Chapter 17 Aleksei
ALEKSEI
“…we expect the shipment to arrive by Friday,” the Moscow contact says through the grainy video feed. “But understand, Aleksei Ivanovich—if your father is interfering again, this becomes your problem, not ours.”
Of course it does.
I keep my expression carved from stone. “I’ll handle my father. You handle your end.”
A few murmurs, exchanged glances, then the call disconnects with a soft click, leaving the expansive boardroom abruptly silent.
I exhale once, slow and controlled.
The back-to-back calls from Moscow are the only reason I changed locations at the last minute.
Now we’re here, in a glass-walled conference room high above Manhattan, sunlight spilling across polished wood while we discuss attempted murder like it’s a budget review.
I stand and turn toward my men already waiting—Sergei, Anton, Dimitri—each of them grim-faced, alert, ready.
“Alright,” I say, rolling my shoulders once, shifting from business to blood. “Last night.”
Sergei steps forward first. Loyal. Efficient. Brutally thorough. “We traced the plates on the sedan. They were stolen.” He sets a folder on the table. “Professional job. Whoever they were, they knew your route.”
“Not well enough,” Anton mutters.
Dimitri adds, “We found shells on the road. Russian-made.”
My jaw tightens. Russian-made means two things. Either someone from inside the Bratva wants me dead…
Or my father is escalating.
Again.
I lean over the table, palms planted. “Tell me everything.”
Sergei flips open another file. “The shooters missed your tires on purpose. They aimed for the windows. Kill shot, not a warning.”
“And the second car?” I ask.
Sergei shakes his head. “Gone before we arrived. Ghosted the streets.”
I drag a hand across my jaw, remembering the glint of headlights behind me, the burst of gunfire, the instinctive lurch of the wheel as I outran them. And the way my mind—stupidly—went to Zatanna in the middle of chaos.
I shouldn’t have called her.
And yet I had.
Anton clears his throat. “Boss… if they knew your route, someone’s watching your movements closely.”
Dimitri adds, “Could be your father. Could be someone working for him. Or someone from the Moscow council who doesn’t like the will's… rumors.”
I straighten, the tension settling into my shoulders like armor.
“What about the driver of the sedan?”
“Dead before we got there,” Sergei answers. “Single shot to the head. Execution-style. Someone didn’t want him talking.”
Well, that’s convenient. Predictable. And fucking irritating.
I pace, the leather of my shoes echoing in the high-ceilinged room. “So we have organized shooters, Russian ammo, a stolen car, a cleanup kill, and perfect timing.”
“Looks that way,” Anton agrees.
“And we have a second vehicle capable of tailing me without losing distance.” I stop pacing. “Which means they’re trained. Possibly military.”
Silence falls.
Sergei finally says, “This isn’t random, Aleksei. Whoever did this knows your patterns. Knows your weaknesses.”
Weaknesses. A bitter laugh threatens to escape.
If they knew anything about my weaknesses, they’d know the biggest one is a woman currently sitting in my skyscraper wearing soft sweaters and looking at me like she’s not sure if she should run from me or kiss me again.
Focus.
I turn to my men. “I want eyes everywhere. Double security rotations. No one moves without checking in. I expect a list of every enemy with motive by the end of the day.”
Sergei nods immediately.
“And find out,” I add, voice dropping, “if my father was in the city last night.”
Because if he was… Then this is no longer business.
It’s personal.
Anton shifts uneasily. “If your father is behind it—”
“I’ll deal with him.” My voice is quiet but sharp enough to cut. “He won’t get my inheritance. He won’t get control. Not while I breathe.”
The men nod, understanding the weight of the words.
Sergei is mid-sentence, pointing to a blown-up image of shell casings on the screen. “Based on the angle of dispersion, we think—”
The boardroom doors slam open. All four of us turn.
And there she is.
Zatanna.
She’s wide-eyed and breathless, clutching a tablet to her chest like a shield. She looks between me and my men, cheeks flooding pink the moment she realizes what she’s walked into.
“Oh—god—sorry,” she blurts, stepping back so fast she nearly trips. “I didn’t know anyone was—I’ll just—” She gestures vaguely toward the hallway, clearly intent on fleeing, and my team stares at her like she’s a lost kitten that somehow wandered into a den of wolves.
I feel something low in my stomach tighten. “Stop,” I say.
She freezes.
My men look at me like, surely, he didn’t just say that.
I turn to them. “Leave us.”
Three hardened Bratva enforcers, men who’ve followed me into shootouts and out of burning buildings, stare at me in complete disbelief.
Sergei actually blinks. “Leave… the meeting?”
“Yes.”
“But we haven’t—”
“Now,” I say, my voice dipping into the tone that never allows argument.
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Then chairs push back. Paper folders snap shut. They file out past her, each giving her a curious glance—some confused, some wary, one or two openly astonished.
She steps aside to let them through, baffled, clutching that tablet even tighter. When the door finally shuts behind the last man, the room sinks into heavy quiet.
She stands there like she’s reconsidering her entire life choices.
Her voice is small. “I… didn’t mean to interrupt anything important.”
“You did.”
Her eyes widen.
“But you’re already here,” I add, gesturing toward her. “So stay.”
She swallows, nervous but trying to pretend she isn’t. “I—um—okay.”
She takes a tiny step inside. Then another. The door clicks softly as I lock it behind her. Her breath catches. She looks like she wants to sink into the floor.
I take a slow step toward her.
“It’s alright,” I say. “You’re not interrupting anything.”
She swallows, eyes flicking to the table covered with tactical documents and ballistic photos. “Pretty sure I was interrupting something.”
A reluctant smile pulls at my mouth. “I didn’t mind.”
Her blush deepens, spreading across her cheeks, down her neck. I shouldn’t notice that. I shouldn’t notice any of it. Last night someone tried to kill me, this morning I’m discussing ammunition calibers, and yet—
Here she is, looking at me like she’s not sure whether to apologize or run.
And every part of me feels like the oxygen in the room has shifted. “What did you need?” I ask, softer than I intend.
She hugs the iPad closer to her chest. “I, um… picked a candidate. For your date.”
I blink. “My… what?”
She brightens a little, as if finally on safe ground.
“Your date. The one you asked me to arrange. With—” She scrolls quickly.
“Marina Leston. She’s a philanthropist, comes from a really respectable family, absolutely gorgeous—though not that it matters, I mean, obviously you don’t need—well, anyway—”
She keeps talking. Words spill out in this anxious, determined ramble that would almost be funny if it weren’t directed squarely at me. Her voice is soft, hopeful even. Like she’s proud of herself for accomplishing something.
A date. With someone else.
My jaw tightens as she waves the tablet a little, going on about Marina’s charity involvement, her impeccable social standing, how well-connected she is, apparently how fluent she is in French and Italian…
And then it hits me. Last night.
My voice, raw from adrenaline. Her voice, sleepy and soft. Me asking her to arrange a date by the end of today. And her quiet disbelief. Then her muttering insult after she thought the call had ended.
I close my eyes for one second. What the hell was I thinking?
When I open them again, she’s still talking, “…and she already replied to your invitation. Said she’d be delighted. She chose Le Verdin for dinner, it’s exclusive but she apparently knows someone who can get a table on such short notice, and—”
I stop hearing her. Not the words. Just the part where she’s arranging a date for me with another woman while standing in front of me flushed and beautiful and completely unaware of what she does to me.
“…and it’s set for tonight,” she finishes brightly, misunderstanding my silence for approval.
My mind snaps back. “Tonight?” I echo.
She nods eagerly. “Yes. Eight o’clock. You said you were in a hurry so I didn’t want to waste any—Mr. Vasiliev? Are you… alright?”
I stare at her. The woman I kissed like a starving man. The woman who dreams have no business following me into daylight. The woman who just scheduled me to sit across from someone else while every part of my body still remembers the way she trembled in my hands.
No. I’m not alright. Not even close.
But I force my voice steady.
“Tonight,” I repeat, more to myself than to her.
She beams, proud of her work.
And all I can think is that I’ve created a problem I might not be able to untangle—because the idea of going on a date with anyone who isn’t her makes something dark coil low in my chest.
She’s still smiling at me, waiting—expecting praise, maybe. Approval. Something a normal CEO would give an assistant who just pulled off a same-day high-society dinner arrangement.
But I’m not normal. And nothing about this is normal.
“Do you want to see her profile again?” she asks, tilting the tablet toward me.
Not really.
What I want is to drag her into the nearest corner and kiss her until her knees give out again. What I want is to forget the stupid date I told her to schedule. What I want…
I shut that thought down before it goes too far.
“Show me,” I say instead.
She steps closer. The scent of her shampoo—something soft and sweet—brushes against me as she lifts the tablet. Her fingers graze mine by accident, and the tiny touch punches heat straight through me.
I inhale sharply.