♞Chapter twenty nine♞
Mikhail
Roman is pacing, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
His jaw ticks as he mutters, half to himself, half to me.
"The fucking audacity of those Turkish bastards," he spits, exhaling smoke through his teeth.
Now that the forgery shit isn't hanging over our heads, his focus has turned back to the Turks.
I lean back against the desk, arms crossed. "What are you planning to do?"
"You’ll see."
I narrow my eyes. "When?"
He stubs out the cigarette. "Today."
The room falls silent for a beat, just the distant sound of footsteps and the faint hum of conversation beyond the office walls. Roman never wastes words. Whatever he has planned is already in motion.
I push off the desk. "Fine. Just keep it clean."
"Clean? Brother, you know better."
I leave him to it, my mind elsewhere. I really didn’t want her to come. I told her as much. But Lola had looked me in the eye, standing tall with that fire burning behind her gaze, and said, "I want to be included. You can’t hide me away. I want to know your people."
And then she smirked, a cruel little thing, and added, "Besides, as long as I’m still figuring out how to forgive you, you don’t get to tell me no. Not once."
What she doesn’t know, what I hope she never realizes, is that I can’t imagine telling her no.
Ever. I rub my temples as I enter the living room, expecting to find her quietly observing, maybe drinking wine, staying out of trouble.
Instead, I’m greeted with a sight so absurd I have to stop and blink.
Matvey, one of our deadliest men, a killer who has spilled more blood than most men have in their bodies, is kneeling in front of her while she paints glittery butterflies all over his face.
What the actual hell?
Sergei is beside her, holding up tiny jars of paint, laughing his ass off.
In the meantime, he’s also ruining Roman’s white couch with streaks of pink and gold, but neither of them seem to give a shit.
Lola, my little menace, looks up at me with a wicked smile, brush poised mid-air.
"Oh hey, Misha. Did you and Roman finish plotting your crimes? "
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Sergei is nearly doubled over, laughing like a damn lunatic as he watches Lola swipe another streak of shimmery purple across Matvey’s cheek.
"You should’ve seen this guy," he chokes out between laughs.
"Dead serious. Said his little girl is turning two today, and her mom planned a party.
He figured she'd love seeing him covered in butterflies. "
Matvey shrugs, unbothered. "She loves butterflies."
Lola grins, dipping her brush into more glitter. "She has great taste."
She looks so pleased with herself, and Matvey... well, the poor bastard is taking it like a soldier.
"She told me she’s the one who did your tattoo. Don’t let the men hear that. They’ll be lining up for tattoos next." Matvey says.
"Like hell they will," I snarl. "My girl isn’t touching them with a five-foot pole."
Sergei snorts, shaking his head. "Calm down, beast."
Lola's lips curl because, she loves seeing me stew in my own jealousy.
Suddenly, shit hits the fan, loud and fast. Chaos rips through the room.
Screaming. The sound is sharp enough to slice through the easy banter.
The laughter dies instantly. Two of our men stalk in, dragging someone between them.
A girl. Young, maybe twenty-three. Her dark blonde hair flies around as she thrashes, her wails bouncing off the walls, shrill and panicked.
I recognize her instantly. Ayla Aslan. The daughter of Ahmet Aslan, the head of the Turkish mafia.
Roman wants this war to be bloody.
Lola shoves off the couch, eyes flashing. "What the hell? Let her go!"
I grab her waist, yanking her into me. My lips brush her ear. "Be quiet, sweetheart."
She stiffens. For now.
Roman prowls in. A beast stepping into the light. Ayla stops struggling when she sees him. Her breath stutters, her terror radiating off her in waves. She tries to back up, but the men hold her firm. Roman watches her, waiting for her to break first.
"You’re making a mistake," she finally chokes out, her voice shaking. "My father—"
"Your father is a dead man walking," Roman says, his tone calm. Matter-of-fact. Like he’s discussing the weather. "And you, little lamb, are the first sacrifice."
Her face drains of color. "P-please—"
Roman grips her chin, forcing her face up so that she looks at him. "Begging already?" He tsks, amused. "I expected more fight from a lion’s cub."
She’s terrified.
Poor thing.
Roman puts his lips by her ear. "Welcome to hell, Ayla. You’re mine now."
He cuts off her wailing with a sharp command. "Go upstairs. The bedroom on the left is yours."
The men let her go.
Ayla stumbles, her knees hitting the floor hard.
A choked sob rips from her throat, her long hair falling forward, shielding her face.
Lola jerks against my hold, trying to break free, but I tighten my grip.
"Stay put," I murmur. I hate that she has to see this. The ugliness. The cruelty. It was always inevitable. Sooner or later, she was going to see how far we go. And as much as I want to shield her from it, I know one thing for sure—I can’t. Her entire body vibrates with tension, but I don’t let go.
Ayla pushes herself up, her legs shaking so badly she nearly collapses again. She’s too thin. Fragile. It’s delusional she thought she could break out of the hold of our men.
"I want to go home!" she screams.
Roman’s patience is razor-thin. "You have two choices, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You go upstairs on your own, or I carry you there myself. And if I do, you won’t be in that room alone."
Ayla turns so fast she nearly trips over her own feet as she rushes up the stairs. The second she disappears, Lola whirls on me, eyes blazing. "What the fuck?"
I flick a finger. Without hesitation, Matvey and Sergei slip out of the room. Lola bulldozes toward the stairs, but Roman moves faster, blocking her way, his hand pressing lightly against her shoulder. The touch is almost gentle. It’s the only reason I don’t go berserk.
"You don’t have my permission to go to her," Roman says smoothly.
Lola doesn’t back down. If anything, her fury burns brighter. "There’s a girl up there who looks barely legal, alone and terrified, and you think I give a damn about your permission?"
Roman’s expression doesn’t change. "She’ll adjust. This is not your concern."
"Not my concern?" She’s exasperated. "You don’t get to decide that."
For the first time in his life, someone tells Roman no and doesn’t end up with a bullet between their eyes.
Because it’s Lola.
His future sister-in-law.
He knows he has to tolerate her defiance.
She turns, heading for the stairs, but she pauses at the bottom. "Pakhan," she mocks, voice dripping venom. "Bedroom on the left, right?"
"You brought us a fucking headache, Mikhail," Roman groans.