Chapter 19 Aleksei
ALEKSEI
When I step back onto the terrace, the night feels different.
Colder.
The candle on the table still burns in its glass holder, the flame steady despite the wind that drifts over the estate grounds.
Beyond the stone balustrade, the lawn stretches into darkness, trimmed too neatly, lit too softly, every hedge and pathway arranged to look effortless.
The kind of place built for old money and polite secrets.
Marina is exactly where I left her.
She sits with one long leg crossed over the other, a pale hand curled around the stem of her wineglass, her posture untouched by the fact that I disappeared for far too long in the middle of our first dinner.
The image is elegant enough to frame. Composed.
Refined. The kind of woman men like me are expected to choose.
But the moment her eyes lift to my face, something shifts.
It is subtle. A loosening in her shoulders. The faintest exhale. Relief, gone almost as soon as it arrives.
Interesting.
I stop beside the table and look at her for a second before I speak.
I am still warm from Zatanna’s mouth, still carrying the scent of her on my skin, still half out of my mind from what almost happened in that bathroom.
The contrast between that and this tablecloth, this wine, this perfectly mannered woman, is so absurd I almost laugh.
Instead, I say, “My apologies. I have to cut the evening short.”
For a heartbeat, Marina says nothing. Then her lips part around a soft, unforced laugh.
“To be honest,” she says, setting down her glass, “that’s a relief.”
I look at her more carefully.
Most women in her position would have covered the reaction.
Smoothed it over. Pretended offense, if only for pride’s sake.
But Marina only tilts her head and studies me with a kind of detached amusement, as if she knows exactly how strange this evening has been and sees no value in performing otherwise.
“No offense,” she adds.
“None taken.”
And I mean it.
Because now that I’m looking at her properly, I can see it. The intelligence behind the polished smile. The calculation beneath the beauty. She is not upset. She is assessing. Adjusting. Moving on.
That, at least, I respect.
She folds her hands neatly in front of her. “I agreed to this dinner because I was curious.” The candlelight catches in her earrings as she moves, throwing little flashes against her throat.
“Curious about what?”
She smiles then, a little slower this time, and I see the steel beneath the silk. “You.”
Of course.
I say nothing, and she goes on, apparently deciding honesty is the quickest route through this.
“You have a reputation, Mr. Vasiliev. A very dramatic one. I wanted to see how much of it was true.”
“And?” I ask.
Her gaze travels over me, measured but not flirtatious. Not anymore.
“I think,” she says carefully, “that you are exactly as dangerous as people say. Just not in the way they expect.”
That almost earns her a real smile. I glance once toward the terrace doors, my patience thinning now that the social performance is ending. Somewhere inside, Zatanna is supposed to be waiting where I left her. The fact that I cannot see her is beginning to needle at me in ways I do not like.
Marina notices. Women like her notice everything.
“You’re distracted,” she says.
“Yes.”
“By another woman?”
The question is too smooth to be innocent.
I look back at her.
She lifts one brow. “Please. I may spend my life smiling at donor luncheons, but I’m not stupid. Men don’t vanish from first dates with that expression unless something very interesting happened in the meantime.”
I almost tell her to mind her own business.
Instead, I remain silent, and in the silence she gets her answer.
She leans back in her chair, not offended in the slightest. If anything, she looks relieved all over again. “Well,” she says softly, “that saves us both a tedious evening.”
The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself.
Behind the polished manners, behind the charity boards and tasteful gowns and carefully curated public image, she is like every other person in our world. Strategic. Self-protective. A little ruthless when it matters.
Even the kind ones have sharp edges.
She reaches for her glass again, though she does not drink. “Since we’re being honest, perhaps we can still be useful to each other.”
I go still. Maybe this is the real reason for the evening. “Go on.”
“My family has a development project stalled in the city,” she says.
“Nothing scandalous. Just… delayed. You have influence in places where my father’s name is beginning to mean less than it used to.
” Her tone remains light, but I can hear the ambition under it.
The calculation. This dinner, then, was never only a dinner.
It was reconnaissance. A chance to see me up close and decide whether I was usable.
I should resent that.
Instead, I find it oddly refreshing.
At least she is not pretending this is about chemistry.
“And what would you want from me?” I ask.
She gives me a small, elegant shrug. “A word in the right ear. Maybe two. In return, I let the evening end gracefully. No offense. No gossip. And, if necessary, one or two public appearances at some later date so the world can believe whatever version of this story is most convenient.”
Smart woman.
I let the silence stretch just long enough for her to wonder whether she has pushed too far. Then I nod once.
“Fine.”
The satisfaction in her face is immediate, though she is too well-trained to let it show fully. “Wonderful,” she says.
I straighten. “My office will be in touch.”
“Of course.”
I incline my head. “Thank you for your understanding.”
She lets out a soft laugh. “Mr. Vasiliev. Let’s not pretend either of us is upset this didn’t become romantic.”
Fair. I give her the ghost of a smile and turn away.
The moment I step back inside, my focus sharpens into something colder. Harder. Because now that the polite performance is over, one fact remains:
Zatanna is not where I left her.
The moment I realize she’s gone, everything inside me goes still.
Not calm. Still.
The kind that comes right before violence.
I move fast through the corridor behind the terrace, every step clipped and purposeful. The bathroom is empty. The service hall is empty. A startled waiter nearly drops a tray when I stop him.
“The woman who came through here. Dark hair. Black dress. Where did she go?”
He blinks. “She used the staff exit, sir. Just now.”
Cold cuts through me. I’m already moving before he finishes the sentence.
The back door bangs open against the stone wall as I step outside into the night. The air is colder here, sharper, the path behind the estate dimly lit and too quiet. Gravel crunches under my shoes as I head toward the road.
Then I hear it. A muffled, painfully familiar cry.
Zatanna.
Every nerve in my body lights up at once.
I break into a run.
The path empties onto the road,f and halfway down I catch the shape of a dark sedan angled at the curb. Rear door open. One man already inside. Another outside, one hand clamped over Zatanna’s mouth, the other dragging her toward the car while she kicks and twists in his grip.
My vision narrows. There are moments in a man’s life when thought becomes unnecessary.
This is one of them.
I hit the first man before he even sees me coming.
My shoulder drives into his ribs with enough force to send him sprawling across the hood. Zatanna stumbles free with a strangled gasp, but I don’t spare her more than a glance—not yet, not until I know she’s on her feet.
The second man comes out of the car with a gun.
But he’s too slow.
I catch his wrist, slam it against the door frame, and hear bone crack before the weapon even discharges. The shot goes wild into the dark. He screams. I wrench the gun free and drive the butt into his face hard enough to drop him.
“Get behind me,” I snap.
Zatanna is breathing hard, shaken, one hand at her throat, but she obeys instantly.
Good girl.
The first man recovers faster than I want.
He launches at me from the side, desperate and ugly, and we go down against the gravel in a mess of fists and momentum.
He’s trained enough to be dangerous, but not enough to win.
I drive an elbow into his throat, roll, and hammer three clean strikes into his jaw until his body goes limp.
Footsteps. Another one.
I come up fast just as a third man rounds the front of the sedan. Knife in hand. He hesitates when he sees the other two down.
That hesitation costs him.
I grab the gun from the second man’s slack fingers and level it between us.
“Drop it.”
He doesn’t.
He glances past me, toward Zatanna.
And that is the last mistake he gets to make.
I shoot him in the leg.
His howl splits the night. He drops hard, knife skidding across the road. I’m on him in two strides, gun under his chin before he can even think about crawling.
“Who sent you?”
Blood slicks his mouth when he laughs.
Wrong answer.
I press harder. “Try again.”
His eyes flick to the sedan. To the road. Calculating. Looking for escape.
There isn’t one.
Then I feel Zatanna behind me—too close, shaking hard, trying not to make a sound.
I don’t need her seeing the next part.
“Close your eyes,” I tell her.
There’s a tiny pause.
Then, very quietly, “Aleksei…”
“Now.”
I hear her breath hitch.
The man beneath me smirks. “You should’ve let her come with us. She’d fetch a good—”
I hit him with the gun hard enough to split skin and silence him. Rage burns white behind my ribs. Hot. Clean. Ancient.
No one touches what’s mine.
No one.
He spits blood and finally says, “We were told to bring the girl. That’s all.”
The girl.
My hand tightens on the gun. “By who?”
He shakes his head. I almost break his jaw for it.
But I stop myself. Instead, I stand and call a number without taking my eyes off him.
Sergei answers on the first ring.