Chapter 14 - Vasily
Leaving her was the hardest thing I'd ever done.
I stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching her sleep in the gray light of predawn.
She'd kicked off the covers during the night, and the thin silk of her nightgown had ridden up, exposing the curve of her hip, the softness of her thigh.
Her hair spread across my pillow like dark fire, and her face was peaceful in a way it never was when she was awake.
I wanted to crawl back into bed. Wanted to wrap myself around her and pretend the outside world didn't exist, that Pankratov wasn't escalating, that three of my men weren't dead because I'd been too distracted to deal with the threat sooner.
But the Pakhan couldn't hide on an island forever. My empire needed me. My men needed to see that their leader hadn't gone soft.
And the mole needed to die.
I crossed to the bed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open.
"Vasily?"
"I'm leaving." I brushed the hair from her face. "Go back to sleep."
"What time is it?"
"Early. The jet is waiting."
She sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist. Even half-asleep, she was beautiful—flushed and tousled and so achingly real that my chest constricted.
"Be careful," she said.
Two words. Simple. But from her, they meant everything.
"I'll call tonight." I kissed her properly then, deep and slow, memorizing the taste of her. "Every night. I promise."
"You'd better."
I forced myself to pull away. Forced myself to walk to the door. At the threshold, I paused and looked back.
She was watching me with those dark eyes that saw too much. Something passed between us—not words, something deeper. An acknowledgment of what we'd become to each other, even if neither of us was ready to name it.
"I'll be back soon," I said.
"I know."
I left before I could change my mind.
***
The helicopter ride to the mainland was silent.
Kirill sat across from me, reviewing security updates on his tablet, wisely choosing not to comment on my mood.
The pilot navigated us through the early morning mist, and I watched the island shrink behind us until it was nothing but a speck on the blue horizon.
She was on that speck. My wife. My obsession. The woman who'd somehow become essential to my existence in ways I still didn't fully understand.
I'd never missed anyone before. Had never allowed myself to form attachments that could become liabilities. My father had taught me that lesson early—love was weakness, sentiment was danger, the only loyalty that mattered was the kind you bought with money and fear.
But sitting in that helicopter, watching the distance grow between us, I felt something I could only describe as absence. A hollow space behind my ribs where she should be.
Pathetic. The great Vasily Chernov, undone by a woman he'd known for barely a month.
I pulled out my phone and focused on what I could control.
***
New York was chaos.
The Trophy Room had been cleaned up by the time I arrived—blood scrubbed from floors, broken glass replaced, bullet holes plastered over.
But the damage wasn't just physical. Three men dead.
Four more in the hospital, two of them critical.
And the whispers spreading through the organization like poison: the Pakhan had been absent, distracted, more interested in his new wife than in protecting his people.
I held a meeting that first night in the private room at Marcello's. Every lieutenant, every captain, every man with significant responsibility in the organization. They filled the space wall to wall, their faces a mix of anger, fear, and carefully hidden curiosity.
They wanted to see what I'd become. Whether the rumors were true.
I stood at the head of the room and let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. Then I spoke.
"Three of our brothers are dead." My voice was ice. "Viktor Morozov. Anton Petrov. Yuri Sokolov. Men who served this family with loyalty and courage. Men who deserved better than to be gunned down because someone in this room sold them out."
The tension ratcheted higher. I saw men exchange glances, saw the guilty fear that flickered across certain faces.
"We have a leak," I continued. "Someone has been feeding information to Pankratov. Shipment schedules. Cash pickup times. Security rotations. Whoever it is knew exactly when and where to hit us."
"Boss." Dmitri stepped forward, his face tight with barely contained rage. "Let me find them. I'll tear through every—"
"No." I held up a hand. "This requires precision, not rage. The mole has been careful. Sophisticated. They won't be found through brute force."
"Then how?"
"We set a trap." I looked around the room, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "We feed different information to different sources. When Pankratov acts on it, we'll know exactly who betrayed us."
It was a strategy I'd used before—compartmentalized intelligence, each version slightly different, designed to identify the source of any leak. It required patience. Time. Trust in the process.
All things I was running short on.
"In the meantime," I said, "I want extra security on every operation. Double guards on the clubs, the warehouses, the distribution points. No one moves anything without authorization from Semyon or me. Anyone who breaks protocol answers to me personally."
The men nodded, some with enthusiasm, others with visible relief that they weren't under immediate suspicion. I dismissed them with a wave and waited until the room emptied before letting the mask slip.
Semyon appeared at my elbow. "That went well."
"Did it?"
"They needed to see you. To know you're still in control." He handed me a vodka I hadn't asked for. "The whispers will quiet now."
"Until the next attack."
"Which is why we find the mole. Quickly.
" He sat across from me, his pale eyes sharp with calculation.
"I've been running the analysis you suggested.
Tracking information flow, looking for patterns.
There are four possibilities—men with access to the compromised data who also have means to communicate with the Armenians. "
"Names?"
"Dmitri's nephew, Pavel. He handles logistics coordination, would have known the cash pickup schedule." Semyon ticked off on his fingers. "Roman Volkov, one of our port managers. Lucas Federov, who runs security rotation for the clubs. And Alexei Morozov—Viktor's brother."
"Viktor's brother?" That surprised me. "He's been with us for fifteen years."
"Which makes him either above suspicion or perfectly positioned to betray us." Semyon's expression was grim. "Grief makes men do strange things. If he blamed us for putting Viktor in danger—"
"Or someone else blamed us and got to him." I drained the vodka. "What about motive? Money? Ideology? Personal grudge?"
"Still investigating. But Pankratov has deep pockets. Anyone on that list could have been bought."
I thought of Gabrielle, alone on the island, protected only by guards whose loyalty I suddenly had reason to question. If the mole had access to our security protocols, they might know about the Greek property. Might know exactly where I'd hidden my wife.
"Increase security on the island," I said sharply. "Double the perimeter guards. No one lands without direct authorization from me—no helicopters, no boats, nothing."
Semyon's eyebrows rose. "You think they'd target her?"
"I think Pankratov knows she's my weakness. I think he'd do anything to exploit that." I stood, suddenly unable to sit still. "Find the mole, Semyon. Whatever it takes, however long it takes. Find them before they give him the one piece of information that could destroy everything."
***
I called her that night, as promised.
It was nearly midnight in New York, which made it early morning on the island. I sat alone in my penthouse, the city glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows, and listened to her voice like it was oxygen.
"You sound tired," she said.
"I am tired." There was no point lying. She'd see through it anyway. "It's been a long day."
"Tell me about it."
So I did. Not everything—not the bodies, not the blood, not the cold calculations of war. But enough. The meeting with my men. The hunt for the mole. The tension that vibrated through the organization like a plucked string.
She listened without interrupting, asking occasional questions that proved she'd been paying attention to everything I'd told her about my world. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.
"You miss it," she said finally. "Being there. Being in control."
"I miss aspects of it." I stared out at the skyline. "But I find myself distracted. Thinking about other things."
"What other things?"
"You." The word came out rougher than I intended. "I keep thinking about you. Wondering what you're doing, whether you're all right, whether you're—"
I stopped myself. The admission felt too raw, too vulnerable.
"I'm fine," she said softly. "I've been working on the Athens acquisition. Yelena's been hovering. The cook made moussaka tonight, and I actually ate the whole serving."
"Good. You need to eat."
"I need a lot of things." A pause. "I didn't expect to miss you."
The words hit me like a physical blow. She missed me. This woman who'd hated me, fought me, called me a monster—she missed me.
"Gabrielle—"
"Don't read too much into it." Her voice turned brisk, defensive. "I've just gotten used to having you around. The bed feels empty, that's all."
"The bed feels empty here too."
Silence stretched between us, full of everything we weren't saying. I wanted to tell her—what? That I couldn't stop thinking about her? That the memory of her body against mine was the only thing getting me through these endless days? That I was counting the hours until I could return to her?
All true. All too much.
"I should let you sleep," I said instead. "It's late there."
"Early, actually. I've been awake for a while."
"Trouble sleeping?"