10. Chapter 10
10
Konstantin
I still smell like her. Even after the shower.
Jasmine and sweat and whatever the hell she put in her hair that makes my brain short-circuit. It’s on my skin, under my nails, soaked into my goddamn spine. My body’s humming like I’m strung out—except I’m not. I’m just fucked. In every possible sense.
Her moans are still echoing inside my skull. Real ones. The kind that don’t sound performative. The kind you earn.
And that’s the fucking problem.
The cufflinks dig into my wrists. My shirt’s still half-untucked, clinging to my back with the kind of sticky heat that says I should be in bed, not here. There’s a smear of lipstick down my throat, the kind that water couldn’t wash off. Not that I care.
I tell myself this is a business decision. That I left her for this—for control. For distance. That sharing a bed is too much, too soon. Sex? Fine. Necessary, even. But sleeping next to her, feeling her breathe beside me, like she belongs to me?
No. That’s where men like me get weak.
So, instead, I walk into a warehouse that smells like bleach, burned plastic, and really bad ideas.
Timur meets me at the side door, jaw tight, eyes saying exactly what his mouth won’t: You shouldn’t be here tonight. Which is exactly why I am.
He steps aside. No words.
Inside, a flickering overhead light sputters above the disaster. Not metaphorical. Actual disaster. Beakers still dripping. Buckets crusted with residue. The floor’s stained with something that smells like it could melt bone. Someone tried to mop, but mostly, they just spread the evidence around.
Duct-taped to a rusted office chair is a man who’s about to have the worst night of his life.
Arseny doesn’t even look up right away. He’s leaning against a busted filing cabinet, holding a clipboard like this is a quarterly check-in. When he sees me, his eyebrows lift.
“Oh, good,” he says. “The groom’s here. We can finally start the honeymoon slaughter.”
I step closer to the idiot in the chair. Late thirties. Cheap button-up clinging to his chest. Pupils too wide. Sweat everywhere. He smells like fear and dollar-store cologne.
His lips part, but I don’t give him the chance.
“Talk, and I’ll break your jaw,” I say flatly.
Timur’s voice is low, steady. “He was using one of our shell properties in Santa Cruz. The old storefront. Under Belov Global Holdings.”
Of course it’s that one.
Strip mall. Renovation project. Permits tied up in zoning hell. We kept it empty on purpose. Clean. Invisible. Perfect.
Until this jackass decided to turn it into his personal chemistry experiment.
“Let me guess,” I mutter. “They were cooking meth two doors down from a Starbucks and thought nobody’d notice.”
Timur shrugs. “Says he just rented it out. No idea what they were doing.”
Arseny snorts. “Because installing lab-grade ventilation overnight is just quirky tenant behavior.”
I exhale slowly and roll my shoulders to keep from cracking something.
“Timur doesn’t call me unless it’s important,” I say.
The guy in the chair twitches. He recognizes me now. Not just a man. The man. The one they don’t say no to. The one they don’t survive pissing off.
“You cooked,” I say quietly. “On my property. Under my name. Through one of my corporations. If the DEA had kicked that door in tonight, they’d be dragging me through headlines by morning.”
“I didn’t—” he starts.
I crouch in front of him, slow. Controlled.
“You know what I was doing tonight?” I ask.
He stares at me, mouth open like he’s trying to summon a goddamn prayer.
“I was getting married,” I say. “Inside a church. With champagne. And vows. You know, traditional shit.”
Arseny hums behind me.
“Straight from his wedding night to a meth lab. Boy, you are lucky!”
I ignore him.
I lean in just enough to make the guy in the chair lean back.
“Only three people knew the location of that building. Timur was one. So, unless he started cooking meth as a side hustle—”
“I swear I didn’t know!” the guy blurts.
“Then you’re an idiot,” I say. “And I don’t make space for idiots. Not in my business. Not in my city. Not under my name.”
Timur steps forward, reaching for the zip ties.
I raise a hand. “Wait.”
He pauses.
I walk over to the folding table, pick up a cracked flask crusted with white residue. Hold it up. Tilt it toward the idiot’s face.
“This yours?”
He nods too fast. Sweat drips down his jaw.
I tip the flask, let whatever’s inside spill onto the floor, and then drop it.
The glass explodes.
“Make him clean it up,” I say. “With his hands.”
Arseny sighs like he’s bored already and checks his watch.
The idiot stares at the broken glass like it’s going to stitch itself back together. His fingers twitch like he’s actually thinking about it.
Arseny sighs again—longer this time, dragging it out like I’m inconveniencing him.
“So,” he says casually, like we’re discussing lunch orders, “remind me—why the hell are you even here?” He pushes off the cabinet. Smirking. “Because last I checked, this was cleanup crew work. And you, boss, are fresh off a wedding night with a war crime of a sex haze still stamped on your neck.”
Here we go.
He gestures to my throat with the pen like he’s circling evidence at a crime scene.
“Look at you. Disheveled. Distracted. Radiating that freshly ruined man energy.”
I say nothing.
He keeps going.
“You got married. There should be room service. Or at least a post-orgasmic coma. Instead, you’re here in a meth-scented death trap with a guy who thinks chemistry class was a personality.”
I drag a hand down my face, slow and rough, like I’m trying to wipe off the last two hours. My jaw ticks. I shift my stance, roll my neck until it cracks, but the tension stays knotted between my shoulders like it’s been nailed there.
“Wait,” Arseny says, as if something just occurred to him. “ Ohhh. ” He points at me, grinning like a bastard. “She’s that good, huh?”
Timur clears his throat, but even he doesn’t bother hiding the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I finally turn to Arseny.
“Shut up.”
He raises both hands like he’s innocent. “Just saying. Makes sense now. The shirt. The bitemarks. The vague existential crisis radiating off your body like steam—”
“I said shut up.”
Arseny nods slowly, like he’s humoring me.
“Totally. Muted. Silenced. Gagged.” He zips his lips, throws away the imaginary key, and then immediately adds, “But seriously, boss, I’m happy for you. She seems nice. The kind of nice that makes you show up at a torture session just to remember who you are.”
I don’t look at him.
Because he’s not wrong.
The warehouse stinks, the light’s still flickering, and my fists are twitching. But none of it’s loud enough to drown out the part of me that’s still back there—with her.
The feel of her thighs clenched around my hips.
The way she moaned when I made her come.
The way she looked at me like I was more than what I am.
I inhale deeply and let it go.
Back to business.
The man in the chair is still shaking, hands useless against the zip ties, knees bouncing like he’s trying to vanish molecule by molecule. I stalk toward him again.
“Last chance,” I say. “Tell me who gave you access to that building.”
“I swear,” he babbles, “I didn’t think—someone just gave me the keys and said it was off the books—”
“Who.”
He swallows. Sweat drips off his temple.
“I didn’t know his name. Just… he had that tattoo. On his hand. The eagle. The one that—”
Timur shifts. His head snaps toward me.
My stomach goes still.
I know that tattoo.
So does everyone in this room.
That’s not a street-level mark. That’s Bratva . And not just any cell. That one’s Filipp’s.
Arseny tilts his head, frowning. “You sure?”
The man nods frantically. “I swear. I didn’t ask questions. He said the property was safe, that it’d never get flagged. I thought—”
“You thought you had protection,” I finish, low.
Because he did.
Filipp’s protection.
I step back just once. Processing.
If Filipp’s people are using my real estate to run meth ops… either he’s gotten sloppy, or he’s gotten desperate. Both are useful. But if this idiot in the chair is the link?
I glance at Timur.
He nods once, already catching up.
“We flip him,” I say quietly. “If he can give us names, locations, timelines—”
“We bury Filipp before he sees it coming,” Arseny finishes, eyes alight with something sharp and satisfied.
The man in the chair is too busy trying not to piss himself to understand what he just gave away.
“Boss,” Timur says, stepping forward, “there’s more.”
He pulls a small flash drive from his jacket pocket. Holds it up.
“We found this in his bag. Labeled ‘insurance.’”
Arseny snorts. “Jesus, that’s subtle.”
I take the drive. Turn it over in my hand.
“What’s on it?”
Timur’s mouth presses into a line. “Encrypted. But the file names? They’re dates. And payment logs. And one folder marked…” He hesitates. “Belov South.”
My jaw tightens.
That’s Filipp’s old laundering route. The one he claimed he shut down.
Which means either he’s been hiding income from the Bratva… or there’s a whole second empire being built behind my back.
“Get it cracked,” I say.
Timur nods.
I lean down one last time and stare into the idiot’s wide, ruined eyes.
“You just bought yourself a heartbeat,” I murmur. “But if you lie to me again, I’ll take it back.”
He nods so fast his neck might snap.
I turn away.
And for just one second, I wonder—
If she knew this side of me… would she still have smiled?
Would she still be in my bed?
Would I even care?
Arseny lets out a low whistle behind me.
“Oh boy,” he says. “Filipp’s not gonna see this one coming.”
No. He won’t.
Which is exactly the point.