21. LEO #7
I watch, fascinated. I see the panic messages on Alexei's communication channels.
I see confused orders being given. I see an alert on the local news about a "gas explosion" at a luxury restaurant in Brighton Beach—one of Alexei's favorites.
I intercept an internal communication from Ivan's men bragging about taking over three betting houses.
A police feed reports a car bomb at the address of a known Alexei lawyer.
Alexei moves millions between accounts in the Cayman Islands.
An anonymous tip leaks the location of one of Ivan's arsenals to the police.
I barely need to get my hands dirty. The Malakovs cannibalize each other.
The violent outburst in Brighton Beach only subsides by the end of the day. Their war will continue for weeks, but the threat to us has been effectively neutralized. Alexei is careful. He won't make efforts to avenge what happened in that warehouse while his own family is trying to cut his throat.
A notification flashes on my main monitor. An encrypted video call. Dmitry Volkov . I accept.
The screen splits. On one side, Dmitry, in his impeccable office, a glass of whiskey in his hand and a rare smile of satisfaction on his face.
On the other, Svetlana, the image coming from a laptop camera, against the backdrop of a luxury hotel room somewhere in Europe.
Her expression is, as always, indecipherable.
" Nyx. As you can see... your plan was an absolute success, " Dmitry says. He raises his whiskey glass, toasting with a ghost. " More than we expected, to be honest. "
Svetlana looks away from the screen. Surely reading reports.
She says, " Ivan Malakov's infrastructure in Brighton Beach is collapsing.
He's losing control of his docks. Alexei has moved eighty percent of his liquid assets out of the country.
They're too focused on each other to worry about us for the foreseeable future. "
Dmitry laughs. He doesn't hide his satisfaction. "When the dust settles, you and I will have a real whiskey. I have a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle saved to celebrate the family's newest and most valuable acquisition. "
It's the most sincere form of cordiality I could expect from him. Welcome to the Volkovs .
"I don't drink whiskey, Dmitry. But I'll make an exception."
" Consider it part of your new benefits package. "
Svetlana interrupts before Dmitry can make another gentle boss joke. " And the secondary asset? Sal? What's the status of his data extraction? "
"We're almost done. He still has a few secrets, but he's being very cooperative."
" Excellent. For now, then ," she says, "your next step is to compile the logs from the Croatian holding's systems. We need to know what Ivan has already lost."
She adjusts her glasses. No congratulations or thanks.
"Of course," I say. Working isn't bad. It keeps my head functional.
But Dmitry disagrees. " Sveta, give him the night off, " he says, smiling at the corner of his mouth. " He deserves it. "
" Rest is a luxury we don't have, Dmitry. The window of opportunity to exploit their weakness is now. "
"She's right," I say, leaning into the microphone. "Give me access to the logs. I can finish this in a few hours."
Anything to not be alone with my own head, because a foolish part of me was hoping. Hoping for him .
Dmitry shakes his head. He still speaks lightly, but it's definitive now, " No. The order came from above. "
Svetlana stays quiet. She frowns, thinking, trying to remember. She didn't know. Neither did I.
Dmitry continues, looking at me. " Dante was clear. He said you needed a night. He's taking one himself. "
On screen, I see the exact moment Svetlana's patience runs out. It's the slowest, most tired eye-roll I've ever seen.
I'd like to know what she's thinking. Why is Dante taking a day off? Is it because of me? Did the war exhaust him? Is he so psychologically fucked up because of what happened that he needs time alone?
" Enjoy your forced day off, Nyx ," Dmitry says. He must have had a little to drink. He's warmer. " Use the time to think about a counter-proposal for your contract. The offer is still on the table. "
I had almost forgotten.
"Every day this, Dmitry," I complain.
He, of course, laughs. At some point, I won't be able to escape. He needs everything formalized like humans need oxygen.
" Good night, Nyx. "
A hiss. He hangs up. Svetlana's screen darkens a second later, without a goodbye. Efficient even in her rudeness.
I take off my headphones. Unlike Chad's, at the bottom of my backpack, these are good. But it doesn't make a difference now. The silence is the same as always.
A war won. Dmitry, one of the most influential men in the city, invited me for whiskey with him. Expensive, aged whiskey. High society stuff.
Still, I'm alone.
Dante isn't here to see the victory. He isn't here to give me the next order.
The admiration, the kiss in the warehouse, the way he called me "my boy"... it all seems like a fever dream. Maybe I crossed a line. Maybe, now that he has me back, safe and useful, the interest is gone. I said I loved him. A stupid word. A mistake.
I sit on the bed. I don't like this. It's a burning I don't know how to face, it's new. What the fuck. This didn't happen before. When Dante left me, when he tried to get rid of me, when he pushed me away. It was empty, hollow; nothingness, not this shapeless burning that spreads.
I go to the window. Outside, only the trees and the invisible guards. I wonder if they recognize me as part of the house, or just as Dante's project.
Then, a sound. Low, almost nothing. It's because of the silence that it's so obvious. A metallic click. The door.
I turn. Slowly.
Him .
The silhouette appears first. The blazer hanging on his shoulders, the vest still buttoned, the tie loose. He says nothing. Just closes the door behind him, locks it.
"You won a war today."
His voice is hoarse. As if he'd been smoking, or talking too much to people he hates.
He takes his watch off his wrist. He puts it on the dresser.
"You sent me a night off," I say. "Did you come to put me to sleep?"
He approaches.
"Do you want to sleep?"
"I want you."
He doesn't react. He looks at me with that intensity that melts my bones.
Then I confess, "If your plan was to leave me alone until I became docile, it worked."
He stops a step away from me. He frowns, not understanding what this absence did to me. Maybe he didn't expect it to create more submission. Maybe he doesn't know I'd do anything . I want him to know.
"You think I ignored you?" he says. The same threatening tone from all my fantasies. Fuck. My whole body trembles. "If I had walked through that door a day earlier, Nyx... with the rage I was feeling and the way you look at me... your broken rib would have punctured your lung."
My legs almost give out. It's a relief. There's no regret in the way he looks at me.
No disgust, no disagreement. When he pushed me away at that hotel, he was genuinely concerned.
Concerned about using too much force, hurting me too much.
He cares, and I almost want to laugh. I want him to hurt me too much. The concern is an aphrodisiac.
Was he following the medical reports? Did he wait for me to describe no acute pain to the doctor? Did he wait for the doctor to clear sudden movements?
I touch his tie. Loose. "So why are you here now, Dante?" I whisper. "Do you think I'm healed enough for you?"
I take his hand—the same one that punched that man's face into a mass of flesh, the same one that held the gun that blew off Sal's hands—and bring it below my chest, placing it over my broken rib. I press his hand against it.
For a second, nothing happens. Dante's hand remains rigid under mine. I challenge him in silence, at the same time I plead. Please. Don't push me away.
His jaw clenches. It's instantaneous with the tremor in his hand. His fingers slowly firm up, until his hand is pressing against my body. He squeezes.
The pain is a sharp explosion. I don't fight it. I lean in, offering more, and I can't suppress the sound—a low, breathless moan, a mixture of pain and a pornographic relief.
His breathing is heavy. His eyes darken.
"Fuck, Nyx..." he growls.
His fingers tighten, and I have to grab his shoulders to keep from falling.
"I was trying," he says, gravely. "Not to fucking lose control."
It's a confession. The rawest and most honest he's ever given me. He was keeping himself away. For me. The world spins. He is all I can cling to.
"Do you know how many times I touched myself these last few days?" I whisper. Shameless. "Thinking about it. About you. About your voice. About your hands on me."
My hand slides from his chest, down his torso, and stops at the cold buckle of his belt. I hook a finger there.
"I can't stop thinking about it," I confess. "You can break my ribs, Dante. I won't stop you."
He lowers his hand from my rib to my waist. In a second, he lifts me, as if I weighed nothing. I wrap my legs around him, hold his shoulders to anchor myself, and he walks to the bed with a delicious impatience.
I missed this. His body is a wall, exuding heat.
He pushes me onto the mattress. The ache in my bones feels good— anything caused by him is good.
He climbs on top of me, tearing off his blazer in a hurry.
I slide my hands over his shoulders, help him get rid of it, and he allows it.
He throws the thousand-dollar blazer on the floor like trash and thrusts himself over me.
I pull his tie with one hand. He leans closer, and quickly undoes it. The fabric slides between our fingers until he throws it on the floor.
He kisses me. Finally. Without gentleness, without warning. It's a deep, wet kiss, marked by his teeth grazing my lips, and by the metallic taste of some old rage.
I moan against his mouth, and he swallows me. Everything in me bends to receive him.