CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lev
IVAN LEANS BACK in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His smile is thin, calculating, his cold eyes raking over me like a man sizing up a weapon—determining whether I’m sharp enough to be wielded or dull enough to discard.
“You were clever to buy the girl and use her as bait,” he muses, his voice smooth but edged with something unreadable. Approval, yes. But there’s always something more with men like him. A test beneath the praise. A warning behind the compliment.
I take the words for what they are and nod, as if this had been my plan all along. It hadn’t—not exactly—but correcting Ivan would be a mistake. Men like him respect results, not explanations. This is my moment, my chance to carve my place beside him in this brutal world.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice steady, emotionless. “I always aim to do what’s best for the family.”
Ivan studies me, his gaze steady, unblinking. He’s measuring, weighing.
“Good.” A beat of silence, then—“Now, I have someone I want you to meet.”
A faint creak of a door. Heavy steps. A presence behind my chair. I keep eye contact with Ivan. Whoever it is was waiting for their moment to enter.
Dimitri Volkov steps around and into view. The name alone sends a ripple of tension through my chest. He’s more than just one of Ivan’s men. He runs the casinos, controls the Romanov Bratva’s money flow, and from what I’ve heard, bodies drop in his wake without a sound. He’s the kind of man you don’t cross unless you’re ready to disappear.
“Dimitri will be your new handler.”
The air changes, thickening like a storm rolling in.
Dimitri doesn’t react to Ivan’s words, but I don’t miss the flicker of irritation in his ice-blue gaze. He sits beside Ivan, both of them facing me. He’s tall. Powerfully built. His dark hair is neatly combed back, the sharp cut of his suit flawless, concealing the monster lurking beneath. There’s a controlled violence about him, a quiet kind of ruthlessness that doesn’t need to be announced—it’s simply understood.
His gaze locks onto mine.
For a moment, the room feels smaller, like the walls are pressing in.
I don’t react, keeping my expression unreadable. Showing weakness in front of men like them is an invitation to be torn apart.
“Understood,” I say, my voice devoid of anything but cold acceptance.
Ivan chuckles, breaking the moment. “Good. Dimitri will need you straight away.”
Dimitri leans back in his chair, finally breaking eye contact with me to look at Ivan. “I don’t need help.”
Ivan swirls the amber liquid in his glass. “You’ve got a problem brewing with our…rivals,” he continues, ignoring Dimitri’s protest. “And I want him in the middle of it. Consider it a test.”
A test. That’s what this is.
Dimitri exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “If I wanted him, I would have asked.”
Ivan’s smirk deepens. “And yet, here we are.”
I glance at Dimitri, watching as his jaw tightens. He doesn’t like being undermined. That much is obvious.
I just nod. “I won’t disappoint you.”
Ivan’s smirk sharpens, his amusement laced with warning. “You’d better not.”
Dimitri still doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. He just watches me, his presence a silent threat, a reminder that from this moment forward, my life isn’t my own.
And if I fail?
I won’t get the chance to make another mistake.
I turn to Dimitri. “Where and when do you need me?”
His lip twitches in something that isn’t quite a smirk. “I’ll be in contact.”
His tone is dismissive, but there’s something more behind it—a test for him as well as from Ivan.
I nod and rise, buttoning my suit jacket. Ivan raises his glass in a farewell gesture, amusement glinting in his eyes.
I leave the room and don’t look back.
By the time I get home, the tension in my chest eases. As I step through the door, something shifts. The air inside is warm, carrying the scent of something slow-roasted—garlic, herbs, something rich and comforting. It’s the kind of smell that makes a man forget, even if just for a second, that his hands are stained with blood.
Alina is in the kitchen, humming softly, her hair swept up in a messy bun, a few loose strands slipping free. A candle flickers on the table, casting a golden glow across her face. It’s domestic. Safe. A world away from the one I just came from.
She turns when she hears me, her lips curving into a soft smile. “You’re home.”
For a moment, I just look at her. She’s standing there barefoot, wearing one of my shirts over her leggings, the cook’s apron dusted with flour. She shouldn’t fit into my life. Not in the world I live in. But somehow, she does.
“You didn’t have to go all out,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “I have a cook for this.” My eyes move over the table—roasted meat, warm bread, some kind of pasta that smells like home. It’s the kind of meal a man could get used to, the kind that makes him want things he has no right to.
She shrugs, placing a plate in front of me, her fingers grazing mine for the briefest second. “I like to cook,” she says. “And I just thought…we could use a quiet night.”
I don’t argue. Instead, I sit, watching as she moves around the kitchen, pouring wine, setting out utensils. She’s graceful in the smallest ways, even when she doesn’t try to be.
For a while, it almost feels normal.
We eat, and she talks—about a book she’s been reading.
Alina twirls her fork in her pasta, eyes lighting up as she talks. “So, the hero spends half the book brooding in the shadows, watching the heroine from afar. He’s all tortured and mysterious, but—”
“Let me guess,” I cut in, smirking. “He doesn’t actually do anything?”
She sighs dramatically. “That’s not the point.”
I raise a brow. “No killing? No revenge?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Not every story needs violence, you know.”
I take a sip of wine, considering. “Sounds boring.”
She scoffs. “You wouldn’t survive one chapter.”
“Because I’d fall asleep?”
“Because you’d want to strangle the hero before he ever confesses his feelings.”
I lean back in my chair, watching her as she talks, her hands moving animatedly. She’s so damn expressive, so alive . And for a moment, I let myself get lost in it. In her.
The world outside fades. If only for a little while.
But normal isn’t part of my world.
And there are rules that need to be laid down.
I swirl the last of my wine in the glass before setting it down. “Alina,” I say, my tone shifting just enough to make her pause.
She looks up, her fork midway to her lips.
“From now on, you’ll have a bodyguard with you at all times.”
Her brows pull together. “Is that really necessary?”
“It is.” I hold her gaze, steady and unflinching. “It’s non-negotiable.”
She studies me, her expression unreadable at first, but then something settles in her eyes. Acceptance. No argument. No fight. Just quiet trust.
That kind of trust is dangerous.
It makes me want to protect her more than I already do.
I reach into my pocket, pulling out a small set of keys for her own car, setting them on the table between us. The gold card follows, sliding across the wood with a soft scrape.
“To make up for it,” I say.
Her eyes drop to the objects in front of her, her brows drawing together. “What is this?”
“A car. And whatever else you need.”
She doesn’t touch either. Instead, she crosses her arms. “I don’t need a car.”
I exhale slowly. “You do.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “No, I don’t ,” she says, voice firm. “I already have a car. A perfectly fine one.”
“It’s outdated. No security. Not good enough.”
Her jaw tightens. “Good enough for whom? Because I’m pretty sure it still gets me from point A to point B.”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. “Alina,” I say, voice dropping, “it’s not just about getting you places. It’s about keeping you safe.”
She scoffs, pushing the gold card back toward me. “And this? What, am I supposed to be some kept woman now?”
I hold her gaze, unmoving. “You are not a kept woman, and it’s for whatever you need.”
She shakes her head. “No. This is control.”
I exhale through my nose, forcing my voice to stay even. “This is protection .”
She glares at me, and for the first time tonight, there’s real fire behind it. “You don’t get to buy my obedience.”
I clench my jaw, trying to push down the frustration curling in my gut. “It’s not about obedience.”
“Oh really?” She leans in, matching my stance. “Because it sure as hell feels like I’m just supposed to nod and smile and say thank you, sir , while you dictate every little thing in my life.”
I drag a hand down my face. She’s impossible. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” Her voice is sharp now, challenging. “Because it doesn’t feel like a gift. It feels like you’re boxing me in, making sure I don’t take a step without you knowing about it.”
I lean back and shrug. “Yeah, you have to always tell me where you are. No exceptions.”
She lets out a bitter laugh. “Jesus, you don’t even hear yourself, do you?”
“Alina.” My tone is firm now, leaving no room for negotiation.
She shakes her head, looking away, fingers gripping the edge of the table like she’s holding back words that might rip through me. Then she exhales, her shoulders dropping slightly.
“And what if I say no?” she asks, quieter now but no less defiant.
I hold her gaze but don’t answer her. I need to make sure she’s safe at all times, so this is not a negotiation.
Her lips press together, and I know she hates this. Hates that I won’t budge. But there are some battles she can’t win.
Finally, she exhales sharply and grabs the keys off the table. “I’m not happy about this,” she mutters.
I almost smirk. “Noted.”
She glares at me one last time, then pockets the keys.
That’s the closest thing to a surrender I’m going to get.
We eat for another few moments, and I can tell she is settling down, the anger leaving her but something flickers in her expression, something hesitant, nervous.
I tilt my head. “What is it?”
She bites her lip, suddenly unable to meet my gaze. She never does that—she’s stubborn, always meeting my eyes like she refuses to be intimidated.
“I have something to tell you,” she says quietly.
My stomach tightens. Bad news. It’s always bad news.
“Go on.”
She exhales, her cheeks flushing slightly. Then, all at once, she blurts it out. “I’ve decided to go to art school.”
I stare at her, my brain catching up to her words. I expected worse. A hell of a lot worse.
Relief washes over me first. Then, something else. Something I don’t quite have a name for.
Pride, maybe.
“That’s good,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “I’ll make arrangements. You can get into any school you want.”
But she shakes her head, chin lifting slightly. “I’m doing this the old-fashioned way. I’ve already sent my application to Chita University.”
I nod slowly, hiding a smirk. “Fair enough.”
She watches me, searching my face like she’s trying to read between the lines.
Later, when she’s not looking, I’ll make sure she gets in.
There’s no way I’m leaving it to chance.
For now, I reach for my wine glass again, lifting it slightly in her direction. “To art school, then.”
She smiles, and something in my chest tightens.