Chapter 37
DROGO
The basement smells like piss and copper. Concrete walls. Single bulb swinging overhead. The kind of place where sound doesn't travel and neighbors don't ask questions.
The target—Mikhail, mid-forties, accountant who thought he could skim from the Bratva—is zip-tied to a metal chair. Face already swelling. Blood from his nose mixing with tears and snot.
I've been at this for twenty minutes. Standard progression: fingers first—two broken so far. Then the ribs—three cracked with the bat leaning against the wall. Now we're escalating.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. Notification lights up the screen: MOTION DETECTED: Front Door
My chest tightens.
I swipe. Pull up the live feed. Tap in the earpiece. There he is. Oliver. 9:00 PM sharp. Standing at her door with that fucking smile.
She opens it. Black dress. Hair done. Makeup perfect. Smiling. "I burned the food." He laughs. Steps inside. Pulls her close. Kisses her.
My vision goes red.
Mikhail is still whimpering in the chair. "Please—I have children—"
I don't look at him. Eyes locked on my phone screen. On Oliver's hands sliding around her waist. On her kissing him back. I grab the knife from my belt. Seven-inch blade. Carbon steel. Sharp enough to split hairs.
Walk to Mikhail. Slam the blade down into his thigh. He screams—high, animal, the sound echoing off concrete.
I don't twist it. Don't move. Just leave it there, handle vibrating with his shaking. "I am short on time and patience, mate." My voice is flat. Cold. "Be fast."
He's hyperventilating. Words tumbling out in broken English and Russian. "The account—Switzerland—Credit Suisse—routing number—"
Not fast enough. I yank the knife out. Blood spurts. He screams again.
I hand the blade to Viktor, who's been watching from the corner with two other men. "Make him talk. All of it. Account numbers. Passwords. Everything."
Viktor takes the knife. Nods once. "How far?"
"However far it takes. Just keep him breathing."
I'm already moving. Up the stairs. Out to the car. "Alena's," I say the second I'm in the back seat.
The driver—Konstantin, good man, doesn't ask questions—pulls out immediately.
Fucking streets are full of traffic but I am closer by the second.
I pull up the feed again. They're eating now. Indian food on her dining table. Candles. The whole romantic setup. Oliver keeps leaning in. Kissing her neck. Her shoulder. His hand sliding up her thigh.
My hands shake on the phone. "Faster," I tell Konstantin. He accelerates.
The feed continues. Oliver's mouth on hers. Her hand moving to his lap. Touching him. I taste blood. Bitten through my cheek without realizing.
· · ·
We pull up three houses down.
I grab my phone. Swipe to the camera controls. Deactivate them one by one. All Cameras: OFF. No record of what happens next.
I get out. Move through the shadows between houses. Her backyard is dark—no motion lights, no cameras I didn't install. The back door lock is simple. I pick it in twelve seconds.
Inside.
The house is quiet except for their voices from the dining room. "You know what would be fun?" Her voice. Breathy. Trying too hard. "You maybe tying my eyes?"
Fuck.
I move through the kitchen. Silent. Years of practice making my footsteps disappear. I reach the doorway. Peer around the corner.
She's on the table. Blindfolded. Naked from the waist up. Oliver between her legs, face buried in her pussy. She's faking the moans. I can tell. The pitch is wrong. The rhythm forced.
But he doesn't notice. Too busy congratulating himself.
Then he stands. Belt. Zipper. His hands spread her thighs wider.
I move. Three steps. Silent as death.
My hand clamps over his mouth from behind. Other arm around his throat—sleeper hold, cutting off blood to the brain. Not air. That takes too long.
He struggles. Tries to scream against my palm. I squeeze harder. Lift. His feet leave the ground as I drag him backward, one arm still locked around his throat, other hand muffling any sound. Ten seconds. His body goes limp in my grip.
I don't let go. Keep dragging. Into the kitchen. The pantry. I drop him. Zip-tie his wrists behind his back—fast, practiced, three seconds. Stuff a kitchen towel in his mouth. Duct tape over it. He'll wake up in five minutes, maybe less.
Good. Let him wake up. Let him hear.
I close the pantry door. Lock it from the outside with the latch.
Total time: forty seconds.
Walk back to the dining room.
She's still there. Blindfolded. Legs spread. Waiting for him. For another man's cock. My woman. Mine. And she was going to let him fuck her.
The betrayal hits like a knife to the gut.
Two years. Two years I've been protecting her, watching her, keeping her safe.
Two years of becoming a monster so she could sleep soundly in her bed.
And this is what she does the second I'm not looking.
Spreads her legs for the first pretty face that smiles at her.
Rage burns through me. Hot. Vicious. Possessive.
My cock is already hard. Has been since I saw Oliver's hands on her. Since I realized what she was trying to do—fuck him to forget me. Not happening. Never fucking happening.
I move to the table. Stand between her legs where he was. Reach down. Rub two fingers against her clit. She gasps. Moans. "Oliver…" but her body jerked differently immediately.
His name. She just said his fucking name.
I slide my fingers between her folds. Feel for wetness.
Fuck. She's dry. Completely dry.
Even after his mouth on her. Even after his fingers. Even after she spread her legs and blindfolded herself for him. Her body still won't cooperate.
Because it knows. Even if she doesn't. Even if she's trying to move on. Her body knows who it belongs to.
I lean over her. Spit on her pussy. Watch it slide down between her folds, mixing with the faint wetness that's barely there after my fingers traced it.
So, you wanted to fuck him. The thought burns. You wanted his cock in you. Wanted to let him claim what's mine.
I pull my cock out. Already leaking. Already desperate with two years of wanting her, two years of watching from shadows, two years of jerking off to her memory while she cried herself to sleep.
I'm bigger than Oliver—significantly bigger—and she's not ready.
But I don't care. I need to reclaim what's mine. Need to erase every trace of his touch.
I position myself at her entrance. Press the head against her. She gasps—sharp, surprised. Her hand flies to her mouth but I grab her wrist. Pin it to the table above her head.
I push in. Just the head. Stretching her. She's tight—so fucking tight—and not wet enough yet. I feel her body resist, muscles clenching instinctively against the intrusion. But then something shifts. Her pussy clenches around me differently. Not resistance. Recognition.
"Oh—" She gasps. Louder this time. Real shock. Not fake. Not performance. "Fuck!"
Different sound. Her body knows. Even blindfolded. Even confused. It knows this cock. Knows this stretch. Knows me.
I push deeper. Inch by inch. Working myself into her tight heat.
She's getting wetter with every thrust—slick gathering, biology overriding confusion, her body responding to what her mind doesn't know yet.
The sound is obscene—wet, desperate, the slide of my cock into her pussy after two years of separation.
I grip her hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into soft flesh like I'm afraid she'll disappear if I let go.
"This—" She gasps. "This feels—"
I push deeper. Harder. Bottoming out inside her. Filling her completely. The way Oliver never could. The way no one else ever will.
I pull out almost completely. Slam back in. She cries out—loud, uncontrolled, the sound echoing through the house. Her pussy clenches around me like a vice, slick and hot and mine.
She grabs the end of the table with the free hand as I slam in her hard.
“Fuck!” she screams as her pussy tightens around my cock.
I fuck her harder.