Chapter Six - Alexei #2
The car pulls up for me. I descend the townhouse steps and slide into the back seat. The driver asks nothing; I answer nothing. As we glide toward the river, the city throws our reflection across black water. I close my eyes and let the engine hum erase the party’s music.
***
The armory is colder than the upstairs, the kind of chill that clings to concrete and steel no matter how many heaters are humming in the vents.
The air smells of oil, gunpowder, and iron.
I’ve walked these rows for half my life, but tonight I notice the sound of her steps beside me more than the arsenal that surrounds us.
The armory is nestled beneath my club, a well-kept secret.
Her heels click against the floor in a steady rhythm, unhurried, deliberate. Most people who walk into this room betray themselves in an instant: eyes wide, movements stiff, breath caught at the back of the throat. They look at the weapons as if each one might go off by itself.
Vivienne doesn’t. Her gaze is sharp, controlled, moving across the racks like she’s cataloguing inventory instead of standing in the heart of Bratva power.
I unlock a steel cabinet at the far wall, pulling it open to reveal rows of pistols, each one polished and lined like soldiers waiting for inspection. I reach for a small, compact model, light enough to conceal but heavy enough to command respect. Turning, I place it in her palm.
“Just in case anyone ever forgets whose side you’re on,” I tell her. “I’ve seen you handle a gun before, but here we have an array of different options. Choose one you like, and it’s yours to keep.”
Her fingers wrap around the grip easily, no hesitation, no tremor. She studies the weapon for a moment, then lifts her eyes to mine. She doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t protest, doesn’t play coy. She accepts it as if it were no more remarkable than a pen or a folder of documents.
That silence. That calm. It unsettles me.
“Do you understand?” My voice comes out lower than intended, a weight pressed against the quiet.
Her answer is immediate. “Perfectly.”
Nothing else. No elaboration, no gratitude. Just that one word, smooth as glass.
We stand there longer than I should allow. Her hand fits the weapon, her posture steady, her face carved in control. I’m close enough to see the reflection of the fluorescent lights in her eyes, but they give nothing away. I’ve broken men with stares alone; she doesn’t even blink.
I should respect it. Instead, it grates.
“Most people flinch,” I say finally, watching her.
“I’m not most people.”
Her voice doesn’t waver, but something flickers behind it, something small, buried too deep to pin down. Defiance, maybe. Or memory.
I nod toward the holsters hanging along the wall. “You don’t like it? Choose one.”
She scans them briefly, then selects a thigh rig, the kind I expected her to pick. Practical, easy to conceal under dresses, efficient. She fastens it high against her leg, the strap tight around her skin. The motion is practiced, too practiced for someone who claims to live in courtrooms.
“You’ve carried before, and I don’t just mean at the gala.”
Her hands pause only briefly as she adjusts the strap. “I’ve learned enough to know not to fumble with one.”
Not an answer. Not really.
I step closer, lift the edge of the weapon from its holster, test the draw. Smooth, fast, no hitch. I let it fall back against her thigh, close enough that my knuckles brush fabric. She doesn’t move, doesn’t lean back, doesn’t tense.
Calm. Always calm.
“Keep it with you,” I say, stepping back. “If anyone challenges you, they’ll think twice once they realize you’re armed.”
Her lips curve, but it isn’t a smile. “You think I need a gun to make them think twice?”
The words should irritate me. They do. They also pull at something else, something sharper. I meet her eyes again, searching for arrogance, for fear, for anything. Still nothing.
“You need the gun,” I reply, “to remind them you’re mine.”
That makes her pause. Just slightly.
Her expression smooths again almost instantly, but I catch it. A fracture in the mask, quick as lightning. She slips the pistol back into its holster, then straightens, standing tall in the fluorescent light.
“Noted,” she says softly.
It’s the illusion of choice, like everything else. I let her pick the weapon she likes, let her keep it on her if she wants; but she can only do this because I allow it.
We move down the aisle together, weapons gleaming under the harsh light. I point out a few options—an extra magazine here, a knife slim enough to hide in her bag. She listens without comment, slipping the knife into her clutch as if it belonged there all along.
I should feel satisfaction. I’ve armed her, branded her with steel and lead, tethered her closer to my circle. Instead, I feel something I don’t care for: curiosity. The kind that lingers.
She keeps pace with me easily, her presence calm against the hum of the fluorescent lights. Most women I’ve brought into this world falter when they see it laid bare. She doesn’t falter. She accepts it, absorbs it, carries it like another file to be tucked into her bag.
That calmness draws me in and repels me at the same time. She’s either fearless or hiding something.
I want to know which.
We reach the end of the aisle. I stop, watching her, trying to catch the twitch of a muscle, the slip of an expression, anything to tell me who she really is. She gives me nothing. Only that silence again, as if she knows how loud it sounds in this room.
“Don’t mistake calm for safety,” I tell her finally.
Her head tilts slightly. “I never do.”
I let the words hang between us. Then I turn, motioning toward the stairs.
When we leave the armory, the door shuts behind us with a heavy thud, sealing in the smell of oil and gunpowder.
Later, when the club empties and the night quiets, I find myself replaying the moment; not the weapon in her hand, not the holster against her thigh, but the way Maksim’s words bit earlier. His insult wasn’t about power. It wasn’t about territory. It was personal.
The fact that it felt personal to me tells me something I’m not ready to admit.
I light a cigarette on the balcony, the smoke curling upward into the cold air. The city sprawls beneath me, alive and restless, but all I can see is the way she looked at me when I put a gun in her palm and claimed her as mine.
I grind the cigarette out against the railing, but the taste lingers, bitter on my tongue. The city keeps moving beneath me: taxis, neon, the hum of strangers with no idea what shadows stretch above them. I should be thinking about numbers, shipments, territory. Instead, I’m thinking about her.
Vivienne Wilder, walking steady through the armory like she belonged there, like I hadn’t just handed her a weapon and branded her with my protection.
Too calm. Too careful.
Either she’s fearless, or she’s hiding something so deep I haven’t glimpsed it yet.
Both possibilities make my pulse sharpen in a way I don’t like. I tell myself I’ll break through the mask soon enough, one way or another.
Still, when I close my eyes, I see her staring back at me, steady, unflinching.