Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
M IKHAIL
Fuck it all.
The cold air didn’t do a damn thing.
I’m standing in the hallway outside Artyom’s office, trying to catch my fucking breath, tame my mind––anything––but it’s not working.
I can still feel the sweat drying on my skin.
It’s itchy and uncomfortable, but it’s nothing compared to the feel of Irina’s slender neck in my hand.
My blood is still thrumming heavily, the ache in my trousers is still an aggressive, angry thing, and for a second I wonder what would have happened if I had not stepped away from her, if I’d not reminded myself how terrible an idea this is.
I have a lot on my mind. I should be thinking about the docks, Boris Petrov and the mess he’s making in Queens, trying to slip his filth into our containers.
But all I can see is the way those black leggings moved.
The way the fabric stretched tight over her ass every time her foot hit the gravel.
The way her thighs rubbed together, the friction practically audible in the morning silence.
This is crazy.
I adjust myself roughly, wincing at the friction of my pants.
It’s pathetic. I’m thirty years old, a man who has killed more people than I can count, and I’m standing in my brother’s hallway with a hard-on like a stupid teenager because a woman looked at me with enough heat to start a fire.
It’s not even just the look. It’s the memory of her nipples, hard and peaking against the thin fabric of her tank top, scraping against my chest while I pinned her.
I can still feel the vibration of her heart hammering against mine.
Get over yourself.
I push open the double oak doors to the study without knocking. I need to get my head back in the game before I lose it entirely.
Artyom is at his desk, staring at a stack of manifests that probably detail enough weapon shipments to start a small war.
He doesn’t look up immediately. He’s in his "Pakhan" mode—cold, calculating, and completely detached. He’s probably figuring out which of our captains needs to be made an example of this week.
"You’re late," Artyom says without lifting his eyes. He finally looks up, and his gaze flatlines. He scans my face, my disheveled hair, and the way I’m breathing. "And you look like you’ve been in a street fight."
"I was running," I say, pacing the length of the Persian rug. I can’t sit down. The pressure in my gut is too high. If I sit, I might fucking snap. "I’ll get straight to business. Boris is moving faster than we thought. He’s trying to bribe the foreman at Pier 17.
He wants a way to move his cargo without going through our books. He’s testing the fences, Artyom."
Artyom sets his pen down with a deliberate click.
He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh, no need to rush, brother. Before we get straight to business, I’d like to know exactly what happened last night, I heard you almost knocked out a man in front of the mayor and half the donor pool. What had you so mad?”
Fuck. I knew I couldn’t escape this. I clench my jaws hard.
"He was touching her, Artyom. He was talking about her like she was used merchandise.
The bastard was asking for death, I was being merciful.
" I stop at the window, staring out at the gray, misty lawn. My knuckles still feel tight, itching for the impact of a jaw. "There was no fucking way I’d let him get away with that. I gave him a well needed correction.”
Artyom lets out a short, dry laugh that sounds more like a bark. "Correction? You told me you had everything under control just a few days ago. You said the girl was handled. And suddenly I’m hearing you’re turning galas into bloodbaths over a shoulder touch."
"I am handling it," I growl.
"Uh-huh." Artyom stands up, walking around the desk.
He looks at me with that annoying, older-brother smirk—the one that says he knows exactly how much of a mess I am.
"Because from where I’m standing, this 'fragile female' has gotten way under your skin. You’re wound so tight I can hear your teeth grinding from across the room. "
"She hasn't gotten under anything," I snap, turning to face him. “I’m in control of my fucking feelings."
"Oh? So then you’re just running for running's sake?" Artyom chuckles. "You’re just out there in the woods at six in the morning, chasing her around because you’re worried about her cardio? Don't bullshit me, Mikhail. You’re obsessed.”
"Let’s talk about the important things," I grunt, trying to deflect.
The word 'obsessed' hits too close to the truth.
"Boris is trying to use our docks for trafficking. We move steel and powder. We’ve stayed clean of the human trade for a reason.
If we let Petrov bring that filth into our territory, the feds will be all over us before the end of the month. "
Artyom’s amusement vanishes, replaced by the hard, cold logic of our business.
He nods slowly. "We’re on the same page there.
I told Boris three years ago that if I caught one of his crates with a heartbeat in it, I’d sink his entire fleet.
I meant it then, and I mean it now. He thinks because you married his daughter, the rules have changed. He thinks he’s got an inside track."
"He doesn't," I say. I think about the way Irina looked when I told her she was mine.
The way she wanted to spit in my face but couldn't stop her body from reacting to mine.
"If anything, having her here makes me want to crush him more.
He treated her like a piece of shit. He thinks everyone is as cheap as he is. "
I pace back toward the desk, the conversation finally flowing into the territory that’s been rotting in the back of my mind. "It’s not just the docks, Artyom. There’s something else. Something about the girl."
Artyom raises an eyebrow.
"There’s a scar," I say, and the word feels like a heavy weight dropping into the room. "I saw a mark on her last night. A surgical incision. She tried to lie to my face about it. But she was shaking. Her pulse was jumping under my thumb."
Artyom’s expression shifts. The mockery is gone, replaced by the clinical focus of a man who looks for weaknesses in every alliance.
"Boris doesn't give anything away for free, Mikhail.
We know this. If he finally handed over his 'prized' daughter after six months of you hunting her, there’s a reason.
Is she a spy, or is she the bait for a trap we haven't seen yet? "
"I don't know yet. But I’m going to find out. I’m going through every scrap of paper the Petrovs have ever filed, every medical record, every travel log.
If there’s a man tied to that mark—someone she’s protecting or someone she’s afraid of—I’ll find him.
And I’ll make sure he never draws another breath. "
"Don't make it personal, Mikhail," Artyom warns, stepping closer. "This is a business arrangement. The Petrov alliance is the only thing keeping the Italians from pushing into the North Side. If you start a war over a girl’s old secrets, you’ll lead this family into a meat grinder we aren't ready for. "
"It’s both," I snap, my voice echoing in the quiet study. "She’s in my house. She’s carrying my name. Anything that touches her touches me. That makes it personal."
Artyom watches me for a long beat, his eyes searching mine.
He knows that once I put my teeth into something, I don't let go until it’s dead or broken.
"Vladimir is leaning toward Boris," he says, shifting the subject abruptly. "Our own father is meeting with Petrov’s people at that warehouse in Jersey. He wants to go back to the old ways—the ways Boris likes. We’re moving the weapons storage from the factory tonight.
I want you to handle the logistics. No mistakes. "
"Fine," I say. The prospect of a job is exactly what I need to clear the fog of Irina from my brain.
I leave the study and head back toward our suite. I’m moving fast, my boots loud and rhythmic on the hardwood floors. I’m angry, I’m frustrated, and I’m still dealing with a half-hard-on that won't fucking quit. It’s a hell of a combination. It makes me feel dangerous, like a wire pulled too tight.
I push open the bedroom door, expecting to find her sitting by the window or pacing the floor. But the room is empty.
The silence hits me first, then the smell. It smells like her—roses, salt, and that faint hint of the outdoors. It’s everywhere now. It’s in the sheets, it’s in the heavy curtains, it’s even on my own damn skin. I walk to the window and look down at the grounds.
There she is.
She’s walking back from the pond, her head down, her shoulders set in that defiant line I’m starting to hate as much as I crave. She’s still wearing those damn leggings. My heart starts thudding against my ribs again, heavy and slow, a drumbeat of pure, unadulterated want.
I want to go down there, throw her over my shoulder, and drag her back up here.
I want to hear her yell at me, to hear her call me a monster, and then I want to see that anger turn into the same desperate heat I’m feeling.
I want to find out every secret she’s hiding in her head, even if I have to pull them out of her with my teeth.
She looks up then, as if she can feel my eyes on her. Her blue eyes find mine at the window, and for a second, the distance between us vanishes.
We stay like that—locked in a stare-down that feels like a physical collision.
No words, no movement. Just her staring at me like I’m the man who stole her life, and me staring at her like she’s the only thing in the world I want to destroy and protect at the same time.
She doesn’t look away first. She holds my gaze until she reaches the stone steps of the porch, then she disappears inside.
I turn away from the window and let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I look at my hands; they’re shaking. Just a tremor, but it’s there.
"Goddammit," I mutter, the word a rough rasp in the empty room.
I head for the bathroom. I need a shower, and it needs to be ice-cold.
I strip off my clothes, my movements jerky and pissed off.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror.
I look like a man on the edge of a breakdown.
My eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, my jaw is set so tight it aches, and I’ve got a bruise forming on my shoulder where I hit the doorframe the other day when she was with her father.
I look like the madman everyone expects me to be.
I step into the shower and turn the handle all the way to the right.
The water is freezing, hitting my back like needles, but it doesn't help. As soon as I close my eyes, I’m back by the pond.
I’m feeling the heat of her skin. I’m feeling the way she whimpered—that tiny, broken sound—when I put my hand on her neck.
I can feel the wetness that I’m pretty sure was dampening her leggings, the proof that she was just as affected as I was.
She’s under my skin. I can’t wash her off, and I can’t ignore her.
This is fucking insane.
Boris wants the docks. Vladimir wants the empire. Artyom wants a legacy. I don't give a shit about any of it. Not today.
I want the girl.