Chapter 21 Aleksei
ALEKSEI
One week. That’s all she has. That’s all I have.
I’m running out of time.
It’s time to secure the inheritance. Time to outmaneuver my father. Time to find out who put a car on me and hands on her. And, if I have any sense left at all, time to get Zatanna out of my head.
I walk out of the break room without looking back, but I can still feel her there. Angry, shocked, breathing too fast. The image sticks under my skin all the way down the hall and into the elevator, and by the time I reach the lobby I’m more wound up than when I walked in.
One week. Just one week.
I gave her money as leverage because money is something I understand. Deadlines are something I understand. Transactions, contracts, pressure. Those are safe.
Wanting her is none of those things.
My phone buzzes before I reach the car.
I answer without checking. “What.”
Alena laughs softly in my ear. “And here I was thinking near-death experiences might improve your manners.”
I stop walking.
So she knows that too.
“Careful,” I say quietly.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic. If I knew details, I’d say them. I only know enough to hear that someone’s getting sloppy around you.”
I slide into the backseat and shut the door. “Why are you calling?”
“Because I’m curious,” she says. “And because your father is moving pieces faster than usual.”
My jaw tightens. “You’ve spoken to him.”
“Not directly.”
A lie, probably. Or half a lie, which is worse.
She goes on before I can press. “He’s nervous. That makes him dangerous.”
“He’s always dangerous.”
“Yes, but now he’s impatient.” A pause. “Which usually means there’s a woman involved.”
My silence gives her too much.
“A woman,” Alena repeats, pleased with herself now. “Interesting.”
“Stay out of it.”
“I might,” she says lightly. “If you tell me whether I should be jealous.”
I almost hang up, but I don’t. “You should be careful what you attach your name to, Alena.”
Her tone cools. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s advice.”
The line goes quiet for a beat.
Then she says, “Whatever this is, Aleksei, it’s making you reckless.”
Maybe. She’s not wrong.
“You called to warn me?” I ask.
“I called,” she says, “because if your father is making a play, you should know he won’t stop with you. He’ll go after whatever makes you hesitate.”
That lands too close.
I end the call without another word.
The driver catches my eye in the mirror and says nothing.
By the time I get home, the apartment is already occupied.
Ilya is in the living room with Sergei and Anton, jackets off, drinks poured, the city stretched behind them in glittering black glass.
My mother has long since gone to bed. The whole place feels too elegant for the conversation waiting inside it.
Ilya looks up first. “You look terrible.”
“Charming.”
“You know what I mean.”
I take the whiskey Sergei pours and stay standing. Sitting feels too much like conceding comfort. “Tell me.”
Sergei sets a file on the table. “The men from last night were hired muscle. Not family. Not inner-circle. The one who lived gave us nothing useful before he stopped being useful.”
Anton adds, “But his phone had a burner contact linked to a number we’ve seen before.”
I wait.
“It’s associated with one of your father’s old logistics people,” Sergei says. “Not enough to prove direct involvement, but enough to smell him all over it.”
Ilya leans back, studying me. “The problem is the girl.”
I take a slow drink. “Her name is Zatanna.”
His mouth quirks. “That right there is the problem. You corrected me.”
I ignore that. “No one should know she matters.”
Anton glances at Sergei. “We’re not sure they do.”
I look at him.
He continues. “It may not be about feelings. It may be simpler than that. She was with you. She left with you. She’s visible now.”
I hate how logical that sounds.
“There’s no way,” I say, more to myself than to them, “that anybody knows what she is to me.”
Ilya lifts a brow. “And what is she to you?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t have one that doesn’t make me sound like a man losing his grip.
He leans back on the sofa, studying me over the rim of his glass. “I’ve seen the girl,” he says. “She’s less than average. Rather plain, actually. You’ve had better.”
The room goes still.
My hand tightens around my drink so hard the glass creaks.
Sergei and Anton both go quiet, smart enough to know when not to move.
I turn my head slowly and look at Ilya.
He sees it immediately. The reaction. The mistake.
And then, the bastard, he smiles.
“Wow,” he says softly. “You’re really into her.”
“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you.”
But he’s already too entertained now, too deep in. “So marry her.”
The words land harder than they should.
I go completely still.
Because the thought has occurred to me. More than once. More than I care to admit.
Zatanna in white. Zatanna with my name. Zatanna at my table, in my bed, carrying my child. A wife in every sense that matters.
The fantasy is instant. Treacherous. Too vivid.
Which is exactly why I kill it.
“No.”
Ilya’s expression sharpens. “No because you haven’t thought about it, or no because you have?”
I don’t answer that either.
He laughs under his breath. “Right.”
Anton shifts, uncomfortable now, and looks pointedly at the window. Sergei pours himself another drink and pretends not to listen, which means he’s listening to every word.
I set my glass down, carefully. “She is not an option.”
“Why?” Ilya asks.
“Because,” I say, too evenly, “I am not marrying a woman who can become my weakness.”
That wipes the humor off his face. He sits forward a little. “Any wife becomes a vulnerability.”
“Not like her.”
That comes out before I can stop it.
I hate myself for it immediately.
Ilya doesn’t miss it. “So that’s what this is.”
I say nothing.
He nods once, slow, like he’s assembling the pieces in real time.
“You don’t want some socialite because you won’t care if she hates you.
You don’t want a matchmaker because they’ll pick someone strategic.
You picked Zatanna because some part of you knew she’d see through the list, see through the women, see through you. ”
“That’s not why.”
“No?” He tips his head. “Then why does the idea of her with someone else bother you more than the idea of marrying her?”
My jaw tightens. Because he’s too close now.
Because I don’t have an answer that doesn’t sound like obsession.
Because the truth is ugly and simple: I could marry a hundred polished, suitable women and never care.
But Zatanna would matter. She would get under my skin, into my routines, into my head, into the part of me that still remembers what it is to want something for myself instead of for strategy or survival.
And that makes her dangerous.
“I’m not discussing this,” I say.
Ilya studies me for another long second, then exhales through his nose. “Fine.”
But the word means nothing. He’s not letting it go. He’s just changing tactics.
“If she’s off the table,” he says, “then you’d better make sure the next woman is one you can stand looking at. Because one week from now, you’ll either be engaged or buried under whatever your father has planned.”
Sergei finally speaks. “And if the attacks continue, plain or not, the girl needs protection.” The word plain in that context sends another spike of irritation through me.
Plain.
As if he’s talking about a piece of furniture.
As if her mouth doesn’t undo me. As if her eyes don’t catch every lie I tell. As if she doesn’t walk into a room and rearrange the gravity of it.
I lean back, forcing my voice colder than I feel. “No one says another word about her appearance.”
Anton raises both hands slightly. “Understood.”
Ilya just watches me, far too pleased with himself. “You really do have it bad.”
I look at him. “Say that again.”
He smiles into his glass and wisely says nothing.
Good. Because I am already too close to admitting things I can’t afford to make real. The apartment feels too warm, the city too loud beyond the glass. I move toward the window, one hand in my pocket, and stare out at the black river cutting through Manhattan.
One week. That’s all I need.
Find a bride. Survive my father. Keep Zatanna out of the line of fire.
It should be simple.
But behind me, Ilya’s voice comes again, quieter this time.
“For what it’s worth, Aleksei… the women you think are safest are usually the ones who cost you everything.”
I don’t turn around. Because if I do, I might tell him that I already know. And that it’s too late.
I turn back from the window. “Track my father.”
Sergei nods immediately. “Already started.”
“More closely,” I say. “I want his movements, his meetings, his calls if we can get them. If he’s even thinking about making another move, I want to know before he does.”
Anton leans forward, forearms on his knees. “We’ll look into it. But so far, nothing’s come out of his camp.”
I narrow my eyes. “Nothing?”
“Nothing about the attack,” Sergei says. “Nothing about the girl, either.”
Zatanna.
Even hearing the absence of her name does something ugly to my chest.
Anton continues, “If he knows about her, he’s keeping it quiet. Which would be smarter than broadcasting it. But honestly? From what we’ve picked up, he doesn’t seem interested in her.”
I wait.
Sergei flips open the folder again and glances at a note. “What he has been saying, repeatedly, is that you’ll never make the deadline. He thinks you’ll never find a bride in time to secure the inheritance.”
I let out a humorless breath.
That sounds like him.
Not because he believes in fate. But because he believes in me failing. He’s always liked that version of the story best.
“He talks too much,” Ilya mutters. “That’s usually useful.”
“Yes,” I say. “Unless he’s learned to keep the important parts to himself.”
Sergei shrugs once. “Possible. But if he’s behind the attack, he’s not bragging. Not yet.”
Not yet.