can think about is her on her knees, licking her lips, taking me in her mouth until I’m painting her instead of this shithole bathroom.
Suka. I grab a towel, wipe down the wall, and clean myself up, cursing under my breath. This isn’t me. I’m The Reaper, not some lovesick idiot. I don’t chase women. I don’t want. But Mary’s under my skin, and no amount of jerking off is gonna change that.
I pull my jeans back on, the fabric rough against my still-sensitive cock, and head back to the room. The spreadsheets are still there, Igor’s thief still hiding in the numbers. I need to focus, need to deliver.
Suka.
But my phone buzzes, pulling me out of my haze.
A text from Boris.
Boris isn’t just a hacker; he’s my insurance policy.
If I’m the knife, he’s the lockpick. We’ve been working together for a decade, ever since he rerouted an FSB trace off my trail and sent it back to their own servers.
He’s the one I go to when muscle isn’t enough.
Tech genius. Paranoid as hell. But loyal.
Boris: “Got your bank records. Brightside National has been filing SARs every month. Same pattern. Cash deposits, $47K+, always different names. Want me to dig deeper?”
Brightside National. A lead, finally. My gut twists. Something about that name feels too close, too familiar.
I type back:
Dig. Now.” Then I lean back, staring at the ceiling, Mary’s face still haunting me.
Fuck, this is gonna be a problem.