Chapter 1
ONE
ALEXANDER
People exhaust me.
Their noise, their constant presence, their insufferable need for attention. I have never cared for small talk, never cared to blend in, and never felt the urge to. Silence suits me better.
I tolerate my brothers because I have no choice.
Anton, my older brother, is quiet—silent as a city at 1 a.m., and silence I can live with.
Maksim, the younger one, I gave up trying to shut him up years ago; he’s chaos in human form.
My cousin Viktor, my closest friend, is a strange mix of the two, tolerable enough.
But the rest of the world? I’d rather it didn’t exist.
The alleyway that night was mine. Silent, except for the sound of my fists breaking flesh, the grunt of a man who deserved far worse than what I was giving him.
His blood spattered, his groans weak, it’s music to anyone who knows justice isn’t always clean.
He made my blood burn, and I don’t regret what I did to him.
Most people who know me call me a psychopath. They’re wrong. I don’t kill for pleasure or for the thrill. I kill only when it’s necessary — when someone needs to be silenced, when a line has been crossed, or when protection demands it.
But I won’t lie: there’s a sharp satisfaction in watching life drain from someone’s eyes. There’s a jarring kind of thrill in deciding whether a man breathes or not. Control—that’s what I crave.
Still, I hate the smell of blood. You’d think I’d be used to it, after years in the bratva, surrounded by death and killings, but I’m not. I never will be. Blood stinks of mess, and I don’t like mess.
Do I feel things? Yes. Not like others, not loud and messy, but sharp, concentrated things.
Rage. Satisfaction. That sweet burn of control when my fist lands just right, when I know someone’s body is mine to break.
And above all, I hate distractions. When I’m tearing someone apart, the world should disappear. No interruptions. No noise.
That was true… until I saw him.
A flash of blonde hair caught in the flickering streetlight.
Loose curls, thick and full, the kind you want to drag your fingers through.
Then his face—androgynous, delicate but with an edge sharp enough to keep it from being too soft.
Beautiful in a way that unsettled me. Beautiful in a way that made me pause.
He froze when he saw me, knuckles whitening around the handlebars of his bike.
Shoulders locked tight. Wide brown eyes fixed on me.
The fear was there in his eyes, but then it wasn’t.
It vanished as quickly as it came, replaced with something I couldn’t name.
Hesitation, yes. Quiet, wary defiance, maybe.
Like a stray animal aware of danger, but still stepping forward anyway.
I expected him to turn around, run away, or scream. But he didn’t. Instead, he tightened his grip and pedaled forward—straight past me, eyes ahead, refusing to look back.
For the first time in years, something inside me stirred.
Not rage.
Not boredom.
Something else entirely that I still do not know the word for.
I could have stopped him. That would have been the right choice—the safe one. We don’t let witnesses walk away because witnesses mean risk. Yet, I let him pass. I let him go.
Not because I was careless. Because I couldn’t help it.
Every instinct I’ve sharpened into habit told me to drag him off that bike, silence him before his wide brown eyes became a problem. But another instinct, one far deeper and far more dangerous and obsessive, screamed louder. To follow. To hunt. Not to kill. But to see him again.
Because there was something in that look of his that unsettled me more than blood ever has. Something that made me want to tear him apart and pull him closer in the same breath.
And that terrifies me more than leaving a witness alive ever could.
“Why did I let him go?” I murmur under my breath, dragging my palm down Apollo’s strong neck, feeling the steady warmth beneath his sleek coat.
The barn smells like hay and earth, leather faint in the background. Grounding. Honest. The only place on my father’s estate where I can breathe without pretending.
Apollo huffs softly as my fingers trace along his mane. He’s been mine for fifteen years, one of the few things in my life that hasn’t changed. When everything else feels like a problem to fix or a distraction to kill, he’s just here. Uncomplicated. Loyal.
“Wanna go for a ride?” I switch to Russian, rubbing his muzzle.
He nudges my chest with a snort, and the corner of my mouth almost tilts into a smile. Almost.
Of course, peace never lasts.
“Well, well, well.” Maksim’s voice cuts through the barn, boots crunching over hay. “If it isn’t the dark and brooding sociopath prince in his natural habitat.”
I exhale, resting my forehead briefly against Apollo’s before straightening. “Go away, Maksim.”
“But I just got here.” His amusement is thick, footsteps drawing closer. “I’m surprised you’re home. We barely see you around.”
He already knows why. I prefer my own apartment, away from the suffocating family estate. I only come back for Apollo, the occasional family gathering, or when Mother drags us all to dinner.
“Robert Grey was found dead,” Maksim says casually, leaning against the stall. “On a train track. Five hours from where he lived.”
My hand keeps stroking Apollo’s mane. The cleanup had been efficient—Grandfather’s men made sure of that. Robert Grey was a bastard. A scum. He deserved far worse than what I gave him. And yet, the kill hadn’t satisfied me.
“You killed him brutally, Alex,” Maksim drawls, folding his arms. “Almost messy. You’re never messy.”
I know.
“I don’t care, dear brother,” I say flatly, my voice deliberate and slow. “Either say something useful or get the fuck out.”
He laughs. Maksim always laughs too easily. He’s all restless energy—fast hands, fast words. Too much charm, too many talents. A fighter, a tech genius, an artist, a fucking jack-of-all-trades. Twenty-two and already better at most things than anyone else.
“Brutal, no remorse,” he clicks his tongue.
“Just how Father raised us.” He pauses, smirking.
“Though, in case you didn’t notice, I followed you yesterday and watched you from the shadows as you beat that bastard half to death.
You were… captivating.” His eyes glint. “Almost made me proud to be your brother.”
I glance at him, unimpressed. “Maksim. Out.”
But he only grins wider, leaning off the stall. “Nah. You might want to hear what I found.”
I don’t respond.
“Picture this,” he says, pacing across the barn floor, boots crunching against hay. “Dark alley. You, doing your usual routine, beating the life out of some bastard. And then—oh, what’s this? A witness?”
My shoulders tighten.
His eyes light up like he’s struck gold. “I knew it.”
I keep my silence, dragging the brush down Apollo’s flank.
“So?” Maksim tilts his head, studying me. “What did you do to him?”
I grunt, refusing to look at him.
“No answer? Wow, okay.” He smirks. “Now I’m even more curious. You didn’t kill him.” He pauses deliberately. “He’s alive and well. Pouring coffee in some book café like a cottage core fantasy or some shit like that.”
Silence stretches.
The smirk fades from his mouth, just a little. “Huh.” His tone shifts, softer. “You never let anyone go.”
No. I never had. Until him.
I move to grab another brush, keep my expression neutral, though I can feel his stare pressing into me.
Maksim sighs dramatically, clapping his hands. “Welp. Guess I’ll have to take care of him myself.”
That makes me turn.
He meets my gaze, all fake innocence, “Should I get rid of him?”
In two strides, I’ve got him by the jacket, slamming him against the stall hard enough that the wood groans. Apollo jerks and neighs, but I barely register it. My vision narrows, heat in my chest, I don’t understand.
“Don’t. Touch. Him.” My voice comes out low, lethal. I don’t even know where it comes from, only that his words lit something violent and possessive in me.
Maksim’s eyes widen for half a second, then that damn grin slides back into place. “Wow. That was fast.”
I shove him harder, jaw clenched. “I’m not joking.”
“I know,” he says, laughing breathlessly, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Jesus, Sasha. I’ve seen you kill men for less, and here you are, about to snap my spine over some boy?”
My teeth grind. My breath saws through my chest.
Maksim studies me for a beat, then lets out a low whistle. “Damn. This is new.”
I release him roughly, stepping back.
“Alright, alright, message received. Your boy’s off-limits.” He adjusts his jacket, watching me with that maddening glint in his eyes. “His name’s Lucas. Works at the 24-hour book café outside Blackwoods.”
I don’t tell him I already know. That I tracked the boy down the same night, piecing it together from the cafe shirt he wore.
“You should do something about him, though,” Maksim calls over his shoulder as he saunters toward the barn door. “He’s a witness. He might talk. Last thing I want is my favorite big brother rotting in a cell—that’d make me really, really sad.”
My head throbs, the beginnings of a headache pulsing behind my eyes.
He glances back one last time, eyes dancing. “This is gonna be fun.”
I ignore him, turning back to Apollo. My hand presses against the stallion’s neck, grounding myself in his steady warmth.
Apollo snorts again, as if he knows.
And for the first time in a very long time, I wonder what the fuck I’m getting myself into.
* * *
The bell above the door gives a soft chime as I push into the café.
The air greets me at once—freshly brewed coffee layered with the faint musk of paper and ink, an aged sweetness that clings to the walls lined with bookshelves.
Light filters through tall windows, catching on the faint swirl of milk froth in someone’s mug.
A spoon clinks against porcelain. A chair scrapes.
A page turns. The hum of quiet conversation stays low, polite, almost reverent.
I don’t care for any of it, I am only here for him.
Lucas.
He hasn’t seen me yet. His head is bowed slightly, curls falling over his forehead as he works behind the counter. His hands move with quiet precision, arranging a pastry on a porcelain plate, sliding it forward with careful, deliberate ease. His movements are gentle and polite, but look rehearsed.
He’s smaller than I remembered, though maybe memory lies. Or perhaps it’s just that I remember him differently—frozen in an alleyway, the dim orange of a streetlamp carving his face from the dark. Those wide eyes locked on mine, startled, unblinking, impossible to forget.
Now, under the café’s softer glow, he looks different.
Livelier, yet still fragile. His hair is a mess of golden curls, fuller, wilder than before, catching the light every time he turns his head.
A dusting of freckles spills across his nose and cheekbones, softening the sharpness of his features.
He shouldn’t look this delicate. He shouldn’t look this striking.
I step forward.
And I see his shoulders stiffen before he even looks up, like he feels me first, some instinct sparking before recognition. He freezes mid-motion, mid-breath, and then, slowly, his gaze lifts.
Those eyes find mine. And I know he remembers.
His throat works as he swallows, lips parting slightly, as if he wants to say something but knows he won’t. Knows he can’t. His fingers twitch at his sides, betraying the composure he’s struggling to keep.
He’s nervous.
And I don’t know if it’s because of me… or because of what I did that night.
Either way, I like it.