Chapter Fifteen #2
I open the door to the meeting room.
Everyone is already inside, Kirill lounging on the couch like a bored deity, Ice nursing a drink, Andres leaning over the table reviewing something, Alisa sitting cross-legged in a chair she clearly doesn’t want to be in. And Lev . . .
Lev is staring at his phone, jaw clenched, eyes black with fury.
He definitely saw what just happened downstairs.
Of course he did. He watches the cameras like a deranged hawk whenever Clara is working. Stalker behavior isn’t the word. Stalker is Level 1.
Lev is Level 99.
The final boss of obsessive fixation.
And I can’t even judge him.
Not when I’m a psychopath in a tailored suit, drowning in my own obsession for Serena.
The difference is:
I don’t pretend otherwise.
Lev does.
“How are you holding up, son?”
Kirill’s voice cuts through the noise in my head, steady and weighted with concern. His grey eyes track me the same way they always did since I was eighteen, like he’s searching for fractures he can weld back together.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell him, and he gives me a slow, knowing nod. He already senses that shit is worse than usual.
“What now?” Alisa asks, irritated before the meeting even starts. “Last time you requested a meeting you asked us to help you kill the Chief of FBI and the General Attorney. You’re welcome, by the way.” She throws me a mocking little smile. “Who do you want to kill now? The fucking President?”
“Language, little one,” Lev mutters, though his voice is flat and strained. He hasn’t recovered from whatever he saw downstairs with Clara. His posture is rigid, eyes unfocused, jaw twitching. Not good. I need him stable, not spiraling.
“Alisa, let him speak,” Kirill says gently, placing a hand on her knee to calm her.
Ice leans forward, elbows on his thighs, gaze fixed on me like he already knows the answer.
“He wants you to marry her, isn’t he?”
My eyes snap to him.
Of course he fucking knows. Ice always knows the worst news first.
I nod once.
“He wanted me to marry her, two years ago,” Ice continues, voice even.
“What?” Alisa snaps, looking between us. Her sudden silence is sharp. “What do you mean?”
“Luciano wants us to keep the peace between Bratva and Cosa Nostra by marriage,” Kirill explains.
“So what happened?” Alisa asks, tension tightening her tone.
“I refused,” Ice says, face blank as stone. “That girl might be hot.”
Alisa’s entire face flushes crimson.
This is so fucking obvious, I think, but I stay silent.
“But I’m thirty-two. I was thirty at the time, and she was eighteen,” he says, eyes fixed on the wall rather than any of us. “I’m not going to marry a fucking kid. I want a mature woman next to me.”
Alisa goes dead still.
She doesn’t even blink.
“He always wanted you,” Kirill adds, turning back to me. “He proposed that you should marry his daughter since you are part of Cosa Nostra. That way he would have you tethered to him permanently.”
“You never told me,” I say, stunned but not surprised.
“I was a little selfish,” he admits. “I couldn’t let you go and be fully part of Cosa Nostra. Even if it is your blood, you belong here.”
His expression softens. “So I sent Ice instead, as a spy. But apparently his daughter wasn’t appealing enough.”
We all look at Ice.
His face remains unreadable.
Alisa looks like she might actually throw up or stab him.
“What can I say? I like experienced women,” Ice says casually, and this time he looks directly at Alisa.
She pales.
Lev shifts beside her like he’s ready to murder everyone.
“I can’t marry her either,” I admit.
“I know,” Kirill says softly.
“Serena’s pregnant.”
I force the words out. Even though Andres and Lev already know, they never speak my private matters unless I confirm them myself.
Kirill exhales through his nose and places a hand on my shoulder. “Congratulations, son. Even in difficult circumstances, children are always a blessing.”
I nod once.
My chest tightens painfully.
“We will figure this out,” Andres says, voice steady. He always tries to calm storms he can’t understand.
“How? How can we fix this?”
My voice cracks for the first time in years. “I don’t know what to fucking do. I would never marry her. But he gave me five days to figure this out, and if I don’t marry her, he’ll harm my mother.”
I swallow hard, jaw clenching. “Even if she’s secure now, I learned not to underestimate him.”
“Can’t we kidnap his daughter?” Lev asks, expression empty. That’s when I know he’s far from okay. A calm Lev is a dangerous Lev.
“She’s like Rapunzel,” Andres snorts. “Locked in a tower. Thought of it already.”
My head throbs so hard I feel nauseous.
“We should just kill him directly,” Ice says. “He’s replaceable.”
“That would cause a war,” Kirill warns.
“He wants war,” Andres replies. “Otherwise he wouldn’t force our hand like this.”
“I hate to interrupt the testosterone, but am I the only one here with an actual plan?” Alisa asks, and every head turns toward her.
“Go on,” Kirill tells her, calm, indulgent, already knowing she is about to say something dangerous.
“Why the fuck are you making this harder than it needs to be?” she asks me, and the words hit harder than a slap. My jaw tightens. I want to scream at her that my family is one wrong move away from being slaughtered, that my mother’s life is hanging by a thread I cannot afford to snap.
“Language,” Lev mutters.
“Tell him yes.”
I blink at her. “Seriously,” she goes on, rolling her eyes. “You play along, he thinks you’re on his side, he starts oversharing.”
She turns slowly toward Ice, lips curling.
“Then you screw him over when he least expects it.”
The room goes still.
For a moment, no one breathes.
What the fuck.
The realization settles slowly, dangerously. The simplicity of it. The patience. The cruelty wrapped in logic. I feel something shift in my chest.
That’s not recklessness.
That’s strategy.
“What the fuck?” my mind repeats, but this time in awe.
“That might work.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, disbelief laced through my voice. I am taking advice from an eighteen-year-old, and she just outplayed everyone in the room.
“Sometimes I wonder, father,” she says calmly, eyes never leaving Ice. “Why you’d even consider another man to replace you. . . when I’m standing right here.”
Then she smirks.
Fucking hell.
“Who says I don’t consider you taking my place, my darling?” Kirill replies, amused. “But now I’m still well and alive, so, don’t hurry your old man into death.”
“Of course not, papa,” she answers softly.
Some of the weight crushing my chest eases. Not much, but enough to breathe. I’ll tell that bastard I agree. I’ll let him believe he owns me. And then I’ll end him slowly, thoroughly, without mercy.
Fuck. I’m exhausted.
The thought of Serena waiting at home tears through me worse than the threats. When she was gone, I would have sold my soul just to know she was alive. Now I know she’s safe, and I still can’t hold her. I can’t touch her. I can’t lie beside her and pretend the world hasn’t destroyed us.
Instead, my mind betrays me.
Her body.
Her warmth.
The way she melted against me.
The sound of her moaning my name.
My cock hardens, uninvited, and painful.
Fuck.
“I think that’s all,” I say, forcing my face into something neutral.
Lev looks at me. Then his gaze drops. Then he smirks.
“Looking forward going home?” he asks, entertained.
If anyone else notices, they have the decency not to say a word.
“Thank you all for coming,” I say, shooting Lev a warning look. He only winks.
Alisa leaves without a goodbye. She usually walks out with Ice, her self-appointed protector. Not tonight.
“See you later, man,” Ice says, gripping my hand before leaving.
“Keep me updated,” Kirill adds. “If anything happens, I’m always here for you.”
I pull him into a brief hug. As Andres moves to leave, my phone vibrates.
UNKNOWN: he didn’t worked alone.
My stomach drops.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, staring at the screen.
“What?” Andres asks, then reads it himself. His face hardens. “Who the fuck is that? I can’t find a sender, a bounce, or a ghost trail. It’s like they were never there.”
“I have no idea,” I snap, then rein myself in. “What I do know is that he helped me find Serena.”
I study the message once more. “We follow the clues. If they’re accurate, we exploit them, and when this is over, we hunt him down.”
“I’ll look into it,” Andres says. “See you tomorrow.”
“Night,” I answer.
I check the time. Ten p.m.
I drive to Serena’s mansion, the place that somehow feels like mine now, even if I don’t deserve to call it that.
At least until she gives birth. At least until the babies are here.
At least until I know, with absolute certainty, that she’s safe.
That they’re safe. I tell myself that’s the only reason I’m here. Protection. Responsibility. Control.
I lie to myself well.
The drive takes twenty minutes. I park outside and kill the engine. The house is dark, wrapped in silence, only a few soft lights glowing like it’s breathing in its sleep. I let myself in quietly. No voices. No movement. Everyone’s asleep.
Good.
I pour myself a glass of whiskey, the burn familiar, grounding. I loosen my tie, roll up my sleeves, shrug out of my jacket. Today wrung me dry. Every nerve still buzzing. Every thought still circling her.
I take the glass and head toward the living room, planning to sit, to drink, to shut my brain off for five fucking minutes.
And then I see her.
Serena is curled on the couch, asleep, her body relaxed in a way I haven’t seen in months. Milkshake and Pancake are stationed like sentinels at her feet, lifting their heads the second I step closer. They recognize me. After a moment, they settle again, trusting me with her.
I don’t deserve that either.
As I move closer, my eyes drop to what she’s wearing.
And everything inside me fractures.
Black lace.
Not innocent lace. Not soft, delicate lace meant for comfort.
This is sinful lace. Transparent in places.
Clinging to her curves, outlining her body instead of hiding it.
The fabric kisses her skin, revealing more than it conceals, tracing the swell of her breasts, the roundness of her belly, the way her thighs press together even in sleep.
She’s pregnant.
Heavy with my children.
And wearing lace.
My mind fucking short-circuits.
The lace stretches slightly over her belly, the pattern distorted just enough to draw attention to it, like it was designed to worship the life growing inside her. The black against her skin is obscene.
My chest tightens.
I imagine my hands sliding over that fabric. The way it would feel under my fingers. How easily it would tear if I pulled too hard. How it would leave imprints on her skin if I pressed my mouth there, if I bit, if I lost control.
Fucking hell.
She’s asleep.
She hates me.
And I am one bad decision away from unraveling completely.
I stand there longer than I should, watching her chest rise and fall, the lace moving with every breath. My whiskey goes untouched. My thoughts turn dark, possessive, and dangerous.
How the fuck am I supposed to control myself when she looks like this?
I still need to move her to bed.
I can’t just leave her here, sprawled across the couch, wrapped in lace like a loaded weapon pointed straight at my self-control. This isn’t an excuse. This is basic decency. Gentleman behavior. Carry her upstairs. Tuck her in. Walk away.
That’s all.
If my mind briefly wanders to how her skin might feel under my hands, or how the lace would slide against my palms, that’s not my fault. That’s biology. Instinct. Tragedy. And if she ever wanted it, I could fuck her gently too. Respectfully. Like a gentleman.
She hasn’t asked.
Yet.
I slide one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back and lift her carefully.
She barely stirs. She’s still so light in my arms, like the pregnancy hasn’t added anything to her weight at all.
That thought makes something sour twist in my chest. She should be heavier.
Healthier. Fed. That basement stole more from her than time.
I adjust my grip, careful, controlled, trying not to think about how soft her skin feels through the thin fabric. How warm she is. How her body still fits against mine like it was always meant to be here.
I breathe through my nose and nearly lose the fight when her scent hits me.
Vanilla.
The same scent that ruined me from the start. The one that pulled me under without asking permission. The spell I never learned how to break, no matter how hard I tried. I press my jaw tight and force myself to keep moving.
Up the stairs.
One step at a time.
The house is silent, the only sound her slow breathing and the steady beat of my heart pounding far too hard for a man who’s just carrying someone to bed.
I reach the main bedroom and lay her down gently, adjusting the pillows, making sure she’s comfortable. She doesn’t wake. She looks peaceful. Too peaceful for everything she’s been through. Too beautiful for the war she’s trapped in because of me.
I brush my knuckles along her cheek without thinking.
Her skin is impossibly soft.
Before I can stop myself, my hand drifts lower, resting over her belly. I don’t press. I don’t move. I just stay there, feeling the quiet curve beneath my palm.
Then it happens.
A kick.
Small. Sudden. Real.
Then another.
My breath leaves my lungs like I’ve been punched.
Something inside me fractures clean down the middle.
That was them.
My children.
Alive.
Here.
I stand frozen, my hand still, my chest tight, my thoughts spiraling faster than I can control them. Will she ever let me feel this again? Will she ever forgive me enough to let me stand beside her when they’re born? Will I ever be worthy of protecting them the way they deserve?
Or am I already too damaged for that role?
I pull my hand away like I’ve been burned.
I step back. Then another step. And another.
I leave the room before I say something I can’t take back, before I promise things I’m not sure I’m allowed to keep.
I tell myself I am doing the right thing.
Giving her space. Letting her rest. Letting her breathe without me hovering over her like a shadow she cannot escape.
I tell myself it is what she deserves after everything she has been through.
Peace. Quiet. A moment where the world does not feel like it is closing in around her.
But even as I close the door behind me, the truth settles heavy in my chest. Distance does not mean safety.
Silence does not mean danger is gone. She needs protection.
They need protection. And whether she wants it or not, I will make sure they have it.
And whether she wants it or not, whether she forgives me or not, I am not capable of walking away.