2. Egor #2
A slow smile curls my lips. "Oh, we'll send a message." I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight. "But not just to them."
Dmitry's brow furrows. "Who else?"
"Everyone." My fingers drum against the armrest. "Even those who've been quiet too long. Let's remind them why they stay quiet." I glance at Sergei. "Set up a meeting with that politician. Tell him I want to discuss ‘territorial boundaries.'"
Pavel smirks. "He'll shit himself."
"Good." I push to my feet, the chair rolling back with a scrape. "And Pavel?"
He straightens. "Da, Pakhan?"
"Emilia Walker." Her name rolls off my tongue like a command. "I want everything. Birth records, school transcripts, medical files. Bank statements, phone records, social media. Whatever it is, I want to know about it."
Pavel nods, already pulling out his phone. "Consider it done."
The door shuts behind them, leaving only the distant growl of traffic below. My fingers curl around the windowsill, knuckles bleaching white.
I drag a hand over my jaw, the stubble rough against my palm. The city sprawls beneath me, a grid of power and weakness, and I've spent years making sure I'm the one holding the leash.
But her? Those wide caramel eyes, the way her pulse jumped under my fingers when I pressed her against the counter… she's a variable I didn't account for.
A slow exhale escapes me. Doesn't matter if it's milk or poison. Doesn't matter if she's innocent or playing a game. What matters is that she's in my house, under my roof, and that makes her mine to control.
The thought settles in my chest like a brand.
Mine.
I turn from the window, the decision already made. If she's a threat, I'll break her. If she's not?
I'll still break her.
Just differently.
The kitchen is too bright this morning.
Sunlight slashes through the windows, turning the marble countertops into sheets of white fire.
Emilia moves like a shadow between them, her cognac hair pulled back in a tight knot, her fingers steady as she cracks eggs into a bowl.
The sound is sharp, deliberate, each shell splitting with surgical precision.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching.
The first plate hits the counter in front of me. Perfectly cooked, the whites just set, the yolks still trembling like liquid gold. She steps back, her hands clasped behind her back, her chin lifted just enough to meet my gaze.
"Breakfast, Pakhan. They told me you eat light."
I don't touch it. "You call this eggs?"
Her lashes flicker. "I'm sorry. I didn't know your preference. I did soft yolks, no browning."
"My preference?" I push off the frame, closing the distance between us in two strides. The heat of her body radiates against my chest, warm and maddeningly alive. I pick up the fork, jab it into the yolk. It bursts, thick and yellow, dripping over the plate. "This is slop."
Her throat works. "I can make them again."
"That'll be great." I lean in, my voice dropping to a growl. "I'll be watching so you don't add poison."
Her breath hitches. "There's no poison."
"No?" I grab her wrist, yanking her forward until her chest brushes mine. Her pulse flutters against my fingers, wild and erratic. "Why are you so nervous then?"
Her eyes widen. "Because of how you're acting."
"I need to be careful. How do I know you're not working for the Armenians? The Italians?" My grip tightens. "How do I know you're not here to kill me?"
She swallows, her throat bobbing. "I'm not."
"We'll see about that."
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. I can see the fight in her, the way her jaw tightens, the way her fingers curl into fists at her sides.
"Make them again." I shove her hand away. "And this time, don't fuck it up."
"How do you want them?"
"Just make it look good."
She turns on her heel, her movements stiff as she grabs another egg from the carton. The shell cracks against the bowl, too hard, and the yolk spills over the edge. Her hands shake.
Good.
I want her unsteady.
I want her afraid.
I want her to remember who owns this kitchen.
The second plate hits the counter. The eggs are overcooked, the edges browned, the yolks dry and crumbly.
I don't even try it. "Again."
Her breath comes faster now, her chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts. She doesn't speak. Doesn't argue. Just reaches for another egg, her fingers trembling as she cracks it open.
The third attempt is like the first.
The fourth is too hard.
By the fifth, her hands are shaking so badly she can barely hold the pan. The scent of burning butter fills the air, acrid and thick. She curses under her breath, a sharp, frustrated sound.
"You're doing this on purpose," I murmur, stepping closer. "Aren't you?"
She whips around, her eyes flashing. "I'm trying to make them right! Just tell me how you want them."
"I want them not too runny or too overcooked." I crowd her against the counter, my body caging hers in. "But it looks like you can't cook anymore. Why do your hands keep shaking?" My fingers brush her cheek, and she flinches. "Are you nervous, karamelka?"
Her breath hitches. "I'm not."
I smirk. "This will do."
The plate is warm in my palm, the eggs cooked just enough, no runny yolk, no burnt edges. I fork a bite into my mouth, the salt and butter sharp on my tongue.
I set the plate down with a clink. "Good enough."
Then I turn and walk out, leaving her standing there, her hands still trembling.