Chapter 12 - Alexei
The man on his knees is crying, and all I can think about is Sofia’s mouth. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll let him keep his tongue.
Artem Semenov. Forty-three. Wife, two kids. Has been skimming from gun shipments for eight months. I've known for seven.
Four captains sit around my conference table, the air thick with fear-sweat and expensive cologne.
Artem's hands are bound, face already bloody from being dragged from his bed an hour ago.
The metallic scent of his blood mingles with his terror, but it's not enough to erase the phantom taste of her from my tongue.
"Eight months, Artem." My voice stays soft. The quieter I speak, the more they lean in. "You've been stealing from me."
"Please. I have children."
"You should have thought of them before you touched what was mine."
The knife slides from my belt, the weight familiar in my palm. Sharp enough to part skin like butter. I crouch, testing the edge with my thumb as Artem whimpers.
"It's about trust." I force his right hand flat against the floor, the hand that signed falsified manifests. "You broke mine."
The flashback hits without warning. Sofia on her knees, mascara running down her cheeks, her mouth stretched around my cock, the vibration of her moan making my vision blur. The memory so vivid I'm half-hard before I can stop myself, tasting her defiance like copper on my tongue.
I blink hard. Focus.
The blade goes through bone like butter.
Index finger first. Artem's scream echoes off the walls.
Blood sprays hot across the hardwood. Middle finger next.
More screaming that I barely hear over the memory of her voice, hoarse and wrecked, my cock still throbbing from her mouth when she smiled up at me like she'd won.
I wipe the knife clean on his shirt, stand in one fluid motion. "Get him out. If I see him in Chicago again, I'll take the rest piece by piece."
Guards drag Artem away, leaving a red trail across my floor. The captains remain frozen.
This is who I am. This is what I do.
"Does that bother you?" Her phantom voice, defiant even after swallowing every drop.
My hand tightens on the knife handle until my knuckles crack.
"Productive morning."
The voice comes from the corner, smooth as Belvedere vodka. A figure steps from shadow. Tall, lean, dark hair slicked back. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. The temperature drops ten degrees.
Kazimir Volkov. My cousin. The only man in Chicago who could call me weak and live. The only one who loved Mikhail as fiercely as I did.
"Kaz." I slide the knife back into my belt. "I didn't know you were in Chicago."
"Flew in last night." He claims a seat without invitation, the leather creaking under his weight. "Thought I'd see how things were progressing with the Rosetti situation."
My captains exchange glances, sensing the danger like animals before a storm.
"Imagine my surprise," Kaz continues, examining his manicured nails, "when I learned she's still breathing."
"The Rosetti girl is my concern."
"Is she?" His eyes find mine, cold as Moscow winter. "Because from what I hear, she's been your concern for a week now. Eating your food. Wearing clothes you bought. Attending galas on your arm."
He leans forward, and I smell his cologne mixed with tobacco.
"The men are talking, cousin. They say she's got you thinking with your cock instead of your brain."
One captain inhales sharply. Nobody speaks to me like this.
Except family.
I move fast. One second standing, the next slamming Kaz against the wall. My hand wraps around his throat, feeling his pulse race beneath my palm. The impact rattles a painting, one of Mikhail's landscapes.
"Say that again."
Kaz doesn't flinch, just smiles as I crush his windpipe. "Touch a nerve?"
"She's mine to deal with," I snarl. "Mine. Not yours, not anyone else's. Understand?"
"Perfectly." His voice rasps. "But if you can't do what needs to be done, others will. For Mikhail."
The threat is clear. I release him, step back before I do something irreversible.
Kaz straightens his collar slowly. "Think about it, cousin. The longer she lives, the weaker you look. And you know what happens to weak men in our world."
He leaves. The silence feels louder than Artem's screams.
The captains file out wordlessly. I sit alone at the blood-stained table, Kaz's words circling like vultures.
My phone buzzes. Moscow number.
"Alyosha."
Katya sounds thin, stretched like wire about to snap.
"How is she?" I ask.
"Days now, maybe a week." A swallow. "She keeps asking for you. And for Misha."
Always Mikhail.
"I can't come yet."
"The girl. I know." Frustration bleeds through my sister's grief. "Alexei, you've had her for a week. Mama wants to know her son is avenged before she goes. Can you give her that?"
The truth burns: I cannot kill her.
"Soon."
"You keep saying soon." Her voice cracks. "I'm watching her fade. She keeps asking if Misha can rest. What do I tell her?"
"Tell her I'm handling it."
"Are you?"
I end the call. Press my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
What have you done to me, Sofia Rosetti?
The memory of her kneeling floods back, but this time it's different. This time I imagine her in my bed, that defiance turned to desire, those sharp blue eyes soft with want. My cock hardens painfully, and I grip the table edge until the wood groans.
This is why I need her close. Not to watch her. To possess her completely before I destroy us both.
I find Maksim in the security office, monitors glowing in the darkness.
"The Rosetti woman. I want her moved."
He turns, weathered face carefully blank. "To where?"
"My quarters."
The silence stretches like a held breath.
"Your quarters, sir?"
"Tonight. Before dinner."
"Sir, the men will…"
"The men will do as they're told." Ice creeps into my voice. "She escaped last night. Met with her brother. I can't watch her from down the hall."
"With respect, there are other ways."
"Did I ask for alternatives?"
"No, sir."
I walk to my quarters alone. The hallway feels longer tonight, each step echoing with the weight of what I'm about to do. My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the door handle. When did I last bring someone into this space? Never. Not since I claimed it as mine five years ago.
The room opens before me like a confession.
California king bed with black sheets, military corners precise as the day I learned to make them.
The walls are bare except for one painting, a landscape Mikhail did at sixteen, all bold strokes and unexpected color.
He gave it to me the Christmas before he died.
I move through the space, seeing it suddenly through her eyes. What will she notice first? The bed that dominates the room like an invitation? The bonsai on my dresser that I've tended for three years, each tiny branch shaped by my hands?
My fingers trail along the dresser, pause at the top drawer. Inside, wrapped in black satin, is the Makarov pistol that killed my father's murderer. She could find it. Use it.
I leave it where it is.
I cross to the closet, run my hand along the neat row of suits. Everything in its place, measured, ordered. She'll destroy all of it just by breathing in here. Her scent will contaminate every surface. I'll never be able to sleep without drowning in the ghost of her.
The bathroom draws me next. Black marble, glass shower that's seen me stroke myself to thoughts of her more times than I'll admit. I grip the sink edge, staring at my reflection. Dark circles under my eyes. When did I last sleep through the night? Before her. Everything was before her.
I turn the shower to scalding, strip mechanically.
The water burns, but not enough to wash away the memory of her mouth, the way she looked up at me with my cock between her lips, taking her punishment and making it worship.
My hand moves to my cock before I can stop it, already hard from just the thought.
No. Not now. She'll be here soon, and I need control.
But control is already lost. I'm inviting my enemy into my bed because I can't stand another night of her being three doors away. Can't stand the thought of her slipping out to meet her brother while I lie here imagining her beside me.
I shut off the water, dress in fresh clothes. Black slacks, white shirt. My hands shake as I button it. When did I become this man? This desperate creature who'll risk everything for a woman who should be dead?
Back in the bedroom, I notice things that need to be hidden. The photo on my nightstand: me, Mikhail, and our mother at his eighteenth birthday. Two months before he died. He was wearing the watch I gave him, grinning like he'd conquered the world.
I should put it away. She doesn't deserve to see him happy.
But I set it back down, angle it slightly so it's visible from the bed. Let her see what she destroyed. Let it haunt her the way she haunts me.
The knife collection in the bottom drawer stays.
I check the windows. Bulletproof glass, no access to the fire escape. The only exit is through the door, past the guards, past me. She's trading one cage for another, but this one is mine entirely.
A knock interrupts my spiral. "Sir? We're ready to move the prisoner."
Prisoner. The word feels wrong now. She's something else. Something I can't name without admitting truths I'm not ready to face.
"Five minutes."
I stand in the center of my room, trying to slow my racing pulse. In five minutes, Sofia Rosetti will walk through that door. She'll touch my things with those deadly hands. She'll breathe my air, learn my secrets, exist in the space where I'm most myself.
The bonsai catches my eye. Three years of patient shaping, every cut deliberate, designed to create something beautiful through controlled destruction. Just like what I planned for her.
But she's not a tree to be shaped. She's the storm that will uproot everything.
I reach for the small shears, make one tiny cut to a wayward branch. My hands are completely steady now. The ritual grounds me, reminds me who I am. What I'm supposed to be doing.
Revenge. Justice. Blood for blood.
Instead, I'm preparing my room like a nervous bridegroom.
The thought makes me laugh, dark and bitter. Mikhail would find this hilarious. His brother, the one who never let anyone close, about to hand his entire life to the woman responsible for his death.
I set down the shears, move to the door. Time to face what I've done.
Evening falls like a curtain. I wait in the corridor, my pulse hammering despite my control.
The guards appear, flanking her. Another altered cotton dress, taken in at the waist, shortened hem. Even in punishment clothes, she remains herself.
She sees me. Stops.
"Problem?"
"Just appreciating the upgrade." That mocking edge that simultaneously enrages and arouses me. "Should I be flattered or concerned?"
"You should be silent."
But she's studying me, looking for the trap. The guards shift uncomfortably between us, feeling the electric tension.
They escort her to my door. She pauses at the threshold, one hand on the frame, claiming my space already. The gesture sends heat straight to my cock, and I see one guard notice my tension, quickly looking away.
"Your new cage," I manage, voice rough.
She turns back. I expect defiance, that sharp tongue.
Instead, there's something unreadable in her eyes. Understanding, maybe. Recognition of what this means.
She holds my gaze for a long moment that stretches like eternity. My body responds to just her proximity. Muscles tensing, breath catching, that familiar heat building. The guards are eager to be anywhere else, feeling the charge between us.
Then she steps into my bedroom. Into my space. Her fingers trail along the doorframe as she enters, and the possession in that simple touch makes my hands clench into fists.
I remain in the corridor after the guards leave, heart pounding against my ribs. Behind that door, Sofia Rosetti is touching my things, breathing my air, learning my secrets. The thought of her hands on my belongings, her scent mixing with mine in that space, makes me grip the wall for support.
Through the door, I hear her moving. Soft footsteps on hardwood. A pause. She's found the photo. Another pause, the bonsai. The whisper of fabric that might be her fingers on my sheets.
Each sound is torture. Each sound is anticipation.
Welcome to the wolf's den, kotyonok.
The thought should be triumphant. I have her exactly where I want her.
Instead, as I stand here shaking with want and rage and something darker, I wonder who really walked into whose trap.