Chapter Ten - Alexei
The feed from the hacked traffic cameras is grainy, stuttering between angles, but it shows me enough.
Her building, her hallway, the narrow alley she favors as an exit when she thinks she’s being careful.
I’ve had Dimitri’s men tap into every lens on this block: municipal, private, even a few mounted on delivery vans that no one bothers to check. Crude, imperfect, but it works.
She leaves the apartment door open. Not even locked.
A detail that tells me more than if she’d left a note behind.
She doesn’t expect to come back. She has her bag slung over her shoulder, her posture tight with tension she hides well.
She thinks she’s slipping away in silence, making her escape while the city still sleeps.
She doesn’t know I’m already here.
The corridor outside her apartment hums faintly under a flickering bulb, shadows stretching long along the walls.
I wait in them, motionless, listening. Her heels click against the linoleum, a sound she tries to soften but cannot erase.
She turns down the back stairwell, as I knew she would, avoiding the main entrance.
She believes she’s cautious. She is, but not cautious enough.
I move when she steps into the alley. Fog curls low to the ground, wrapping around her like smoke, damp air muffling the sounds of the city beyond. She glances over her shoulder once, maybe twice, but not enough. Not soon enough.
She senses me a heartbeat too late. Her hand twitches toward her coat. I know what’s hidden there. Knife. Small, fast, meant for close range. She’ll never get the chance to draw it.
One step, one strike. My shoulder drives into her chest, pinning her hard against the wet brick wall. The thud rings through the alley, echoing off the steel fire escapes above. Her bag slips from her shoulder, landing in the puddles with a muted splash.
I don’t speak.
Her breath catches, sharp, ragged, but she doesn’t scream. She doesn’t fight, either. Her eyes meet mine, wide but steady, and there’s recognition in them. Not shock. Not disbelief. Understanding. She knows.
She knows it’s over.
My silence weighs heavier than any threat could.
I reach into my coat and pull free a length of cord, rough and black.
Her wrists come together easily. Not because she submits in fear, but because she chooses not to resist. That choice unsettles me more than if she’d fought.
The knot cinches tight, the rope biting into her skin. I test it with one sharp tug. Secure.
Then I pull her forward.
Her shoes scrape against concrete, her shoulder brushing mine as I drag her down the alley. She stumbles once but doesn’t protest, doesn’t plead. My SUV waits in the shadows, engine low and steady, windows darkened. Dimitri sits at the wheel, his face unreadable, eyes locked on the mirrors.
The door opens. I don’t hesitate. I shove her inside, the motion swift, practiced, a thousand rehearsals in a life built on control. She lands against the seat, wrists bound, chest heaving.
The door slams behind her with the weight of finality.
Inside, the air is thick, heavy with leather and smoke. The hum of the engine fills the silence. She shifts once, adjusting her bound hands, her mouth parting like she’s about to speak.
“Not here.”
My voice cuts across the space, low, flat, unreadable.
She closes her mouth.
I settle back into the seat, one hand resting casually on my knee, the other tracing a slow rhythm against the leather. Dimitri drives, his hands steady on the wheel, his silence a mirror of mine. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t need to.
No one speaks.
Vivienne sits opposite me, wrists bound, posture upright. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t beg. She doesn’t even try to twist against the rope. Her eyes stay fixed on me, calm in a way that makes my jaw tighten.
Every bump in the road jolts her slightly, but she doesn’t flinch. Her chest rises and falls in sharp rhythm, but her composure holds.
She waits. Maybe she thinks this ride is the beginning of her end.
She might be right, or she might prove herself something far worse than an enemy.
Until I decide, the silence remains.
The SUV rolls off the main road, tires crunching over gravel as the city’s lights fall behind us.
No one speaks. Dimitri’s eyes stay fixed on the windshield, his hands steady on the wheel.
I don’t need to tell him where to go; he already knows.
We’ve used this warehouse before—storage, negotiations, punishments that needed privacy.
It’s not a place you stumble into by chance.
Vivienne sits rigid in the seat opposite me. Her wrists are bound, her face half lit by the passing glow of streetlights. She doesn’t look out the window, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t waste breath on questions. Calm. Always calm. I don’t know if it’s strength or arrogance, and it doesn’t matter yet.
When the SUV finally halts, the night is quiet enough to hear the tick of the cooling engine. Dimitri kills the headlights. The building rises in front of us—steel doors, corrugated siding, a hollow shell of brick and shadows.
“Out,” I order.
Dimitri opens her door. She doesn’t resist when I haul her out by the arm, her shoes scraping against the gravel.
The air here is colder, sharper, carrying the faint tang of rust. I march her across the lot, her bag still lying abandoned back in the alley where I first pinned her. She doesn’t ask for it.
The door groans when I drag it open. The warehouse inside is cavernous, walls stained with time, echoes stretching high into the rafters. Empty, except for a single chair waiting in the center of the concrete floor.
I shove her forward. She stumbles once, then catches herself, standing tall even with her wrists bound. The chair waits.
“Sit.”
For the first time, her mask wavers. Not fear—something tighter, a flicker of calculation—but she obeys, lowering herself onto the chair without a word.
I circle her once, slow, my boots striking hard against the floor. The sound fills the space, heavy as a drumbeat. She tracks me with her eyes but doesn’t move otherwise.
Finally, I stop in front of her. My voice cuts sharp through the cold.
“You lied to me.”
Not a question. A statement.
Her lips part, then close again. Silence.
I lean closer, bracing one hand against the back of the chair, the other gripping her chin briefly, forcing her eyes to meet mine. “Don’t waste time pretending. Don’t insult me with denials.”
She says nothing.
I release her, step back, the air between us heavy with unspoken words. She sits perfectly still, shoulders squared, eyes forward, as though waiting for the blow.
I turn and walk to the door. The lock clicks loud in the silence as I twist it shut, sealing her inside.
The sound echoes long after I leave, bouncing through the cavernous room until it’s the only thing left.
She’s alone now, but not safe. I haven’t decided what comes next.
That—more than the chair, more than the cold, more than the silence—is what should scare her most.
***
The SUV idles outside, smoke curling from the exhaust into the dark. Dimitri waits near the hood, his eyes lifting when I step back out. He doesn’t ask questions yet, but I see them there.
“She’s not who she says she is,” I tell him flatly.
He nods once, his jaw tight. “You want me to keep men on her?”
“No.” I light a cigarette, the flame flaring against the dark. “No one touches her. Not yet.”
His brow furrows, but he doesn’t argue. He knows me well enough to understand the difference between punishment and strategy.
I exhale smoke into the night, my mind circling the same question that’s been gnawing since the convoy burned: if she is the leak, why hasn’t she run sooner? Why play the game this deep, this carefully, only to stumble now? Unless she never stumbled at all. Unless she wanted me to notice.
I flick the ash to the ground.
One way or another, I’ll have the truth. When I do, there won’t be anything left for her to hide behind.
Inside the warehouse, she waits. Bound, silent, and knowing exactly what it means that I walked away instead of pulling the trigger.
The night presses down on the warehouse lot, thick and heavy, the kind of dark that carries its own silence. The SUV idles at my back, its low growl the only sound until Dimitri steps closer, lighting a cigarette off the tip of mine. He exhales slow, watching me through the smoke.
“You’re sure,” he says. His tone is steady, but I hear the edge in it. “About her?”
I don’t answer right away. I watch the ember of my cigarette burn down, the red glow fading against the black sky.
“She lied,” I say finally. “That’s enough.”
Dimitri nods once, but I know him too well. He doesn’t argue—not yet—but his silence asks for more. He’s my brother in all but blood, raised in the same streets, carved from the same violence. He knows I don’t throw accusations lightly.
“You’ve seen things,” he says after a moment, flicking ash onto the gravel. “Moves she’s made. Maybe too clean, maybe too careful. But she’s been good for us. Better than anyone else in her position.”
“Good is not the same as loyal.” My voice is flat, cold.
Dimitri studies me. “Then why isn’t she dead already?”
That’s the question gnawing at me, the one I can’t answer cleanly. I take a slow drag, let the smoke burn through me, and exhale. “I want to know who she’s working for. Who gave her courage enough to play in my circle.”
“You’re not sure it’s her.” He says it like fact, not question.
I glance at him, my jaw tight. “I’m sure enough.”
He shifts, his boots scraping against the gravel. “You’ve been watching her. I’ve seen it. More than you should. That makes me nervous, you know.”
The tone isn’t mocking; it’s old habit. Still, it cuts sharp. I turn toward him, the ember of my cigarette glowing between us. “You think she’s blinded me.”
“I think she’s in your head,” he says evenly. “When someone gets in your head, they’re harder to cut out. That’s dangerous.”
The truth of it lingers in the air, heavier than the smoke. I’ve been circling her for weeks, testing her, waiting for cracks. And every time she should have broken, she held steady. Too steady.
“She doesn’t fear me,” I say, half to myself.
Dimitri snorts softly. “Everyone fears you. Some hide it better.”
“Not like her.” I shake my head, the memory sharp: her eyes locked on mine as I bound her wrists, the way she didn’t scream, didn’t plead. “She sat there calm as if she already accepted what was coming. That isn’t hiding. That’s something else.”
Dimitri narrows his eyes. “Then what do you think it is?”
I flick the cigarette to the ground, grind it under my heel. “That’s what I intend to find out.”
We stand in silence for a moment, the only sound the faint hum of the SUV’s engine. Dimitri draws on his cigarette, his face carved in shadow.
“You want her broken,” he says.
“I want her honest.”
He exhales smoke, shakes his head. “Same thing, in the end.”
“Not with her.” The words come sharper than I intend.
Dimitri catches it, his brows lifting slightly. “You’re protecting her, then?”
“No.” My voice is iron. “I’m protecting what I built. If she’s the leak, she’s the thread. Pull her, and everything unravels. If she isn’t…” I trail off, staring at the dark outline of the warehouse. “If she isn’t, then someone inside my house is already too deep to see. That’s worse.”
Dimitri nods slowly. “So you keep her alive. For now.”
“For now.”
He smokes in silence for a moment longer before saying, “You want me to stay with her tonight?”
I shake my head. “No. Leave her there alone. Let her suffer in her silence, think we’ve abandoned her.”
His expression shifts, the faintest flicker of doubt. “Alone makes people think they’ve been forgotten. Sometimes that’s useful. Sometimes it makes them bold.”
“That’s what I want,” I say. “If she’s bold, she’ll slip. If she’s smart, she’ll wait. Either way, I’ll see who she is before the end.”
Dimitri exhales, his breath white in the cold. “What if she doesn’t break?”
I meet his gaze, steady. “Everyone breaks eventually.”
He studies me a long moment, then finally nods, flicking his cigarette into the dirt. “I’ll post men at a distance. Eyes only. If she tries anything, they’ll stop her.”
“Good.”
The warehouse looms dark and silent behind us, its steel doors locked tight. Inside, she sits in that chair, bound and waiting. I can almost picture her: back straight, eyes steady, mind already calculating. Not a victim, not yet.
Dimitri adjusts his coat, his voice low. “You’re playing a dangerous game with her.”
“I know,” I answer.
He almost smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just remember, games like this don’t end with winners. Only survivors.”
The words hang between us, heavy as smoke.
I look back at the warehouse, my silence saying what I won’t out loud: if Vivienne Wilder wants to survive me, she’ll have to prove she deserves to.
I’ll decide what her survival costs.