Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I RINA
The morning light is a thin, pale gray, filtering through the heavy velvet curtains and pooling on the silk sheets.
I wake up tangled in a mess of limbs and heat.
For a second, I don’t know where I am, my brain still foggy with sleep.
Then I feel the weight of a massive arm across my waist and the rough grazing of a tattooed chest against my back.
Oh. Right. That happened.
I try to shift, and a sharp, localized protest from my hips makes me suck in a breath.
Every muscle in my lower body feels like it’s been through a high-intensity workout I didn't sign up for.
My skin is sensitive, still tingling from where his hands were, and the memory of the "green" safety call makes my face heat up even in the empty room.
Great. I’m sore and I’m exhausted.
Mikhail stirs behind me. His breath is hot against the back of my neck, and his grip on my waist tightens, pulling me flush against him.
"Stop squirming," he grumbles. His voice is a low, sleep-heavy vibration that goes straight to my marrow.
"I’m not squirming. I’m trying to see if my legs still work," I mutter, even though I don't actually pull away. "I think you broke something, Mikhail."
He lifts his head, his hair a mess over his forehead. His blue eyes are surprisingly clear for someone who was out half the night starting a war. He doesn't look like the monster from the cellar right now. He looks… soft. It’s a terrifying look on him.
"Where does it hurt?" he asks. He sounds genuinely concerned, which is almost more unsettling than when he’s shouting.
"Everywhere," I say, and I'm only half-joking. "I feel like I got hit by a very annoyingly handsome, very aggressive truck."
He lets out a soft huff—a sound that’s dangerously close to a laugh.
“You think I’m handsome?”
“I’m pretty sure I said very annoyingly handsome and aggressive, that’s the only part that matters to you?” I roll my eyes resisting the urge to giggle like a little teenage girl.
“You know me so well, dorogaya .” He chuckles as he lets go of my waist and sits up, the blankets falling away to reveal the serpents and stars on his skin. He looks at me for a long beat, his eyes tracking the marks on my collarbone and the flush on my cheeks.
"Stay there," he commands.
He gets out of bed, and I catch myself watching the way his muscles move under his skin. He’s all lean power and jagged edges, a predator even when he’s just walking across a rug. He disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the sound of water running.
What is he doing?
A few minutes later, he comes back with a warm, damp cloth and a small bottle of oil from the vanity. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls back the duvet. I try to grab the silk and cover myself, my stubborn pride flaring up.
"Mikhail, I can wash myself."
"I know you can," he says, his voice calm but absolute. "But I caused the mess, so I’ll fix it. Stay still, Irina."
I want to argue. I want to give him some sass about how I don't need him to play nursemaid, but as he starts to tend to me, the words die in my throat. He’s incredibly gentle.
His large, scarred hands—the same hands that held pliers yesterday—are careful, almost reverent, as he works.
It’s an intimate, domestic kind of care that makes me feel more vulnerable than the sex did.
"You're quiet," he murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle on the skin of my inner thigh.
"I'm just… processing," I say, looking at the ceiling. "You're a very confusing man, Mikhail Morozov. One minute you're a butcher, and the next you're doing this."
"I told you," he says, looking up, his gaze locking onto mine. "You're mine. I take care of what’s mine."
"Is that a threat or a promise?"
"Both," he says, a small, dark smile touching his mouth.
He finishes and helps me sit up, handing me a glass of water. He starts to get dressed, pulling on a clean white shirt and dark trousers. The mask is sliding back into place, his movements becoming more precise, more business-like.
"I have to go," he says, buttoning his cuffs. "Artyom has the transport ready for the women from the warehouse. I want to be there when they leave. I want to make sure the families are actually waiting on the other end."
I look at him, really look at him. He’s going to make sure they’re safe. He’s going to spend his morning being a hero for a group of strangers while his own father tries to tear the city apart.
"You're really going to see them off?" I ask.
"I don't leave jobs half-finished," he says, grabbing his jacket. "And I don't want any loose ends."
I feel a weird, warm pressure in my chest.
Stop it, Ira. He’s still a mobster.
"I know the business," I say, my voice sounding steadier than I feel. "I grew up in it. I know what the bad guys look like. My father is one. Your father is one. But I think… I’m glad that my husband is the best one of the bad guys."
Mikhail stops with his hand on the door handle. He turns back to me, and for a split second, the performance fully drops. He looks caught off guard, his expression softening into something so human it hurts to look at.
"The best of the bad guys," he repeats, his voice a low rasp. He walks back to the bed and leans down, his mouth brushing against mine in a kiss that isn't about possession. It’s about… something else. Something I’m too afraid to name.
"Don't give me too much credit, dorogaya . I’m still a monster. "
"I know," I whisper against his lips. "But one I don’t fear."
He lingers for a heartbeat, then pulls away. "Stay in the house. I’ll be back for lunch. Lev is in the hall. If you need anything, tell him."
"I'll be fine," I say, watching him go.
The door clicks shut, and I’m alone with the silence.
I fall back into the pillows, my heart doing a frantic, confused rhythm.
New Jersey. PB. The information Aris gave me is screaming in the back of my head.
I have the lead. I have the initials. But after last night, the idea of lying to Mikhail feels… heavier.
Don’t get soft, Ira. Mikhail is part of the system that took him. If you tell him, he might use the information as leverage, just like Boris did.
I spend an hour in a hot bath, trying to soak away the soreness and the guilt. I dress in a simple silk slip dress and a cardigan, my hair still damp. When I finally head downstairs, the house feels quiet, the tension from the night before still hanging in the corners like cobwebs.
I’m in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, when Elena, the head housekeeper, enters. She looks nervous, her eyes darting to the windows.
"Madam," she says, bowing her head. "I am sorry to disturb your morning."
"It’s fine, Elena. What is it?"
"A car has arrived, Madam. It is waiting in the driveway for you."
I frown, setting the tea tin down. "A car? Mikhail didn't mention a car. Is it Artyom?"
"No, Madam. The driver… he says he is from your father. Mr. Petrov says he wishes to see you immediately. He says it is a family matter that cannot wait."
The temperature in the kitchen seems to drop ten degrees. My grip on the counter tightens. Boris. "Tell the driver I’m not here," I say, my voice turning to ice. "Tell him I’m unwell. Tell him whatever you need to, but I am not getting in that car."
"He was very insistent, Madam. He said you would know why he is here."
"I don't care how insistent he is. I’m married now. If he wants a meeting, he can call my husband’s office."
Elena looks like she wants to argue, but she knows better.
She nods and scurries out. I walk to the window of the breakfast nook and watch.
A black Lincoln Town Car is idling near the fountain.
After a few minutes, the driver gets back in and the car pulls away, the gravel crunching under the tires.
He’s testing me. He knows I’m sniffing around, and he’s trying to see if he can still pull the strings.
I try to go back to my tea, but my appetite is gone. Ten minutes later, my phone starts to vibrate. I pull it out, my heart leaping into my throat. There’s a message from my father.
Answer the phone, Irina. Don’t be a difficult daughter. We have things to discuss.
Seconds later, it starts ringing. I stare at the screen, my pulse thumping in my ears.
I want to smash the phone against the floor.
I want to throw it into the fireplace and watch it burn.
But I know Boris. If I don't answer, he’ll just escalate.
He’ll show up here, or he’ll send men to find Aris, and I can't risk the trail going cold.
I press it to my ear. "What do you want, Papa?"
"That’s no way to speak to your father," Boris’s voice makes me shiver in disgust. "I sent a car for you. You sent it back. I’m disappointed, Irina. I thought marriage might have taught you the value of a cordial invitation."
"Marriage taught me that I don't have to listen to a word you say," I snap. "If you want a meeting, schedule it through Mikhail."
Boris lets out a dry, clicking laugh—the sound of a man who knows a secret you haven't figured out yet. "You think a few nights in a madman’s bed changes your DNA? You’re my daughter, Irina. And you’ve been a very busy little girl lately, haven't you?"
I freeze, the cold tea forgotten on the counter. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, I think you do. Get here, Irina. I can continue to keep your secret buried. Or I can stop. I wonder… I wonder how Mikhail would react if he knew the real reason for your secret meetings."
I feel like the air has been sucked out of the room. My knees go weak, and I have to grab the edge of the kitchen island to keep from collapsing. The room tilts, the bright morning sun suddenly feeling like a spotlight on my crimes.
"You wouldn't," I whisper, my throat tight.
"Try me, daughter. You know exactly who your father is.”
I gulp. Because I do know who my father is, he’s a disgusting terrible man. If my death added a few more dollars to his account, he would have a knife at my throat in one second.
“What do you want from me?” I whisper but he hears me anyways.
“Get in the car. We’ll talk like family. Or I’ll have a very interesting conversation with your husband when he gets home tonight."
"Papa—"
"Don't be late Irina.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there in the kitchen, the burner phone still pressed to my ear, the dial tone a shrill, mocking scream. The walls feel like they’re closing in. My heart is beating so wild and fast I think it might actually break something in my chest.
Mikhail is the best of the bad guys, but he’s still a bad guy. And Boris just handed him the match to my funeral pyre.
I look at the door, waiting for the sound of Mikhail’s car, but for the first time, I’m not hoping he comes home. I’m afraid. I’m too hopeful to think clearly about Jersey, but too terrified to move.
I need to leave.